Chapter 1 - The Nameless Wake
Chapter 1 - The Nameless Wake
Pain!
Not just discomfort, but raw, soul-rending agony. It tore through him like a jagged blade dragged slowly and mercilessly, white-hot and unrelenting. Each breath was a gamble, shallow and ragged. His fingers clawed instinctively at the coarse bedding beneath him—rough-spun canvas that felt like sandpaper against his trembling skin.
Why does my chest burn? Where… am I?
The thought rose like a weak spark in the storm of his mind. His thoughts were fragmented, scattered like broken glass on cold stone. Vague flickers of a different life—moments, sensations, faces half-remembered—spun just out of reach, like stars veiled behind storm clouds. And through the fog of torment, his head pounded in protest, his throat a desert of cracked heat.
But then, like a whisper rising through the void, a single name surged from the abyss of his unravelling memory.
Desmond.
It wasn't just a name—it was an anchor. A tether to something. To himself.
Desmond… that's me.
He forced his eyes open, lids like lead, and the world greeted him not with clarity but with a haze of dim light and muted colour. He blinked slowly, the blurred shapes sharpening into canvas walls stained with shadow and the orange flicker of a hanging lantern. The scent of blood clung thick in the air, mingling with pungent herbs and something acrid—oil or ash.
He turned his head, every muscle protesting, and took in the scene. A crude wooden table stood nearby, cluttered with signs of hasty healing—blood-streaked bandages, iron tools darkened with use, cloudy vials of ominous liquid, and a mortar still crusted with dried, greenish paste. He stared at it all, unease twisting in his gut.
Am I in some kind of infirmary?
He tried to rise, instincts flaring. A mistake. The movement ripped a fresh bolt of pain through his chest, and he collapsed back onto the cot with a strangled cry. Tears stung his eyes as his hand jerked up to his bandaged chest, fingers brushing the stiff fabric wrapped tight around his ribs. His flesh beneath throbbed with feverish heat.
An injury… I was hit—
The thought came not as memory, but instinct.
A path. A scream. The high, deathly whistle of something slicing the air, then impact.
An arrow.
He clenched his jaw, the confusion clawing at him again.
And then, something caught the corner of his vision—a flash of movement as he turned his wrist—and he froze.
His hand, pale and unfamiliar, was adorned with a signet ring: a dark, burnished band etched with the image of a gnarled black oak wreathed in silver-white flame. It pulsed with an almost eerie presence. He felt the urge to twist it off for a better look—
But the flap of the tent rustled. He stiffened, every muscle taut with instinctive dread as footsteps entered—measured, heavy. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, growing sharper in the lantern's glow.
A man stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in worn plate and mail. His surcoat, once black, was now streaked with blood and grime, yet proudly bore the same sigil as Desmond's ring. His long black hair spilt down his back in thick waves, like a lion's mane, and the sword at his hip looked more like an extension of his body than a mere weapon. Faded scars lined his arms—battle-earned, unforgiving.
But it was his eyes that arrested Desmond. Piercing amber. Intense. Eyes that studied him with a strange blend of reverence and wariness, as if he were both king and cursed.
A knight.
The man crossed the room in two steps, his armour clinking softly, and knelt beside the cot. "I'm glad to see your eyes open, my lord," he said, voice low and weathered, like gravel underfoot after rain.
Desmond blinked. Despite the haze of pain and doubt, everything felt too vivid, too grounded to be a mere dream.
He parted his cracked lips. "Wh—"
"Rest," the knight cut in gently. He moved swiftly to the table, uncorked a waterskin, and returned. "You took an arrow—damn thing meant for me—but you stepped in. The head came within a finger's width of your heart."
He lifted Desmond's head carefully and brought the waterskin to his lips.
The water was cool and shockingly clean. It flowed over his dry throat like silk, and Desmond drank until the man pulled it away.
Relief trickled through him.
Finally. That's better.
Still, questions gnawed at him like wolves at a carcass. "Where am I?" he rasped.
He paused.
That wasn't English. Not entirely. The structure, the syllables, the sound of it—alien. Yet somehow, it flowed from his tongue and returned to his ears with perfect understanding.
I shouldn't be able to speak this… But I can.
The knight's brow furrowed slightly. He leaned in, studying him.
"You don't remember?"
Desmond hesitated. The truth pressed on his lips, hot and anxious, but something in the knight's voice—no, in his face—warned him. A flicker of alarm? Suspicion? He looked away. "The ambush," he said carefully. "It's… foggy."
