The morning light bled through the velvet curtains, soft and golden, spilling across the tangled sheets. Siegfried stirred, his body heavy with sleep, his mind still caught in the fading threads of a dream. The forest lingered in his thoughts, goblins whispering riddles, the shimmer of moonlight on leaves, the echo of Aster's voice. For a moment, he almost believed he was still there.
But the dream dissolved, replaced by the scent of wine and roses, the warmth of silken skin pressed against him. Two women lay beside him, their breathing slow and steady, their bodies curled in the aftermath of the night. He sat up, running a hand through his dark hair, his gaze distant.
"That was a long time ago," he thought, the words heavy, echoing in his mind. Ten years had passed since the forest, since the boy he had been. Now he was twenty‑four, a man shaped by choices and shadows, though whether he had found his destiny or lost it somewhere along the way, he could not yet say.
The brothel was quiet save for the muffled laughter drifting from the hall below. He rose, bare feet touching the cool wooden floor, and crossed to the window. Outside, the city stirred awake merchants setting up stalls, children chasing each other through the streets, the world moving forward as if unaware of the weight he carried.
He pressed his palm against the glass, staring at the morning sun. The dream had felt so real, so close, as though the forest still called to him. Ten years gone, yet the memory clung like smoke.
"Why now?" he wondered. "Why return to me in sleep?"
The women shifted behind him, murmuring softly, but Siegfried did not turn. His thoughts were elsewhere on riddles unanswered, paths untaken, and the strange pull of destiny that refused to let him go.
The laughter from below grew louder, mingling with the clatter of tankards and the shuffle of boots on wooden floors. The brothel was waking with the city, its walls alive with secrets and stories Siegfried had no desire to hear. He turned from the window, his eyes lingering on the women still lost in sleep. Their presence was a reminder of the choices he had made choices that had led him far from the boy who once chased riddles in the forest.
He dressed slowly, pulling on a worn tunic and fastening the leather belt at his waist. The steel of his sword caught the morning light, a relic of battles fought, and paths taken. He paused, fingers brushing the hilt, and for a moment the weight of it seemed heavier than ever.
"Ten years," he thought. "Ten years since I believed destiny was mine to claim."
Descending the narrow staircase, he stepped into the common hall. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of ale. Men laughed too loudly, women whispered promises, and coins clinked across tables. Siegfried moved through it all like a shadow, his mind still tethered to the dream that had haunted him.
Outside, the streets stretched before him, alive with merchants and beggars, guards and thieves. The city was a maze of stone and noise, but somewhere within its heart, Siegfried felt the faint echo of the forest calling him back.
"Why now?" he wondered again. "Why return to me in sleep?"
The question gnawed at him as he walked, each step carrying him further from the brothel and closer to the unknown. The dream was no accident he knew that much. Something had stirred, something that refused to let him forget.
Siegfried continued down the winding street, feeling the pulse of the city beneath his boots. The early morning energy swirled around him peddlers hawking their wares, children darting underfoot, and the distant toll of church bells. He wove through the crowd, a lone figure with a mind full of shadows.
As he passed a fruit stall, an old woman caught his eye. She looked at him with a knowing glint, as if she recognized something in his gaze. "You look like a man who's walked many paths," she said, her voice raspy with age. "Sometimes the past circles back on us when we least expect it."
Siegfried paused, her words striking a chord deep within him. "Yeah, something like that," he replied with a faint smile. "I've been running from it for a long time."
The old woman nodded, handing him an apple as if it were a token of understanding. "Then maybe it's time to stop running," she whispered. "Dreams have a way of pulling us back to where we need to be."
As he walked on, Siegfried turned the apple in his hand, her words echoing in his mind. The city's noise faded into a distant hum, and for a moment, he could almost hear the rustle of leaves and the whisper of goblins in the forest.
The streets narrowed as Siegfried moved deeper into the city, past taverns still echoing with last night's revelry and markets just beginning to stir. His destination lay at the edge of the district, a weathered stone compound marked by a banner of steel and flame. The mercenary company he had pledged himself to years ago was already awake, its yard alive with the clash of steel and the bark of commands.
Siegfried stepped through the gates, greeted by the familiar scent of sweat, dust, and iron. Men and women sparred in pairs, their blades ringing against shields, their boots grinding into the packed earth. He nodded to a few comrades but kept his silence, moving toward the rack of weapons. His own sword waited there, scarred but loyal, its grip worn smooth by his hand.
He stood in the center of the yard, his figure commanding attention. Siegfried was tall and broad‑shouldered, his short black hair messy and damp with sweat. A rough beard shadowed his jaw, giving him a hardened, weathered look that matched the scars etched across his skin. His green eyes, vivid and intense, gleamed like emeralds in the morning sun, carrying a quiet fire that unsettled those who met his gaze.
He drew his sword slowly, the weight settling into his palm like an old truth. Crossing into the yard, he began his practice, measured strikes, fluid arcs, the rhythm of blade and breath. Each movement was deliberate, honed by years of battle and repetition.
