A dull ache pulsed through Sam's head as he slowly opened his eyes. The world around him was shrouded in eerie shadows, cast by towering trees whose thick, interwoven branches blocked most of the sky. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the scent of wet earth, moss-covered stones, and decaying leaves. A dense mist curled between the trunks, twisting like ghostly tendrils, obscuring visibility beyond a few meters.
Sam pushed himself upright, his limbs sluggish and unwilling. The chains around his wrists rattled with every movement, the metal cold against his skin. His ankles bore the same cruel weight, each link caked with rust as if they had been used for decades—an artifact of imprisonment far older than him.
The clearing where he lay was unsettling. Unlike the thriving forest surrounding it, the ground beneath him was barren, devoid of life. No grass, no flowers—only dry, cracked soil, disturbed as if repeatedly trampled or scorched. The absence of vegetation felt unnatural, as though the very essence of life had been drained from this patch of earth. He shivered, not from the cold, but from the unease creeping up his spine.
A faint breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves above, but the sound was hushed—muted, even. There were no birds calling, no insects buzzing. Only the occasional groan of ancient wood shifting, and the distant drip of water trickling through hidden crevices in the land.
Sam lifted his shirt cautiously, expecting pain—expecting wounds. But what he found instead were scars. Pale, thin remnants of injuries that should have still been fresh, given the blood that stained his clothing. Yet, somehow, his body had healed.
Confusion clouded his mind.
Where am I? Whose body is this? How did I end up in this forest, shackled and battered? And how did I recover so quickly?
The silence was oppressive. It gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. Then, breaking through the stillness, he heard it—faint, but unmistakable.
A woman's sobs. Weak, defeated.
And then a man's voice, sharp and cruel, slicing through the quiet.
Sam's heartbeat quickened. He turned toward the sound, careful with each step. The shackles clinked softly, a dangerous noise in the silence, threatening to give him away. He maneuvered through the trees, the mist curling around his legs like grasping fingers.
As he neared, the landscape transformed. The trees grew more gnarled, their trunks twisted and scarred with deep claw marks—as if beasts had once torn through them in fury. The air was heavier here, thick with the scent of burning wood, stale sweat, and something far worse—blood.
He crouched low behind a patch of dense bushes, his breath shallow.
Peering through the foliage, he saw a grim scene that turned his stomach.
A soldier—his armor superior, gleaming despite the dim light. The soldier loomed over the woman, his grip tightening around her wrist as she lay motionless on the cold forest floor. His breath was heavy, ragged—laced with impatience and cruelty. The air around them grew thick with malice, an oppressive weight pressing down like a suffocating fog.
The woman did not struggle. Her gaze was empty, lost. Yet, within that hollowness, there was a quiet defiance—a silent resistance that refused to crumble completely.
The soldier sneered. "You're not even fighting anymore," he muttered. "That makes this easier."
He tugged at the fabric of her clothing, his fingers rough against bruised skin.
The scent of sweat and damp earth mingled in the air, thick with the metallic tang of dried blood
He instinctively took a step back, but the forest betrayed him.
A dry twig beneath his foot cracked.
The sound was quiet, yet in the dead of night, it felt like a gunshot.
The soldier froze. His head snapped upward.
He dismounted swiftly, adjusting his garments, unsheathing a long, curved sword.
"Who's there?!" he barked, eyes scanning the darkness.
He stepped forward, blade raised. The mist shifted around him, curling at his boots.
Sam ducked lower, heart pounding.
The soldier advanced, steps deliberate.
"Beyond this point," he growled, "I won't show mercy. Last chance."
The steel flashed as he slashed at the bushes—finding nothing.
"Damn it," he muttered. "I know someone's watching."
But before he could search further, Sam felt a sudden grip—cold fingers wrapping around his mouth from behind.
"Shhh…" a hushed voice whispered.
Instinctively, Sam fought back, but the grip was firm.
"Stay still," the voice continued. "I'm not your enemy."
The unseen figure dragged him away, moving with practiced silence, avoiding dry leaves and brittle branches.
Minutes passed in tense retreat before the grip loosened.
Sam gasped for breath and turned to see his rescuer.
An old man stood before him. His face was weathered, beard unkempt. His clothes were tattered, mirroring Sam's. His shackles bore the same wear, rust clinging to the chains.
But his eyes… his eyes held depth, not unlike the mist surrounding them—calm, patient, quietly knowing.
The old man smiled faintly. "You alright, young man?"
Sam inhaled sharply. "Yes. Thank you."
The old man examined him. "Your wound… healing well?"
Sam blinked. "Wait… you know about that?"
The old man nodded. "I treated you myself."
"You… healed me?" Sam asked, stunned.
A slow nod. "Bandaged you up. Used herbs I've been keeping. Didn't expect you to survive."
Sam hesitated, taking in the weight of the words.
"Who are you?" he finally asked.
📢 Author's Note 📢
Hey legends!
Did you enjoy this chapter? If you did, smash that POWER STONE like you're Sam breaking those rusty shackles! 💥
Every vote is a warm hug to this humble author—and helps me keep the chapters flowing faster than a ninja on caffeine.
💎 1 Power Stone = 1 push closer to greatness
🥤 1 Comment = 1 virtual Coke delivered to my desk
📚 1 Collection = 1 more reason for me to write instead of doomscroll
So don't be shy—drop a stone, say hi, and let me know your theories!
Love y'all. Until the next chapter—stay curious, stay wild. ⚔️