The knight sat back on the stool beside him and exhaled, slow and thoughtful. "Lord Ashborn," he began, "you're at the temporary recovery camp, just east of the marshes. We set it up after the skirmish two days ago. You were hit during the retreat. Nexus Worm venom was on the arrowhead… a Chaos-tainted strike. If the healer hadn't purged it in time…"
His voice trailed off. Desmond's thoughts reeled.
Ashborn…
The name struck like a drumbeat in his chest. Not familiarity, but gravity. It pulled at him, rooting itself deep in his gut like an ancient truth. A name.
A role. A life that had existed long before he woke in this body.
He closed his eyes.
Blurry images swirled behind his lids—blades, fire, a towering keep, the roar of a crowd, the whisper of his name in reverence.
He opened them again.
"And you are?" he asked hoarsely, voice a mix of curiosity and the faintest tremor of distrust.
The knight straightened, thudding a fist against his chest in salute.
"Commander Valyn Wraithborne, First Sword of House Blackwood, sworn to you until death."
There was an edge to his words, a dangerous one. Desmond met his gaze, his mind racing. Commander? That means I'm—what? Someone important.
A noble.
The realisation settled over him like a heavy mountain, pressing down on his chest and clouding his thoughts. Before he could gather his wits to respond, a cacophony of shouting erupted outside the tent, a conflicting symphony of panic and urgency. Vylan shot to his feet in an instant, his hand instinctively clutching the hilt of his sword, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light.
"Rest well, my lord, I will return shortly," he stated with a steady calm, his eyes briefly meeting Desmond's before he vanished, the flap of the tent swinging shut behind him with a soft swish.
Desmond didn't follow.
Gritting his teeth against the lancing pain radiating through his body, he forced himself to sit upright, his vision cloudy and wavering like a distant mirage. He needed to see—to comprehend the turmoil unfolding beyond the fabric.
With great effort, he staggered toward the entrance, each step a battle against the disorientation threatening to overwhelm him. He pushed the canvas aside, his heart pounding——and froze in place.
Maheym.
The camp stretched out before him like a chaotic tapestry woven from chaos and valour, a vast expanse of tents fluttering in the wind and armoured figures bustling with purpose. It was a tempest of steel and fire, a symphony of conflict. Soldiers clad in leather and polished steel formed an unyielding wall of shields, their surcoats splattered with the stains of mud and blood, while others loosed a flurry of arrows whistling through the air. Beyond them, the enemy surged forward like a dark tide, relentless and menacing.
Desmond felt lightheaded and disoriented, as if he had stepped into a world beyond his own. The clamour of voices mingled with the clashing of metal, creating chaos that wrapped around him like a thick fog, leaving him breathless. He looked up, his gaze drawn upward, only to be struck by the unsettling truth—
It was wrong.
A certainty resonated within him, declaring that everything about this scene was amiss.
"It should have been blue," Desmond murmured instinctively, his wide eyes tracing the sky, which was painted in deep, bruised violet. Streaks of shimmering gold woven through the fabric of the twilight resembled the remnants of a sunset imprisoned in time. Two moons loomed low on the horizon: one glowing pale as bone, ethereal and haunting, while the other burned a fierce crimson, casting a strange glow over the landscape.
As if the last traces of his disbelief had crumbled away, Desmond finally understood—this was all real. The chaotic battle unfolding before him, the violet sky adorned with two otherworldly moons, his bewildering reincarnation, and the cold wind that caressed his face—it was all impossibly true.
He steadied himself against the worn tent pole, his heart hammering in his chest like a wild drum.
This isn't home.
The realisation struck him with the weight of inevitability, unmistakable and undeniable.
Desmond's heart hammered. In this strange body, he was Lord Ashborn—a noble, a stranger, and a target.
Desmond braced himself against the tent pole, his mind whirling with questions and fear. The battlefield before him was a living nightmare: crimson-stained earth churned by hooves, banners torn and fluttering in the violet dusk wind, soldiers collapsing in spasms of pain or desperately scrambling to change battered weapons. And everywhere, the flicker of magic—bright motes of sapphire flame and sickly green glows—arced through the air, meeting shields and armour with explosive, concussive force.
That's right! Magic! Commander Valyn's sword blazed with sapphire flames, each swing sending a ripple of fiery explosions through the air. He moved like a relentless machine, an unstoppable force, as no foe could endure more than a single strike from him.
