Chapter - 2 Old scars

The town loomed on the horizon, its silhouette dark against the waning light. A place of rest, or so it was supposed to be. But Dorian knew better. It was just another stop on the long road of survival, another place where the scars of war would be felt, but not acknowledged.

As they neared the gates, Dorian felt the weight of the town's indifference settle over him. There was no cheering crowd, no warm welcome—just the same faces that had seen too many battles, too many men like him passing through. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat, the remnants of the endless cycle of war that never seemed to end.

The gates creaked open slowly as they entered, the sound all too familiar. Towns like these—close to the frontlines, battered by constant conflict—were indifferent to those who sought refuge within. The townsfolk moved through the streets with a quiet, practiced efficiency, eyes downcast or fixed on whatever menial task kept them from facing the brutal truth of their lives.

Dorian's mind felt numb, his body dragging with exhaustion. The older soldier, ever vigilant, guided him toward the town's small infirmary, his hand firm on Dorian's shoulder. The younger soldier was already on edge, scanning the horizon as if expecting danger at any moment, his posture tense and ready for anything.

The healer's quarters were dimly lit and sterile, a small space filled with the faint smell of herbs and antiseptic. The healer herself, an older woman with hands weathered from years of service, took charge of Dorian's injuries with practiced care. She barely looked at him—he was just another soldier, another casualty to patch up and send on his way. There was no sympathy in her touch, no soft words to comfort him. She did her job, as she always had.

The soldiers stood near the door, their backs stiff, clearly waiting for the moment they could leave this place behind. The older soldier watched over Dorian, though his gaze often flicked toward the exit, as if longing to be gone from this dreary town.

Once the immediate treatment was done, Dorian was left to rest. The fire in the corner flickered, but the warmth it offered didn't seem to touch the cold in his chest. The town outside felt as cold as his own thoughts. This was just another stop, another place where men came to heal, or die, or fade into the fog of war.

The healer had gone, leaving him alone with the two soldiers. The older soldier stood near the door, arms crossed, his face set in its usual grim expression. The younger soldier was leaning against the wall, restless, his eyes constantly darting toward the exit.

The older soldier finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. "We'll be leaving soon," he said, a hint of finality in his tone. "But before we do, I need to ask you something."

Dorian, still weak from his injuries, met the soldier's gaze. He knew what was coming. It was the same question soldiers like him had been asked countless times before.

"What will you do next?" the older soldier asked, his voice steady, though his eyes were searching. "After you've rested, where will you go?"

Dorian's gaze shifted to the floor, the words he had said a hundred times before forming on his lips. "Same as always," he muttered, his voice rough from the strain. "I'll keep working as a mercenary."

The older soldier regarded him quietly for a long moment. "A mercenary. It's all you've been for years now, isn't it?"

Dorian didn't answer, only nodding slightly. It was true. His past, his name, all of it felt distant now. He had abandoned it long ago, a boy of twelve when his clan's leader died, a war orphan who had taken up a sword and never looked back.

The older soldier sighed, but there was no judgment in it. Just a weary acceptance. "I figured as much," he said quietly. "War is a cold thing. It doesn't care who you were."

The younger soldier shifted, his restlessness growing. "We need to report back to the capital," he said bluntly, breaking the moment's quiet. "The battle didn't go well. The rest of the army's pulling back. We need to regroup, get reinforcements."

The older soldier nodded once. "We'll leave at dawn. Rest here tonight, and we'll head out first thing in the morning."

Dorian didn't respond. He didn't care about the rest of the army, or the capital. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in the quiet of his own thoughts. He would leave the town when he was able, just like he always did. It didn't matter where he went. He was a mercenary, a weapon for hire, nothing more.

The older soldier glanced at him one last time before turning toward the door. "Take care of yourself, Dorian," he said, his tone softening just slightly. "That's all I can say."

And with that, the older soldier turned and walked out, the younger soldier following closely behind.

Dorian lay back against the cot, the weight of their words sinking in. He had no future beyond the battlefield. No home. No family. Just the endless war, and the people like him who had become its tools.

The town outside continued as if nothing had changed. The merchants hawked their goods, the children played in the streets, and the women washed their clothes by the well. It was all so familiar, so routine. But to Dorian, it was empty. This town, like so many before it, was just a pause in the storm. And once he healed, he would move on.

For a moment, he let himself close his eyes again, pretending to rest, but his mind remained alert, always moving, always searching.

Tomorrow would come, as it always did. And when it did, Dorian would keep walking.

Keep walking again and again.

*****

Dorian didn't know how long he had been asleep—only that something woke him.

A sound.

Soft, almost imperceptible. Footsteps on the roof.

