Whispers of the Past

The tension in the village was thick enough to choke.

The noble soldiers stood in tight formation at the center of Eldermere, their horses restless, the banners of Lord Vallis rippling under the gray sky. Their commander, Sir Edrin Kaldor, sat stiff-backed atop his steed, his gaze locked on Aric like a hawk eyeing wounded prey.

"You will come with us," Kaldor declared. His voice was calm, but it was not a request. "Lord Vallis requires answers. Immediately."

The silence in the village was unbearable.

Some villagers stepped back, watching fearfully. Others, like Garrick, stood stiffly, torn between duty and unease. Elder Mara remained unreadable, while Lira gripped the hilt of her dagger, her eyes flickering between Aric and the soldiers.

Then Kael chuckled, his usual smirk returning. "Funny. You ride in like you own the place, demand a man's surrender, and expect us to just nod and smile?"

Kaldor's sharp eyes flicked toward Kael, assessing him. "You must be the traveler." His tone remained even. "I would be careful. Lord Vallis does not take kindly to vagabonds who interfere in his domain."

Kael's grin widened, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'm just here for the show."

Kaldor exhaled sharply, turning back to Aric. "Enough games. Will you come willingly?"

Aric met his gaze.

He wasn't a fool. If he resisted now, it would give Vallis exactly what he wanted—an excuse to send more men, to take the village by force.

But going quietly? That was dangerous too.

A test. That's what this was.

Kaldor wanted to see how much control he had over Eldermere.

Aric's fingers flexed. He had no intention of bowing.

But he had another idea.

He sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Fine. Let's talk."

The tension shifted. Kaldor had expected defiance. Instead, Aric gave him something worse—cooperation on his own terms.

The commander's lips thinned, but he nodded. "Then come with me."

Without another word, Aric stepped forward, walking into the waiting hands of the nobles.

----

The village hall was dimly lit, the wooden walls groaning with age as Aric was forced into a chair in the center of the room. The noble guards took positions at the door, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.

Kaldor removed his gloves, tossing them onto the table before him. "Let's begin, shall we?"

He leaned forward, folding his hands. "You came to this village a few weeks ago. Since your arrival, the Rift has worsened. The wolves became monsters. The dead refuse to decay. And now, creatures unlike anything we have seen are emerging from the crater."

He tilted his head. "Tell me, why do all these unnatural things begin and end with you?"

Aric felt every pair of eyes in the room on him.

Some filled with fear. Some waiting for answers.

He exhaled slowly. "I don't control the Rift."

Kaldor's gaze didn't waver. "Perhaps. But it responds to you."

A sharp crack echoed as Kaldor's gloved fist slammed onto the table. "Speak the truth!"

The energy in the air shifted.

The walls felt… thinner.

And then—the whispers began.

----

At first, it was faint.

A low vibration in the floorboards. A flicker in the candlelight.

Then the whispers grew stronger.

Not from Aric. Not from anyone in the room.

From… somewhere else.

The air grew thick, heavy, pressing against their lungs. The candles flickered wildly, their flames twisting in strange patterns.

Then—the first voice.

A woman's whisper, delicate as silk.

"You are not who you claim to be."

Then another voice—deep, hollow, ancient.

"You have forgotten."

Aric's vision blurred. His breath hitched.

And then—the past struck him like a blade to the skull.

----

He was somewhere else.

No—somewhen.

The air smelled of fire and steel. The sky above was split, cracked, bleeding light.

And he was not himself.

He stood atop a grand palace balcony, overlooking a war-torn city. Black stone walls stretched beneath him, crumbling from siege fire. Down below, soldiers clashed—his soldiers, wearing armor of gold and dark steel.

And he was their king.

No, not king—Emperor.

The title rang in his bones, in his blood.

And then came the voice.

"Aelthar."

Aric's breath hitched.

He knew that name.

It was his.

Not in this life.

But once.

The memory fractured, blurred, pulled away.

And then—he was back.

----

Aric gasped, slamming back into reality.

The village hall snapped into focus. Sweat dripped down his back, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

The room was dead silent.

Kaldor's face was pale, his fingers digging into the table's surface. He had seen it. Felt it.

"You…" Kaldor's voice was hoarse. "What… are you?"

The question hung in the air.

Some villagers took a step back.

Others—like Lira—stepped closer.

Kael, standing against the wall, exhaled. "Well. That was dramatic."

Aric slowly straightened. His head was pounding. The name still echoed in his skull.

"Aelthar."

Kaldor shoved back his chair. "This is sorcery." His men tensed, hands on their swords.

The villagers began whispering.

"He's cursed."

"He's the reason the Rift is growing."

"He saved us. What if he's meant to?"

The dividing line had deepened.

Kaldor exhaled, his jaw tightening. "Lord Vallis will hear of this. We will return with a judgment."

His eyes burned into Aric's. "Pray you're on the right side of history when it happens."

With that, the nobles left.

The doors slammed shut behind them.

Silence.

Then Lira sighed. "That could've gone worse."

Kael smirked. "Could it?"

Aric exhaled. His hands were still shaking.

He had seen a life that was once his.

A throne that had been his.

A war he had fought.

And the Rift… it had called his name.

Outside, the wind picked up.

But it wasn't just the wind.

Because something in the forest was whispering his name.

And this time, it wasn't just memory.

It was real.