The enemies surrounding them lacked any uniforms, their bodies adorned only with hides crudely stitched with bone. Some sported skin that resembled grotesque, rotted bark, while others had eyes that glowed faintly like embers in the dusk. Their weapons were savage, serrated blades that gleamed wickedly, flails heavy with deadly fangs. At their feet lay the butchered serfs, unarmed and pleading, cut down mercilessly like wheat beneath a scythe.
A boy, no older than fifteen, clutched his injured belly as a Lythandor raider, a cruel smile stretching across his face, raised a cleaver high—
Desmond's instincts screamed to look away, to turn from the vile scene unfolding before him. Yet, just as the cleaver was about to descend, a brilliant white gleam shot forth from the line of shields, slicing through the air with incredible speed and embedding itself into the forehead of the raider, still wearing that mocking expression as he crumpled to the ground.
The ground shook violently as Commander Valyn and his reorganised Knight Regiment charged in from the flanks, their battle cries ringing out like a war drum. The soldiers' roars of triumph filled the air as they surged forward! The cavalry crashed through the enemy ranks like a blade slicing through soft flesh, annihilating anyone who stood in their way and effectively routing the terrified raiders. The exhilarated infantry followed closely behind, determined to eliminate as many foes as possible, granting swift mercy to the wounded while capturing those who surrendered.
A wave of relief washed over Desmond. They had triumphed in this brutal skirmish. Yet the world felt unbearably grim, a harsh place not made for the kind-hearted. He internalised a familiar mantra: Observe, Think, and Learn. With a heavy sigh, he pondered his identity as Ashborn, a noble thrust into an unknown realm.
Commander Valyn strode forth, lifting the severed head of the raider leader high above his own, a grim trophy to rally the troops further. He approached Ashborn and dismounted with a regal grace, kneeling with reverence. "I present this head of the raider leader to you, my lord, Ashborn."
Desmond's gaze fell upon the macabre trophy, its eyes rolled back in death, tongue lolling grotesquely. He fought down his nausea, a bitter taste rising in his throat, and he waved his hand, silently gesturing for Valyn to take it back. He murmured, "Commander Valyn... please, come into the tent," and retreated within, nearly overcome by the mental strain and the heavy weakness of his body. The knights cast concerned glances at one another, unsure why their lord was behaving so differently.
They attributed it to his health and, under Valyn's instruction, returned to camp to evaluate the spoils and merits earned by their forces in battle.
The flap of the tent stirred again, whispering against the wind as Commander Valyn stepped inside, his expression grim, thoughtful. The low glow of the lantern cast wavering shadows over his armour, the blood-stained surcoat clinging to his broad frame like a second skin. His hand hovered close to the hilt of his sword—a subconscious act born out of readiness.
His sharp amber eyes fell instantly upon Ashborn, who sat propped wearily against the cot's headrest, pale against the yellowed linen. Even in the dim light, the dark hollows beneath the young lord's eyes spoke of pain and disorientation. Valyn's grip tightened instinctively before loosening, the tension in his body melting into something else—something dangerously close to the warmth of a father.
Their gazes locked. A heavy silence stretched between them, taut like a bowstring. Before Valyn could speak, Ashborn broke the stillness with a sigh, weary and uncertain. His voice was soft, but the words struck like thunder.
"I can't seem to remember anything," he murmured. "So much of my memory is… just gone." Valyn stiffened. His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, the shadows around him seemed to deepen. His fingers grazed the hilt of his sword, almost unconsciously, the muscles in his arm coiled as if ready to draw. But the fear that flickered across Ashborn's face—the raw vulnerability in his eyes—stilled him.
No Chaos-touched ever looked so… human.
Valyn exhaled slowly. With deliberate care, he stepped forward, then knelt on one knee beside the cot, the armour groaning under his weight. He bowed his head, the gesture steeped in humility and remorse.
"My apologies for doubting you, my lord," he said, his voice low, almost rough with guilt. "With the Chaos so near, I had to be sure. Forgive my hesitation. Shall I summon Doctor Verissa?" Ashborn blinked. "Chaos?" he echoed, confusion lining his brow. The word tasted unfamiliar, alien on his tongue.