His instincts, honed by years as a mercenary, snapped him fully awake. He didn't move. Didn't reach for a weapon—because his sword was gone. Instead, he kept his breathing steady, feigning sleep, listening.

More footsteps. More than one.

Whoever was up there wasn't alone. They were hunting someone.

Then—silence.

The presence vanished as if it had never been there. Dorian kept still, waiting, but the weight of exhaustion pressed against him. He wasn't in the mood for another mess. If they were gone, good riddance.

He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.

Someone was beside his bed.

His breath caught in his throat. A shadowy figure crouched near him, close enough that he should have sensed them—but he hadn't. Instinct screamed at him to react, to fight, to run, but when he tried to shout, no sound came.

A spell.

The realization sent a cold chill through him. His voice had been stolen before he could even cry out.

The figure—whoever he was—had magic.

The figure was cloaked, shadows blending with the dark room. His presence was almost too quiet, and yet... something about him stood out. The coldness in his eyes, like dark abyssal pits, seemed to pierce through the dim room. Dorian's body stiffened. A mage. He didn't know why, but he could feel it in his gut.

"Silence," the mage murmured, his voice as cool as the air around them. Magic hummed in the room like a quiet storm.

The silence that followed wasn't just from Dorian's lack of voice. The entire room felt sealed, empty of sound. Not a single step could be heard outside, nor any noise inside. The magic was at work—detecting, securing.

The mage stood perfectly still, his eyes never leaving Dorian. His dark, abyssal eyes had a way of seeing straight through him, as if he could sense Dorian's every thought, every hesitation. And yet, there was no malice. Only calculation.

"Stay still," the mage whispered, his voice a command, more than a suggestion. He wasn't done. He was waiting, listening.

Dorian's heart pounded in his chest, his instincts kicking in, but he didn't move. He barely dared to breathe, waiting for the next move. Varek's eyes flared ever so slightly as if reading the room.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, the silence lifted just a fraction. The danger passed.

The mage lowered his hand, and the magic faded. Dorian's throat loosened, and he could breathe again, the weight lifting from the room, though not from his chest. He could feel the mage still there, watching.

"Who are you?" Dorian rasped, finally able to speak.

The mage's eyes glinted, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Does it matter? You're still alive, and that's what you need to know for now."

Dorian didn't reply. He had a feeling he wouldn't get much more from the man, at least not yet.

Dorian was able to see the man standing before him more clearly now that the magic had faded. The mage's appearance was striking—not because of any particular flamboyance, but because he had an aura about him, a quiet strength that seemed to seep from every part of him.

He was of average height, his build neither particularly large nor slight, but Dorian could sense the strength beneath the rough cloak he wore. His body was still strong, the kind of strength that came with years of experience, not brute force. His movements were deliberate, controlled—there was something about the way he held himself, a sense of calm authority that made Dorian wary.

His's face, while not youthful, didn't show the typical signs of aging either. His features were sharp, weathered by time, and yet somehow not in the way most men his age looked. It was a face that had been through too much to ever look soft, and yet it had a certain rogue-like charm. His eyes, dark as an endless abyss, were the most striking feature of all. They didn't just look dark, they looked… knowing. Mysterious. There was something in them that seemed to pierce into the soul, as if he could read a person completely with a single glance.

His hair was medium length—neither long nor short—dark and wild, with strands falling carelessly over his forehead. It had a slightly graying tone, but it only added to his mature, rugged appearance. He wore a loose, dark cloak, and there was something about the way it hung that suggested both practicality and concealment. Beneath it, Dorian imagined there were weapons—perhaps a dagger, maybe more. He had the look of someone who was always prepared.

"That was close," Dorian muttered, still unsure whether to trust this man or not. His instincts screamed at him to be cautious. A mage like this could be as dangerous as any weapon, and he didn't seem like the kind who would offer a hand out of kindness.

The mage's lips curled into a faint smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've got sharp instincts. Good. You'll need them."

Dorian narrowed his eyes, struggling to sit up. He felt weak from the injuries, but he couldn't afford to let his guard down. "What do you want?"

The mage didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the door, as if listening for something, sensing something that Dorian couldn't. His eyes flickered briefly to Dorian, assessing him with that piercing, knowing gaze.

"What I want," the mage said slowly, his voice carrying the weight of years, "is simple. To survive." He looked back at Dorian, his face unreadable. "And maybe to offer a bit of guidance to those who might still have a chance."

What the fuck he is talking about? He thought.

Dorian didn't trust him. No one ever offered help without a price, and his gut told him there was more to this than the mage was letting on.

The mage studied Dorian for a moment longer, then moved toward the window, pushing aside a thin curtain to peer outside. "The road ahead is treacherous," he murmured, more to himself than to Dorian. "But you already know that, don't you? You're a mercenary. I'm sure you've seen your share of death and destruction."

