The fire crackled beside me, throwing faint orange light across the pages of the journal.
I wasn't reading it anymore.
I was staring at the words.
Not the meaning — just the shape of them. Trying to convince myself that the handwriting wasn't mine.
But it was. I knew my loops, my slanted lettering, the way I cross my T's like a dagger stab. That wasn't something you could fake — not even in a dream.
This isn't a dream.This isn't a set.
The realization was like cold water running through my veins. For the second time in twenty-four hours — or whatever passed for time here — I questioned if I had actually died.
A soft breeze moved the trees behind me. Somewhere in the distance, a bird let out a shrill cry that didn't belong to any Earth species.
I was alone.
But not safe.
If this is the world of the movie… then the plot's already started.
And I had no idea what scene I was in.
I closed the journal and stood slowly. My body still ached — not from the crash, but from something older. This body had been through battles. Trained muscles, light scars on the forearms. Even the way my fingers curled around the hilt of the blade at my hip — it felt practiced.
This isn't just a copy of me. This is me.
I didn't get far before I heard it.
A low growl. Heavy breathing. Snapping branches.
I froze.
Then crouched by instinct — Nawar's instinct, not mine — and slid behind a nearby log. Just ahead, through the underbrush, something moved.
It was big.
Heavy footsteps. Four-legged. The scent hit me next — raw meat and rotting fur.
Not good.
A second later, it stepped into view.
A beast, covered in matted black fur, eyes glowing faint orange, with tusks curving from the sides of its mouth like hooked blades.
It sniffed the air. Snorted. Turned its head.
Right toward me.
Don't move. Don't breathe.
My fingers found the hilt of my blade. It was a strange weapon — slightly curved, a dark metal that shimmered with faint red light. Not something I'd ever used, but again…
My hand knew what to do.
The beast growled and began to move closer.
I had seconds.
My mind screamed: Run!
But my body whispered back:Act.
I moved before I could think.
Not out of bravery — out of instinct. The kind of instinct that didn't belong to a guy who once faked an injury to skip a stage combat exam. This was different.
This wasn't Seif Amer. This was Nawar.
The blade slid free from the sheath with a smooth rasp. It wasn't heavy. It was perfectly balanced — as if it had been made just for me.
The beast's eyes locked on mine.
It charged.
Time bent.
Its roar was thunder in my ears, but I wasn't frozen. My body was already moving — stepping to the side, angling the blade low. The creature lunged. I dodged. Not gracefully, but enough.
I don't know how I did that.
The beast wheeled around with terrifying speed. Its tusks slashed through the air, one of them grazing my shoulder — pain flared white-hot, but I didn't go down.
I stepped in and slashed low, across its foreleg. The blade bit deep. The thing shrieked.
It staggered, blood dripping into the soil. My chest heaved. My vision tunneled.
Another step. Another slash. Its hide was thick, but not invincible.
I'm fighting. I'm actually fighting.
I wasn't watching this happen. I was in it. Feeling the weight of every step, every breath, every decision. My hands moved like they knew the dance.
And deep down… maybe they did.
The creature reared up, going for a finishing strike. Its claws raked down, aiming to crush me.
I didn't dodge this time.
I stepped forward — and drove the blade into its chest.
The shriek it let out was high and wet, full of rage and dying breath. It collapsed forward. I rolled under it, dirt smearing across my arms, pain spiking in my ribs.
Then — silence.
No roars. No wind. Just the sound of blood dripping onto leaves.
I stayed still for several seconds, heart pounding like a drumline, ears ringing.
Then I pushed myself up.
It's dead.
I looked down at my hands, shaking, covered in black-red blood.
I just killed something. Something that was going to kill me.
There was no crowd. No director yelling "Cut!" No prosthetic monster suit. No fake sword with a plastic hilt.
It was all real.
And I'd survived it.
I fell back against a tree, chest still heaving. The adrenaline hadn't worn off, and the pain in my shoulder throbbed like hell.
I should've been terrified.
But something else was rising in me instead.
Not pride.
Recognition.
Like this had happened before.
Like this was the beginning of who I used to be.
Nawar.
I didn't want to believe it. But the more I moved, the more I fought, the more I listened to the instincts guiding my limbs —
The more I stopped feeling like Seif… and started becoming him.
The beast's corpse steamed in the evening light. Its blood soaked into the forest floor, staining the roots of trees older than anything I'd ever seen.
I didn't move for a long time.
