The Boy From Nowhere
The wildlands were not like the old maps described.
The terrain twisted with each step. Paths doubled back where they should have continued, and trees glowed faintly with light, as if they bled aura instead of sap. The air was thick and warm, like walking through breath. Nothing made a sound. No wind blew. As she moved closer to Yggdrasil, the world grew less familiar.
She moved freely.
Aura wrapped around her like a quiet cloak, keeping the smaller predators away. Wolves made of bone and mist circled at a distance but never approached. They instinctively avoided the power she radiated.
Then she found the ruins.
What used to be a village smoldered in silence. Ash covered the remains of the homes, melted stone mixed with charred wood. Blackened cookware stood frozen mid-meal. Faceless dolls. Books without covers. Everything had burned, but no bodies were left behind.
She stepped over a collapsed pillar, not looking down, not searching.
There was no reason to.
Until something stirred.
From behind the charred wall of a stable, a small figure emerged. A boy, no older than ten. He was dirty, barefoot, and wore an oversized cloak. His face was streaked with soot, and his eyes were bloodshot. But he didn't cry. He didn't run. He just stared.
She stared back.
Selene, stuck inside, felt her heart race.
The boy took a step forward.
She, the one in control, did not move. She only observed. His aura was weak. Barely awake. He posed no threat. No use. Nothing to gain.
Selene fought against the silence of her prison.
Help him.
Still, her body stayed still.
The boy raised his hand, reaching for her.
She blinked once.
"Do you know a path north?" she asked, her voice flat.
He didn't respond. He just looked at her, eyes wide. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Mute.
He nodded once and then pointed.
She turned and walked.
He followed.
By dusk, they had found shelter under an overhanging cliff, where wild brush hid the entrance of an old animal den. She built no fire; it wasn't necessary. Her body maintained its own temperature. The boy huddled near her, hugging his knees.
She sat upright, stiff, her back straight, a blade unsheathed and resting across her lap. She ignored him. She offered no food or warmth.
He looked at her, not with fear, but with wonder.
That night, as he drifted into restless sleep, the air around him shimmered faintly.
He dreamed.
In the dream, he stood in a vast, colorless space. The world was dim and quiet. He saw chains. Glowing red threads wrapped tightly around a woman sitting on the floor, her silver hair cascading over her face. Crimson eyes met his.
She looked just like the one who saved him, but her eyes were different.
They held pain. Sorrow. Humanity.
She slowly raised a hand, palm open toward him—not demanding but pleading.
The boy hesitated… then stepped closer.
He jolted awake, breath catching in his throat.
The woman beside him was still there—awake, alert, staring into nothing.
Quietly, he reached toward her. His small hand brushed against hers.
She glanced at him.
And said nothing.
Her eyes—those same crimson eyes—were empty.
No flicker. No soul.
The boy looked down.
The hand he held was cold. Controlled.
Inside the dreamscape, Selene curled tighter within her prison, watching the interaction.
She said nothing.
But the silence hurt more than any scream could.