Chương 2: Rain and blood.
The rain poured down in torrents, each droplet striking Roy's battered body like a multitude of tiny needles. He stumbled onward through the dense, shadowy forest (the air thick with despair), his armor dented and slick with blood. Arrows jutted from his shoulders and back, their fletching torn and sodden. With every step, he felt as if the weight of the world was pressing down upon him; exhaustion narrowed his vision, dragging him closer to the abyss. "It's getting harder," he thought, his jaw clenched against the searing pain. "More painful with every step." A sharp branch snagged his arm and he hissed in agony, nearly collapsing. His mind was a chaotic haze, fragmented memories flitting through his thoughts like fleeting shadows: the battle, the ambush, the screams— and then, the unbearable silence. He pressed on, his boots sinking into the mud with each movement, because he didn't know where he was headed— only that he had to keep going. To stop was to die. "Damn," Roy muttered under his breath. Blood dripped from his lips, mingling with the rain (a cruel reminder of his fate). "I've lost too much blood. I'm not going to die here... am I?" However, his body betrayed him. The ground seemed to rise up to meet him as he fell to his knees, his strength finally succumbing. The world spun, darkened and then vanished from his consciousness.
Upon awakening, Roy found himself not enveloped by the cold embrace of death, however, he was greeted by the gentle warmth of a flickering fire. His body lay swaddled in bandages, the wounds meticulously dressed, which surprised him. As he blinked, attempting to comprehend his surroundings, he noted the small, rustic room; the air was heavy with the musty scent of damp wood and a medley of herbs. Pain (intense and unwelcome) flared through him as he shifted, prompting a groan to escape his lips while his fingers grazed the bandaged ribs. "Where... am I?" he thought (with a growing sense of dread), struggling to concentrate. "This isn't the afterlife; it's too... dusty." Just then, a soft creak pulled his gaze toward the doorway. A young woman stepped in, her black hair damp and clinging to her face and when her piercing eyes locked onto his, Roy felt as though time suspended.
Her face was familiar—hauntingly so.
"Oh, you're awake," she remarked, her tone calm yet laced with caution. "Thank the gods. I thought you wouldn't make it." Roy gazed at her, his mind swirling in tumult. That face... it was undeniably familiar. "Miral's daughter," he realized, his jaw clenching. "She's the one who escaped—the very one I was meant to eliminate." A fleeting smile graced the woman's lips, however, there was a glimmer in her eyes—a spark of recognition, or perhaps a shadow of doubt. "I'm Erika," she introduced, placing a tray adorned with water and herbs on the table next to him. "You're fortunate I discovered you when I did. Another hour and you'd have bled out." Roy's instincts clamored for action, but his body betrayed him, paralyzed with uncertainty. Instead, he conjured a feeble smile, concealing his swirling thoughts. "I... I don't remember anything," he stammered, feigning ignorance. "Who am I? What happened to me?" Erika's countenance flickered—just for an instant. Then she grinned once more, although the warmth did not touch her eyes. "You don't remember?" she inquired, her tone airy yet probing. "Not even your name?" Roy shook his head, praying his charade was convincing enough.
"No. Nothing."
Erika examined him for an extended moment, her gaze piercing and methodical. Then, she averted her eyes, her voice soft, yet tinged with an undercurrent of tension. "It's probably for the best," she remarked. "You should rest. Talking too much might reopen your wounds." Roy observed her departure, his eyes narrowing as the door clicked shut behind her. He balled his fists, a tempest of anger and suspicion churning inside him. "She knows who I am," he contemplated. "She saved me for a reason. However, what does she desire?" In the corridor, Erika hesitated, her hand poised on the doorframe. She cast a glance back, her face a mask of inscrutability. "He thinks I'm oblivious," she mused, her jaw set. "But I recall everything: every scream, every drop of blood. He'll pay for what he's done." Outside, the storm raged ferociously, but within the confines of the small house, another tempest was brewing—one rife with concealed motives and unvoiced truths. Roy reclined, his body weary yet his mind alert. He understood he couldn't trust her. He was aware she would attempt to kill him. But, because of this, a cunning, perilous smile danced upon his lips. "Let her try," he mused. "She'll regret it."
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