Valyn lifted his gaze, the flickering lantern fire dancing in his eyes. He nodded, slowly, solemnly. "Chaos," he repeated, "is not a mere force—it is the oldest blight upon this world. A malevolent essence, insidious and hungry. It corrupts, twists, and devours. Its true origin is lost to time, spoken of only in whispers among the arcane orders and ancient texts. But we know this much: once it touches a soul, it begins to erase them." Ashborn remained silent, watching the commander's face with quiet intensity.
"They begin to forget," Valyn continued, his voice hollow now, shaped by experience. "Who they are. What they love. Why they live. Piece by piece, memory fades, and in its place grows madness. They lose their names, their faces… and eventually, they become something else. Something monstrous."
He swallowed, glancing at the faint blue glow that shimmered along the edge of his sword where it rested in its sheath. A warded blade, forged to kill what could not be saved.
"We call them Lost Souls," he said. Souls who have been consumed entirely. Their presence taints everything around them—land, air, even thought. And the corruption spreads. Like fire through dry wood."
Ashborn's gaze dropped to his hands, still trembling faintly. "The arrow…"
Valyn nodded gravely. "Tipped with the blood of a Nexus Worm. A swamp-borne horror that nests in Lythandor's murky waters. Their blood is rich with Chaos—highly infectious. If that arrow had struck deeper… or if your will had faltered…" He stopped, the unspoken possibilities thickening the air.
Ashborn's throat bobbed as he swallowed. The weight of this world—of this strange and dangerous life—settled more firmly upon his shoulders.
"I see," he said at last, the words barely audible. "So I was… close to becoming one of them." Valyn's voice dropped to a whisper, and for the first time, there was a tremor in it.
"Yes. You were."
Ashborn let out a long, quiet sigh, his gaze trailing across the lantern-lit canvas of the tent. The scent of blood, herbs, and old oil still lingered thick in the air, but the weight of the world—this strange, foreign world—pressed down heavier than all of it. The pain in his chest throbbed in steady rhythm with the distant sounds of battle and shouts outside, yet it was his mind, not his body, that felt the most burdened.
He gave a short, breathless laugh, dry and tinged with disbelief.
"All of this… the titles, the battles, even magic and two moons…" His voice trailed off into a quiet exhale before he glanced sideways at Valyn, lips curving into a faint, ironic smile. "So? Am I alright now?"
Valyn didn't answer right away. Instead, the knight straightened, his broad frame shifting as he lowered his gaze with something close to reverence. He bowed his head respectfully, though a shadow passed behind his amber eyes—a tension just beneath the surface.
"The Chaos," he said softly, voice rough and restrained, " needs a seed to take root. It cannot enter uninvited. But once the seed is planted… it germinates. And then its roots twist deep into the soul, corrupting thought, memory, even purpose. It turns men into monsters, often before they realise they've changed." He paused, as if weighing his next words with the care of a man placing a blade on the edge of a scale.
"But if the mind is strong—if the will resists—then the seed cannot find soil. Perseverance, focus, clarity… they are the shields. And when they hold, the body may heal. The spirit remains… intact."
Valyn hesitated then, just for a heartbeat. His voice grew quieter, more uncertain. "My lord…who so ever been touched by the Chaos has forgotten themselves. No chaos-marked man has ever awoken claiming to have lost his memories."
His eyes met Ashborn's, the silence between them dense with unspoken meaning.
Ashborn studied the knight for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in reluctant amusement. He gave a tired, helpless smile, his voice dry but tinged with humour.
"Well, I suppose that's what saved me from your sword then."
Valyn stiffened, his cheeks flushing a faint crimson beneath the dirt and stubble. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat, but said nothing.
The silence that followed was not awkward—it was heavy, filled with things neither of them could quite bring themselves to say.
Ashborn leaned back against the pillow, his body still aching, but his mind slightly clearer. Though he could remember nothing of the man Valyn spoke of, a strange sense of gravity tethered him to this life. To the name Ashborn Blackwood. To this battle-scarred knight with too much loyalty in his eyes.
The past might have been lost to him, but something real remained in the present.
And in that moment, that was enough.
Ashborn lay back against the pillows, the fabric cool against his fevered skin. The muted flicker of the lantern overhead painted shifting shadows across the tent walls, a quiet echo of the turmoil outside.
His voice came out softer than he intended, edged with uncertainty. "Tell me about myself."
Commander Valyn stood silent for a moment, arms crossed, the firelight glinting faintly off the silver detailing of his armour. His gaze lingered on Ashborn's face, as if searching for something—recognition, perhaps. A flicker of memory.