The recruits gathered near the edge of the yard, their sparring forgotten. They watched him with a mixture of awe and unease. His presence was more than that of a fellow mercenary. He was a figure carved from war stories, a man whose scars spoke of survival and whose eyes carried the weight of battles they had yet to fight.
One of the younger recruits, eager to prove himself, stepped forward. "Siegfried," he called, voice cracking with nerves. "Would you spar with me?"
The yard fell silent. The other recruits exchanged glances, some smirking, others wide‑eyed. Siegfried turned, his gaze settling on the boy. He was lean, barely grown, his grip on the sword uncertain.
Siegfried nodded once. "Come then."
The boy raised his blade, charging with youthful energy. Siegfried met him with calm precision, parrying the strike and guiding the momentum aside. His movements were fluid, controlled, each counter a lesson. The boy stumbled, recovered, and struck again, but Siegfried's blade was already there, waiting.
The clash rang out across the yard, steel against steel. The recruits leaned forward, breath held, watching as Siegfried moved with effortless grace. He did not humiliate the boy, nor did he relent. Each strike was measured, each defense a demonstration of discipline.
Finally, with a swift pivot, Siegfried disarmed him, the boy's sword clattering to the ground. Siegfried lowered his own blade and stepped back. "You have spirit," he said, voice steady. "But spirit without control is wasted. Learn the rhythm. Learn patience. Then you will be ready."
The boy nodded, cheeks flushed, and retrieved his weapon. The recruits murmured among themselves, their respect for Siegfried deepening. He turned away, resuming his drills, the dream of the forest still lingering at the edges of his mind.
The recruits were still murmuring when the heavy doors of the compound swung open. A figure strode into the courtyard, his boots striking the packed earth with authority. The Captain's presence silenced the yard at once. He was a broad man with streaks of gray in his hair, his armor polished though scarred, his voice carrying the weight of command.
"Form ranks," Captain Az'rahn barked. The recruits scrambled into lines, shoulders squared, blades lowered. Veterans moved with practiced ease, their discipline evident in every step.
Az'rahn's gaze swept across them, lingering on Siegfried for a moment before moving on. He began to hand out assignments, his tone clipped and efficient. Patrols to the northern roads. Escorts for merchant caravans. Guard duty at the city gates. Each order was met with nods and murmured acknowledgments, the rhythm of mercenary life unfolding as it always had.
When the last mission was given, Az'rahn raised a hand. "Siegfried," he said, his voice steady but carrying a note of gravity. "Walk with me."
The recruits exchanged glances, whispers rising again. Siegfried wiped the sweat from his brow, slid his sword back into its scabbard, and followed. The Captain led him away from the yard, past the clamor of steel and into the quieter shadows of the hall.
"You've proven yourself time and again," Az'rahn began, his voice steady but carrying weight. "You've led men into battle, held the line when others faltered, and earned the respect of this company. That is why this task falls to you."
Siegfried's green eyes narrowed. "What kind of task?"
Az'rahn studied him for a long moment before speaking. "A personal escort. A noble has requested safe passage. The client was insistent, and they asked for you by name. No one else."
Siegfried frowned. "A noble? From where?"
"The details are scarce," Az'rahn admitted. "No explanation was given, only the destination. You are to see them safely to the capital of the Elven Kingdom of Gishtar."
"Why me?" Siegfried asked quietly.
Az'rahn's gaze hardened. "I do not know. Perhaps your reputation precedes you. Perhaps there are ties you do not yet see. What I do know is that discretion is required. You will not travel with a squad. This is yours alone."
Siegfried's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "And if danger comes?"
Az'rahn's lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "Then you do what you have always done. You endure. You protect. And you survive."
The Captain placed a sealed parchment on the table. "This contains your writ of passage. It will open doors in Gishtar, though I suspect it will also draw eyes. Be wary. Nobles rarely move without reason, and Elves never without purpose. You depart in two days. Use the time wisely."
Siegfried took the parchment, its weight heavier than paper should allow.
The next two days passed in a quiet rhythm. Siegfried trained in the yard at dawn, his sword flashing in the light while recruits watched with renewed respect. He kept his drills sharp, his movements precise, as if preparing himself for an unseen trial.
When the yard emptied, he returned to his quarters. He checked his gear with meticulous care: sharpening his blade until it gleamed, oiling the leather of his armor, and packing provisions for the road. Each task was deliberate, each preparation a ritual against uncertainty.
At night, he sat alone, the sealed parchment resting on the table before him. He did not break it open, for the orders were already clear. Instead, he studied its seal, wondering what noble had spoken his name and why the Elven capital had been chosen as the destination.
The company carried on around him, recruits laughing, veterans drinking, missions unfolding as usual. Yet Siegfried remained apart, his thoughts fixed on the journey ahead. Two days was little time, but enough to sharpen his resolve.
When the morning of departure arrived, Siegfried rose before the sun, his sword at his side and his pack on his shoulder. The courtyard was quiet, the company already dispersed to their duties. Only Captain Az'rahn waited, his expression unreadable.
"Your path begins now," Az'rahn said simply.
Siegfried nodded, the weight of the mission pressing against him. With the sealed parchment tucked safely away, he stepped out of the compound, the road to Gishtar stretching before him.