13. Eldas 73 AW
Jolted awake by agony, the blinding, all-consuming pain swallowed him whole, dragging him back to life with a grip like a hand at his throat. Each movement sent a fresh wave of suffering crashing through his bones. His lungs pushed out a desperate gasp, with a dry wheeze escaping, each breath a searing blade twisting in his ribs. Blood pooled on his tongue, thick and metallic with the sickening tang of defeat. Every part of him throbbed, the visceral memory of fists, boots and steel—of being broken systematically, piece by piece.
With his senses struggling to catch up, the world around him was a dizzying and fragmented kaleidoscope. He began to move with instant regret, his uncooperative, half-dead body screaming in protest with every twitch of muscle and tendon. His fingertips raked the ground, trembling. Instincts searched for familiarity, hands reaching out to reclaim what was his, but found no purchase on the grip of his weapon. His spear was gone. Of course it was.
His mind swam, trying to piece together the events before his fall—hushed whispers, leering eyes, a stark order given. His ears rang as gauntlets began their barrage. The Master's cold, callous voice proclaimed his judgement. Guilty of standing too tall, speaking too sharply, of not knowing his place. There would be no trial for him, just the finality of his punishment, an example to be made of. Dignity, pride, and honour, all stripped from him in moments. A tool discarded and left to rot. But the final lesson that day was not his, it would be for them to learn.
They should have finished the job.
With a shuddering groan, he forced his arm under himself, enduring the agony that urged him to keep moving. Inch by inch.
Soren was still there. Still breathing. And that would have to be enough.
Blood and Dust
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Blood and Dust
Last edited by Jojee on Sat Apr 19, 2025 4:33 am, edited 1 time in total.
Renewal
After two years spent in recovery and travel, the discarded soldier arrived in Cadomyr. It was here he would start to rebuild what he lost, forcing his body to remember what it once knew. He suffered more than just scars from that defeat—it had taken almost everything from him. His trust, dignity, the belief that a man could shape his own future with enough will. The slow, gnawing loss of knowing exactly who you were and having it ripped away.
No matter how many hours he spent training, his hands no longer moved with the same instinct. His strikes felt dull and slow. He told himself he could claw his way back, that with enough time, enough pain, he would not only recover—he would become something greater. Perhaps he was in denial, but he convinced himself it didn’t matter. As long as Soren kept moving, he wouldn’t have to think about what he had lost.
He continued to train under the desert sun until his skin cracked, then again beneath the stars, with only silence and sweat marking his progress. The heat took his breath, and the sand scratched at his wounds, but he welcomed the punishment. He began to learn to carry his own weight again. He learned to fall without staying down.
He took on odd jobs; escorting travellers, hunting down bandits and clearing dangerous beasts from the roads, each one sharpening his edge. He wandered between the realms, letting coin and conflict guide his feet. He honed his craft with quiet obsession. Yet, he always carried a sense of doubt.
Then, without warning, he was ambushed.
Beset from both sides of the Copper Bridge, steel rasping in the dark. Soren readied himself, but in a flash he felt the searing heat of a blade piercing his side. And then again, another wound across his arm. A third, piercing the other arm. With his grip faltering, his weapon was knocked away. For a moment, he saw himself as he had been on that day—on the ground, bleeding and helpless. But this time, he didn’t stay down. He refused.
The desert had hardened him. His escape from his attackers was bloody, but it was his own. Once more, he had survived, even when the world seemed determined to bury him.
For Soren, the setback was worse than the wounds. He despised how it mirrored his last fall, how it easily could’ve been the same end. For a while, he feared the cycle would repeat itself because no matter how far he ran, he’d always be dragged back to that same broken place. But this time, with help from others, he stood back up. Stronger.
Bit by bit, something changed within him. His strikes began to carry weight again, his stance unwavering. He moved with purpose, not memory—no longer chasing the man he had been. He would be something greater.
In between jobs, the changes were even stranger for him. He began to share laughter over ale, spoke without suspicion. Small moments where the mask he had worn for so long began to slip. It was then that trust, something he never thought he’d allow again—slowly crept back in.
Maybe it wasn’t just about surviving anymore. Maybe, just maybe, he could find something worth fighting for.
For now, that was enough.
No matter how many hours he spent training, his hands no longer moved with the same instinct. His strikes felt dull and slow. He told himself he could claw his way back, that with enough time, enough pain, he would not only recover—he would become something greater. Perhaps he was in denial, but he convinced himself it didn’t matter. As long as Soren kept moving, he wouldn’t have to think about what he had lost.
He continued to train under the desert sun until his skin cracked, then again beneath the stars, with only silence and sweat marking his progress. The heat took his breath, and the sand scratched at his wounds, but he welcomed the punishment. He began to learn to carry his own weight again. He learned to fall without staying down.
He took on odd jobs; escorting travellers, hunting down bandits and clearing dangerous beasts from the roads, each one sharpening his edge. He wandered between the realms, letting coin and conflict guide his feet. He honed his craft with quiet obsession. Yet, he always carried a sense of doubt.
Then, without warning, he was ambushed.
Beset from both sides of the Copper Bridge, steel rasping in the dark. Soren readied himself, but in a flash he felt the searing heat of a blade piercing his side. And then again, another wound across his arm. A third, piercing the other arm. With his grip faltering, his weapon was knocked away. For a moment, he saw himself as he had been on that day—on the ground, bleeding and helpless. But this time, he didn’t stay down. He refused.
The desert had hardened him. His escape from his attackers was bloody, but it was his own. Once more, he had survived, even when the world seemed determined to bury him.
For Soren, the setback was worse than the wounds. He despised how it mirrored his last fall, how it easily could’ve been the same end. For a while, he feared the cycle would repeat itself because no matter how far he ran, he’d always be dragged back to that same broken place. But this time, with help from others, he stood back up. Stronger.
Bit by bit, something changed within him. His strikes began to carry weight again, his stance unwavering. He moved with purpose, not memory—no longer chasing the man he had been. He would be something greater.
In between jobs, the changes were even stranger for him. He began to share laughter over ale, spoke without suspicion. Small moments where the mask he had worn for so long began to slip. It was then that trust, something he never thought he’d allow again—slowly crept back in.
Maybe it wasn’t just about surviving anymore. Maybe, just maybe, he could find something worth fighting for.
For now, that was enough.