Dorian frowned, sitting up straighter. "What's it to you? You think you can just waltk in here and tell me how to survive? I don't need your help."

The mage chuckled softly, but there was no humor in it. "No, you don't. But the question is, do you want to keep going like this?" He turned to face Dorian fully, his eyes locking onto the young man with a kind of intensity that was almost unsettling.

Dorian froze, a shiver running down his spine. There was something about the mage's presence, something that made him feel seen—truly seen, as if his very soul was being weighed and measured.

"I don't need to tell you your life," the mage continued, his voice low and steady, "but I know it. I know what it is to wander, to fight without knowing why. To be caught in the endless cycle of survival, until one day, it doesn't matter anymore if you live or die."

Dorian's eyes narrowed, the words hitting too close to home. He didn't want to hear them. He didn't want anyone to understand the darkness inside him.

The mage seemed to notice the hesitation in Dorian's expression, his lips curling into a faint smile. "You're not the first to wander that path. And you won't be the last."

Dorian clenched his fists, but the words wouldn't come. He didn't want to argue. He didn't want to acknowledge the truth in the mage's voice.

The mage took a step toward him, his presence almost overwhelming. "I've seen your kind before. Your potential," he said quietly, his tone calculating. "There's more to you than just a mercenary."

Dorian met his gaze, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. "I'm nothing more than that. And I'm not looking for anything else."

Without breaking eye contact, the mage spoke softly, "Perhaps you don't know what you want yet, Dorian."

The sound of his name sent a cold shock through Dorian. He hadn't told the mage his name. He never did. Yet the mage had spoken it as if he had known all along.

Dorian's mouth went dry, a mix of disbelief and caution flooding him. "How—?"

The mage's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "I don't need to be told. People like you, mercenaries, wanderers—your kind leaves traces. The world knows your name even before you speak it. But don't worry," he added, "I'm not here to harm you. I offer something different."

Dorian was silent, his mind reeling. He couldn't make sense of any of it. The man was a stranger, a mage, someone who had somehow found his way into his life, into his thoughts. And yet…

"And what's that?" Dorian finally muttered, his voice raw.

The mage's expression shifted to one of quiet certainty. "To teach you," he said simply. "I can help you understand the world beyond your sword, beyond this endless struggle for survival. There's power in knowledge. And you've got the makings of something more. But you'll need guidance to see it."

Dorian's brow furrowed. He wanted to reject the offer, wanted to push this strange man away, but something in the mage's words lingered, gnawing at him. The notion of learning, of finding a path that didn't lead straight to another battlefield—it was tempting. But could he trust this mage? Would it really be different?

"You want to teach me?" Dorian echoed, his tone a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Why?"

The mage's eyes softened, but there was still that piercing intensity. "Because I've seen what happens when someone like you falls into the darkness. I don't want that for you."

Dorian felt a flicker of doubt creep into his mind. There was something about the mage's words, something that made him feel… seen. Not just as a soldier, not just as a mercenary, but as something more. And it terrified him.

The mage turned toward the door, his cloak flowing around him like a shadow. "I'll be leaving now. You've got your choice, Dorian. Stay on the path you're on, or come with me. But know this—if you walk with me, it's not just your body that will be tested. Your mind, your very soul, will be put to the test. You'll have to decide who you are, who you want to be."

Dorian remained silent. He didn't want to admit it, but the offer intrigued him. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the mage's confidence, or maybe it was the simple truth that Dorian had nothing else. Nothing left.

The mage paused at the door and glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes catching Dorian's once more. "You don't need to tell me anything, Dorian. I already know it. But if you ever wish to leave this life behind, if you want to know what's beyond the sword, find me, Orin the Seeker."

Without another word, Orin slipped out of the room, leaving Dorian alone in the dim light. The silence that followed was deafening, and for a long moment, Dorian couldn't move. The mage's words echoed in his mind, a strange sense of possibility taking root in his chest.

Dorian had been alone for so long, drifting from one battle to the next, fighting without ever asking why. The past was crushing him. But now, for the first time in years, he felt like he was standing at a crossroads.

He didn't know what would come next, didn't know where his journey would take him. But Orin's offer had cracked open something inside him. And though he didn't want to admit it, Dorian couldn't help but wonder…

Could there be a life beyond the battlefield? Could there be something more for him?

As the night stretched on, Dorian lay back on the cot, staring at the ceiling. His mind was alive with questions, with possibilities he had never considered before.

Find me my ass. He didn't even give me an address. Dorian thought and fell to sleep eventually.

Tomorrow would come, as it always did. But perhaps… just perhaps… there was something worth fighting for beyond the endless cycle of war.

And maybe, just maybe, he would find it.