There was a sound.Soft at first, like rustling leaves. Then louder—sharp and quick, the unmistakable rhythm of footfalls tearing through grass. Something was running, crashing through the underbrush of a dense forest.
A boy.
His black robe flapped wildly around his legs, tangled with branches and burrs. His hair, long and unkempt, clung to his sweat-drenched face. He ran like something hunted. No—like something that knew it had no place in this world.
Behind him, a second set of footsteps followed. Slower. Heavier. Steady.
The boy didn't look back. He knew who it was.
An old man, wrapped in weathered robes, his beard long and white as the snow starting to gather on the forest floor. A massive axe rested across his back, but it was his eyes that truly chased the boy—golden and glowing, sharp as a blade, fixed like a curse.
The boy ran faster, but the forest grew colder. His boots slipped over ice-slick roots. Breath came shallow, ragged. Snow clung to his ankles. The air was thin—like breathing knives. Each inhale burned his lungs.
Still, he ran.
Until he didn't.
His foot struck a hidden stone beneath the snow. His legs gave out, and he slammed into the cold earth, gasping. The fall stole the breath from him, and for a moment, he just lay there. The fatigue caught up all at once—his muscles trembled, his vision blurred.
Then a shadow passed over him.
The old man had arrived.
He stood over the boy, calm, slow, as if this had never been a chase at all but a lesson. His hand moved behind his back—not for the axe, but for a simpler weapon. A sword, short and plain, gleamed silver in the falling snow.
The boy reached for the curse. Deep inside his chest, where it always waited. The pain, the black magic—the thing that made him wrong in the eyes of the Church. His hand twitched, ready to cast.
But the old man moved first.
A clean swing. No hesitation.
Steel bit through the boy's chest, cutting flesh and bone in one motion. He felt the world tilt. He didn't scream. There wasn't time. Only the impact, the sound of his body hitting the snow, and the warmth of blood soaking through his robe.
The old man looked down on him with cold, tired eyes.
"Heretic,"
He turned and walked away.
The forest was silent again. The boy didn't move.
Because he was dead.
At least—he should have been.
Then came the laugh.
Small. Raspy. Gurgling with blood. But it grew. Laughter, deep and unhinged, echoed in the dead woods. The boy's chest moved. His hand twitched.
And his heart—what was left of it—began to mend.
Dark veins coiled across his skin, pulling the wound closed. Flesh knitted itself back together. His breath returned, slow and sharp.
Inside him, a voice whispered.
"You'll put both of us in trouble someday."
It was her. The one who lived inside his curse. The spirit of suffering Forbanna.
She had saved him.
The boy pressed a hand to his chest. The skin was whole. No blood. No scar. Just a lingering ache—and a truth that couldn't be undone.
"I'll give you form one day."
The voice was silent now, but he felt it—she was pleased. Watching. Waiting.
He turned his gaze down the path the old man had taken, but did not follow. Instead, he turned the other way, where the snow stretched untouched.
He walked with pain in his steps and frost clinging to his lashes.
But he walked.
Alive.