Not because I was hurt — though I was — but because I was thinking.
I shouldn't have won that fight.
By all logic, by everything I knew about myself — Seif Amer — I should have been dead. Crushed. Ripped apart. At best, running through the trees screaming like a maniac.
But I didn't.
I fought. I killed.
And the worst part?
A part of me liked it.
"Found you."
The voice came from behind, low and calm — too calm.
I jumped to my feet and spun, sword raised. Blood still dripped from the edge.
A man stood between two trees, arms crossed, half-hidden in shadow. He was younger than I expected. Early twenties, maybe. Dressed in leathers and a worn black cloak, a silver ring glinting on his right hand.
His face was sharp. Unsmiling.
But his eyes? They burned with something colder than fire.
Recognition.
"Nawar," he said, nodding. "Still alive, I see."
Okay… who is this guy?
He stepped into the clearing slowly, gaze falling to the beast's body.
"You killed it alone?" he asked.
I didn't answer. My grip tightened on the hilt.
He raised an eyebrow. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have seen me coming."
Not comforting.
"Who are you?" I asked.
His brow furrowed — then he gave me a strange look, like he'd just noticed something off.
"You really don't remember me," he said.
I lowered the blade slightly. "I don't remember anything."
He didn't move. Didn't even blink. "Then I guess this is a first meeting… again."
I said nothing.
He stepped forward, offering a hand.
"Zayn. Shadowblade of Drosmere. Formerly under your command — until you vanished."
I stared at him.
"Shadowblade?"
He smiled faintly. "Spymaster. Assassin. Take your pick."
I didn't shake his hand. But I didn't drop my sword either.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"To help you," he replied. "If you've forgotten everything… you're vulnerable. That makes you a liability. But it also makes you… flexible."
"Flexible?"
"Open to suggestions. Directions." He tilted his head. "And maybe… change."
I didn't like the way he said that.
"Why are you really here?"
Zayn smirked. "Lisan sent me. She saw the signal and guessed you might've run into trouble."
He looked at the body again.
"Guess she underestimated you."
I didn't answer.
Shadowblade. Assassin. Under my command?
Who ishe?
How many more people knew me — or thought they did? How many more versions of Nawar existed in their minds, waiting for me to play the part?
And how long until I made a mistake I couldn't recover from?
Zayn crouched beside the creature's corpse and dipped two fingers into its blood. He rubbed it between his thumb and index finger like a baker testing flour.
"Fresh," he muttered. "Strong scent. That means it wasn't alone."
My stomach dropped.There's more?
I looked over my shoulder, instinct flaring. But the forest remained still.
"How many?" I asked.
Zayn stood. "Hard to say. But the fact that this one was hunting this close to the camp means something's wrong." He paused, then added, "You used to track them better than anyone."
There it is again. That other me.
The ghost of the man I'm supposed to be.
"Well, I don't anymore," I said, brushing blood from my hands. "So if I'm your brilliant commander, you'd better start giving me orders."
Zayn smirked. "You're still bossy, I'll give you that."
He turned, eyes scanning the treetops.
"Come on," he said. "We'll take the ridge path. Safer — if anything's tracking us, it won't expect you to go high."
I followed, but I kept my distance.
As we moved, I watched him — the way he walked, how quiet his steps were, how he seemed to disappear into the woods even when he was right in front of me.
He's dangerous. Skilled. And he used to follow me.
We climbed for fifteen minutes without speaking. My shoulder throbbed, but I didn't complain. Neither did he.
When we reached a narrow cliff edge overlooking the forest, Zayn stopped.
"You were different before," he said without turning.
I blinked. "Before what?"
"Before the Cradle. Before you got marked."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to. He was talking to the air now — or maybe to the version of me he remembered.
"You were colder. Smarter. A little cruel, even. But you knew how to win. You were the only one who could see the war for what it was."
"What was it?"
He looked over his shoulder. His expression darkened.
"A lie."
That word hit me in the gut.A lie.
Zayn pulled something from his cloak — a slip of parchment folded three times. He handed it to me.
"This was in your old quarters. I was told to burn it when you fell."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I don't take orders from the temple," he said. "Only from you."
I unfolded the parchment.
There was no name. No signature. Just a single line, scrawled in urgent ink:
"If I forget who I am — tell me to finish the story."
I read it three times.
Each time, my heart beat louder.
Finish the story?
What story?
And why did it feel like…
…those were my words?
End of Chapter 3.