Time passed like a slow wound.
The forest turned brittle. Trees shed their green for sickly gold and rotting brown. Each night bit colder than the last, and the wind began to whisper of winter. The mercenaries started wrapping their cloaks tighter, built fires earlier, cooked heavier meals. Elias noticed it all. But he said nothing not like he could.
He couldn't speak their language after all. The words weren't just foreign; they felt unnatural in his mouth, like his throat wasn't made for them. Twisting syllables, remnants of old tongues layered over each other. He caught tone, rhythm, shape but meaning always slipped away like smoke.
Toma never gave up. "Gahjek tor venra, Shirah," he'd grin, slapping Elias's back like they were old friends. Mira muttered sharp words while sharpening her arrows "Fenrak dosh venek." Others barked short, guttural commands mid-fight. "Vrul vrul akna!" Always loud. Always urgent.
Still, Elias listened. Watched. Studied.
Over time, the noise started forming patterns. A low grunt meant danger. A soft "nah" with a shoulder nudge meant "it's fine." A jab to the chest and a wave meant "you're coming." And "Shirah" he heard it constantly when they looked at him.
He figured it meant "mute." Or something close.
They didn't need to keep him around. But they did. Maybe he was a curiosity. Maybe just useful enough to justify. Either way, they were his only guide in this world, and he needed them. So he carried packs. Watched during the day. Never complained.
They gave him a cloak, boots, even a dull dagger. No one asked questions about his past. He didn't ask about theirs either.
Then came a job.
A soft-palmed noble hired them to clear a goblin nest in a mountain cave. There were rumors of ruins, maybe treasure magic, even. The mercs didn't care. They were paid to kill, not believe.
Toma tossed Elias the dagger. "Vulden rask? No?" Then he grinned and pointed uphill. "You come. Shirah fight now."
The climb was steep, frost clinging to rock and skin. Fog thickened as they ascended, curling around boots and breath. The birds grew silent. Only the sound of clinking gear remained. The cave yawned open like a wound at the ridge damp, mossy, and stinking of old blood.
They lit torches and stepped inside.
The first goblin fell before Elias even saw it Mira's arrow buried in its skull. Then the shrieking began. Thin shapes in the dark, eyes gleaming, blades rusted but fast. One slashed Toma. Halric bellowed and cleaved through bone. The rogue laughed as he moved like smoke and struck like lightning.
Elias stood still. Useless.
Until one came for him.
He ducked, dodging the goblins dagger from there he grabbed the goblin's wrist, and twisted until it cracked, then buried the dagger in its throat. causing Blood to spray across his face.
But He didn't flinch. He should have. But instead, he just stared eyes glowing faintly, like embers in ash.
From there the fight ended quickly. With no treasure. Just old bones, rot, and the smell of something long dead.
As they filed out, Mira spat near Elias's boots, muttering something sharp. Toma laughed and thumped him on the back. "Ha! Shirah fight!"
Halric grunted. Not approval but not rejection, either.
They set up camp at the foot of the ridge. Smoke curled into a colorless sky. The others passed flasks, stitched wounds, muttered through aching muscles. Elias sat apart, the dagger still in his hands. Still bloody.
He wasn't proud. Or horrified. Just… wrong.
The hunger was growing. Not in his stomach. Deeper. In his bones. In his marrow. Behind his eyes. And the longer he resisted, the louder it became. It wasn't going away.
He wasn't human anymore.
But God, how he wished he was.
That night, he didn't sleep. Just stared at the dying fire while the others shifted in dreamless slumber. He tried to remember what bread tasted like. Or coffee. Or how it felt to be warm, full, clean.
Nothing came.
Just silence.
He wandered into the forest. The moon hung cold and distant, lighting the trees in silver. He found a brook and crouched near it. Looked into the rippling surface.
His reflection stared back.
Not a monster. Not a ghost.
Just a man. But one that had died, and come back… wrong.
He thought of the deer. The man in the village. How the blood tasted like life itself. Not instinct that had been desire. Maybe even addiction.
And that scared him.
He hated what was inside him. Hated that he didn't recoil at the kill today. Hated the stillness in his own chest, how even fear felt distant now. He wasn't becoming some mythic creature. No wings. No beauty. No glory.
Just hunger, strength and silence.
Something cold had begun to grow behind his ribs. Like a hole that could never be filled.
But he wasn't turning away from it.
Because he couldn't.
At dawn, he returned to camp. His cloak damp. His boots muddy.
None of them noticed he'd gone. But they looked at him differently that morning.
And for the first time, Elias didn't feel like a stranger.
He felt like a shadow.
One finally settling into place.