Whispers of the past

The fading embers of the fire illuminated flickering orange shadows on the temporary triage. Andre sipped on a cracked ceramic cup containing a tepid beer that had hints of charred grains and remorse. He felt a constant, dull ache in every muscle, a painful reminder of the impact of steel on his body. Only a couple of hours earlier, bandits, their faces hidden by their greed and desperation, had come to the camp, looking for an effortless opportunity. Instead, they were rudely surprised by the inexperienced recruits and Andre's unexpected acts of heroism.

He hesitantly took a sip, grimacing when the ale irritated a tender spot on his lip. It was a battle he never could have anticipated, a wild mix of adrenaline-fueled attacks and frantic defenses. He was still in disbelief that he had successfully disarmed the large and strong opponent wielding a greataxe, the sound of metal clashing ringing in his ears.

A guttural chuckle rumbled from beside him. Sergeant Bruiser, a man whose name seemed almost too fitting, loomed into view. He was a bear of a man, scarred and weathered from countless battles, a constant scowl etched into his features. Yet, a flicker of amusement danced in his normally steely eyes.

"Well, farm boy," he rumbled, his voice a gravelly rasp, "I gotta say, for someone who claims to hail from a field of turnips, you fight like a cornered badger."

Andre choked on his ale, spluttering as he tried to regain his composure. "N-not exactly, Sergeant. We do have a bit of practice, you see, keeping the varmints off the crops and such." It was a flimsy excuse, he knew, but his heart hammered in his chest.

Sergeant Bruiser snorted, a sound suspiciously like a laugh. "Aye, varmints. Right. So you just happened to know exactly how to disarm a bandit captain twice your size, eh?"

Andre shifted uncomfortably, the warmth of the ale a poor substitute for the heat rising in his face. "Just… lucky, I guess, Sergeant. Got him by surprise."

The Sergeant studied him for a long moment, his gaze as sharp as a honed blade. "Lucky, huh? Or maybe there's more to you than meets the eye, farm boy. You fight with a ferocity that goes beyond mere luck. A cornered badger might bite, but it wouldn't know how to parry a killing blow."

Andre swallowed hard. Did the Sergeant suspect something? He couldn't afford to reveal his past, not here. "Just instincts, Sergeant. You learn to be resourceful on a farm." He forced a smile, hoping it came across as believable.

Sergeant Bruiser grunted, a hint of something unreadable crossing his features. He took a long pull from his own tankard, then lowered it with a sigh. "Well, instincts or not, you saved lives today, farm boy. Don't go selling yourself short. Just… make sure those instincts are pointed in the right direction from now on, understand?"

Andre nodded vigorously. "Yes sir! Won't let you down, Sergeant." Relief washed over him, a wave that threatened to drown out the aches and pains of the fight. He wasn't in the clear yet, but for now, his secret was safe.

Silence fell between them, with only the noise of the crackling fire and the moans of the injured receiving help from the camp medic. Andre gazed at the fire, reliving the combat in his thoughts, the excitement of the near misses, the bite of anxiety. He was not a rookie anymore, but he was not an experienced veteran either. He stood in the middle, a country boy shaped by war, his destiny as unclear as the wavering fire ahead of him. However, in the midst of the fear and uncertainty, a glimmer of newfound confidence appeared. Although he may have originated from a turnip field, he was definitely skilled in fighting.

Andre was startled awake by a severe cough. With a sudden jerk, he sat upright, breathing heavily, the musty air of the tent feeling heavy and suffocating in his chest. The nightmare, a chaotic jumble of fire, cries, and terrifying screeches, remained attached to him like spiderwebs, causing him to shake and be drenched in sweat.

He ran his hand over his forehead, spreading a gritty combination of dust and sweat. His mouth was as dry as if it had been filled with cotton, and his throat felt scratchy like a rusty hinge with each labored breath. The dim light before sunrise coming in through the tent opening created a harsh, unhealthy yellow hue over the temporary campsite surrounding him. Snorres' distorted lullaby of the terrors in his mind echoed through the tents, alternating between rhythmic patterns and interrupted by coughs or groans.

The recollection of the academy caused a lingering pain in his stomach. The burning temperature, the sharp smell of smoke, the frantic rush for a way out that appeared to decrease with each urgent movement. The screams, wild and primitive, were still audible as they reverberated against the fiery stone structures. Next, the image disappeared and was replaced by the labyrinth. The cold, damp stone was against him, and the rotten smell of decay made him feel sick. The terrifying forms, their deep growls and sharp talons, were burned into his recollection. His muscles protested as he fought, feeling exhaustion blur his vision, but there were too many opponents.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to make the images disappear. The battle was lost. He turned on his side, bringing his knees up to his chest, attempting to get comfortable in the thin, rough blanket. A dry cry slipped out of his mouth, quickly swallowed by the lump in his throat. He was completely worn out, both physically and emotionally depleted.

However, despite the intense fear and profound exhaustion, a glimmer of hope emerged. It was chilly, tough, and lacking any heat. They'd cast him out, discarded him like yesterday's garbage. They'd mocked him, underestimated him. He'd played the part, the naive farm boy, all wide-eyed innocence and clumsy fumbling. But they'd see. All of them.

A barely noticeable smile, more like a slight tightening of the lips than any sign of warmth, appeared on his face. They had committed a serious error. Before long, the pretense would be over. He would be recruited and end up serving in the military of one of the ten kingdoms. After that, the power would belong to him. He would rise through the ranks and establish himself as a formidable presence. When he had the ability to break them down internally, he would ensure that they all faced consequences. He would seek revenge on those who mocked him, doubted him, and dismissed him, by causing them to suffer the same pain and sorrow he had endured.

He shut his eyes once more, this time with a determined gleam shining through his eyelids. The dream could have been a scary reminder of his history, but it also revealed a potential direction. He would emerge as a snake in the den, and when he attacked, his revenge would be quick and brutal.