He finally nodded, slow and solemn, "You are Lord Ashborn Blackwood," he began, his voice steady, yet laced with quiet reverence. "The younger brother of Count Aragorn Blackwood, ruler of House Blackwood and overseer of the Iron mines of Rohands. You bear the blood of a noble line, an ancient one known for its honour, strategy, and fearlessness in battle."
Ashborn blinked slowly, the name sparking no memories, only a faint tug of familiarity in his chest.
"You were granted the title of Viscount by His Majesty King Leoric himself," Valyn continued, "in recognition of your valour and brilliance during the Battle of Dead Willow. That field was drenched in blood and haunted by shadow, but it was your leadership that steadied the lines and maintained the morale."
Ashborn shifted slightly, grimacing as pain lanced through his chest, but he said nothing. The rhythm of Valyn's voice was grounding him—an anchor in this storm of disorientation.
"You were trained since childhood in both governance and the knight's path. A capable manager, as sharp with the quill as you are with a blade. Your tutors praised your discipline. Your men… they follow you not out of duty, but devotion."
Valyn's eyes softened, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.
"And then there's your gift," he added, voice dipping as if invoking something sacred. "Your Fire Aura. You've honed it over the years until it dances along your blade like a living flame—burning through steel, striking fear into your enemies."
Ashborn's breath caught faintly at the mention. Fire Aura…? The words awoke a familiar yet distant sense of energy within him. Valyn stepped closer to the cot, speaking now with quiet pride.
"You turned nineteen but a month past. On the day of your coming-of-age ceremony, Count Aragorn gifted you a fief—newly carved from reclaimed lands on the southwestern frontier of the Elembor Empire. A wild, untamed place, bordering the cursed swamps of Lythandor. Dangerous… but full of promise. A domain worthy of being a fief for a count. Your brother chose it for you deliberately, knowing you would not shy from the challenge."
Ashborn's gaze lifted, sharp with interest despite the dull ache in his body. "You left with a convoy of supplies, two thousand serfs under your protection, and a retinue of loyal knights and retainers. Everything you needed to build a stronghold… and a future worthy of your name."
A long pause followed. Ashborn stared at the canvas above him, as if trying to etch the story into the ceiling of his memory. "And now," Valyn said softly, "you are here. Alive and wounded, but not broken. Not yet."
Ashborn gave a weak, incredulous chuckle. "Sounds like quite the man," he murmured. "I almost wish I remembered him."
Valyn didn't smile, but his eyes shimmered with something close to warmth. "You will, my lord. In time. I swear it."
Ashborn exhaled slowly, the weight of everything he'd just learned pressing down on him like an invisible cloak. He turned his gaze toward Valyn, who stood respectfully nearby, arms crossed behind his back in a soldier's rest.
"My gratitude, Valyn," Ashborn said, his voice steady despite the lingering fatigue in his limbs. "Tell me… we must've brought some of the records and tomes from my study at the House of Blackwood, haven't we?"
Valyn's brows rose slightly, the faintest spark of approval flickering in his amber eyes.
"I'd like them arranged for me tomorrow," Ashborn continued. "I want to begin reviewing them, refreshing what I can. And… a report of the last two days. I need to understand the shape of the battle. Who fought, who fell. I may not remember everything yet, but I'll not sit idle."
A brief silence followed. Then Valyn bowed his head, hand over his chest in the gesture of knightly respect.
"It will be done, my lord. The ledgers and scrolls from your study are secured in the command tent. I'll see that they are brought here and placed at your desk before first light. The reports from yesterday and today's engagements will accompany them."
Ashborn offered a weary nod, settling deeper into the cot as a twinge of pain flared through his ribs. His fingers absently grazed the edge of the blanket, grounding himself in the rhythm of the moment.
"I'll take the night to rest," he murmured, eyelids already growing heavy.
Valyn inclined his head once more, stepping back toward the entrance of the tent.
"I hope for a swift and steady recovery, my lord," he said with quiet conviction. "If you require anything, call for the guards posted outside. They are under strict orders not to leave your side."
He paused just before lifting the flap, casting one last glance over his shoulder.
"I will take my leave now. Sleep well, Lord Ashborn." And with that, the tent flap rustled closed behind him, the outside murmur of distant battle fading into a muffled hum. Ashborn let his head rest fully against the pillow, eyes tracing the lantern's flickering light above.
In this strange new world, among broken memories and borrowed names, he would rebuild who he was—one page, one order, one breath at a time.