The burgeoning cascade of noise—a symphony of chatter intertwined with laughter and ease—was the first thing Vance awoke to. But years of experience and conditioning from military training kept him from reacting. Instead, he feigned sleep, hoping to glean information from their conversation.
Focusing his senses, Vance quickly identified three distinct voices. One felt eerily familiar. The others, entirely new.
"Bal, don't you think bureau… was a little quick-footed dispatching us here? Us three? And why send this miserable wench with us? Does—"
The rambling male voice trailed off, energetic and talkative—a chatterbox. Vance immediately recognized the type. And, as if on cue, before the mumbling could continue, a sharp female voice cut through.
"Astre, I'm just as displeased to be here with you as Balgur is. Now, could you be quiet for once? Your voice is not as pleasant as you think."
Her words dripped with contempt and reprimand.
"Oh? So the little silver princess found her tongue?" Astre shot back, mocking. "Funny—I can't say the same for your culinary skills, or your luck with men!"
"Astre!" came a grating voice, trying to intervene.
But the woman didn't back down.
"Aren't you one to talk? Mocking my love life when the entire red-light district knows your… shortcomings? Maybe work on your reach."
Laughter, cold and cruel, followed.
Vance listened in disbelief, the absurdity of the situation barely registering past the prickling throb in his head. Strange, unfamiliar terms peppered their banter—but he understood all of it.
Then, like rain dousing a fire, a calm yet commanding voice silenced the chaos.
"Be quiet."
The single word cut through the air like a blade. The speaker continued, amusement in his tone.
"Let's not give our not-so-sleeping beauty a poor first impression, shall we?"
A pause. Then:
"Isn't that right, survivor?"
Vance froze. Had he been found out already? How?
Panic prickled his skin. He shifted on the makeshift bed, the fabric rustling beneath him. As he opened his eyes, light filtered through the canvas of the tent. Pain lanced through his body with every small movement, a muffled groan escaping his lips.
"Take your time," the authoritative voice reassured, as if he could see through the tent. "Your body isn't in the best shape."
Slowly, Vance sat up. Bandages covered his limbs and torso. He took a breath—then stepped outside.
A burst of sunlight assaulted his vision. Squinting, he took in the world beyond the tent.
A quiet clearing sat just beyond a ruined city. Near a modest campfire, three figures watched him.
They wore medieval armor—each set distinct, marked with strange symbols. Their weapons gleamed in the sun, cold steel and intricately designed. But Vance's eyes locked on the man in the center.
A behemoth—midnight-blue hair, hulking frame, towering even while seated. Beside him, a slender man with short blond hair lounged with an easy grin. And then her—the woman. The one he recognized. The one who had slain the green-skinned monster.
"Take a seat," she said, gesturing to an empty log beside her.
"Shouldn't we introduce ourselves first, Cecilia?" the blond man added, rising and strolling toward Vance with a practiced rhythm.
Short. Talkative. Outgoing.
Vance matched the voice to the man with ease.
"I'm Astre," he said, gesturing to the brute and the woman in turn. "And these are my comrades—Balgur and Cecilia."
Vance hesitated. Then, with a forced smile:
"It's Vance."
A thought bubbled to the surface—one that had lingered ever since he awoke.
How was he able to understand them so effortlessly?
This language—it wasn't English. Yet, the words flowed from his mouth like water.
Before he could dwell on it, Balgur spoke, his voice carrying quiet weight.
"So, Vance," he began, "ever since we retrieved you, we've been wondering—how did you survive the orc onslaught for so long?"
Silence. Heavy and expectant.
Vance knew there was no dodging the question.
"I'm just as confused as you are," he muttered.
"I see." Balgur's tone darkened. "But there's something strange. We returned to the site where Cecilia found you. And we found… something unsettling."
His voice dropped.
"Your blood, skin, and fabric—embedded into a nearby wall. As if you were previously forced into it."
Another pause. Then Balgur's lips curled.
"Dead."
The word struck like a hammer.
Vance's thoughts raced. Balgur's posture, his tone—the subtle menace beneath the calm. He'd seen men like this before. People trained to extract truth, one way or another.
"Captain," Astre chimed in, oblivious, "you don't think he's some abomination that survived, do you? Or maybe he, y'know…"
Vance didn't understand the last part, but caught the implication. He kept his voice steady.
"Do you think I'm some kind of monster?"
Balgur laughed—a deep, rumbling sound.
"If you were, you wouldn't be standing. Or alive."
But the gleam in his eye said otherwise. Two massive axes hung on his back, glinting in the light.
Astre, clearly itching to ask more, jumped in.
"So, Vance, right?" He leaned forward. "You can't be older than sixteen. Now that your home's gone—what do you plan to do?"
He pointed toward the ruined city.
Vance followed his gaze.
A broken husk, hollow and silent.
But he remembered none of it.
His mind drifted further.
To a world that now felt like nothing more than a fading dream.
"My home, huh…"