The mory unfolded not like a dream, but a scar—old, aching, and etched into her soul with brutal clarity.
Almost ten years ago.
Rain lashed against the windows of a ransacked caravan, the sound a cold drumbeat to the scene of slaughter within. A young girl, no older than ten, lay crumpled on the rough wooden floorboards. Her body was a map of agony, her essentia channels—the very pathways of her life force—savagely torn apart by the attackers' cruel techniques. Each breath was a ragged, fire-filled effort.
Beside her, her mother’s sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, a final act of love and protection having not been enough.
But the girl’s work was done. Through the blur of pain and terror, she had one victory: her sister’s fleeing footsteps, fading into the safety of the storm-swept night. The bandits hadn't gotten them both.
A strange, cold peace began to seep through the burning pain. There was no fight left. (I hope… she lives a long, happy life,) the girl thought, the wish a final, silent prayer against the howling wind. She was ready. Her eyes, the vibrant crimson that would one day see so much, began to flutter shut.
CRASH.
The door to the caravan was nearly ripped from its hinges, splintering inward. A figure stood silhouetted against the torrential night, breath clouding in the sudden draft.
“Shit—!” a young man’s voice, raw with urgency, cut through the rain. He rushed inside, his eyes scanning the horrific scene and landing on her small, broken form. He skidded to his knees beside her, his hands hovering, unsure where to touch without causing more pain. “No, no, no… please tell I’m not too late.”
In the dim light, she could just make out his face—sharp, worried, too young to be seeing such things. But his eyes held a determined fire that the darkness couldn’t extinguish. He wasn’t a bandit. He was sothing else. A hope she had already let go of.
The world returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, hazy seep of sensation. The first thing she was aware of was the clean, crisp sll of linen and the gentle pressure of bandages wrapped around her torso and arms. She was in a soft bed, in a small, warmly lit room she didn’t recognize.
A shadow moved beside her. “Sorry.” The voice was the sa one from the caravan—young, but now layered with a heavy, weary gentleness. “I couldn’t save your mother.”
Her eyes, the only part of her face not swathed in bandages, focused on him. He was sitting on a stool next to the bed, his elbows on his knees. He hadn’t noticed she was awake until now.
“...And your channels,” he continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, as if sharing a terrible secret. “They’re… broken. I’ve stabilized you, but…” He trailed off, the unspoken truth hanging in the air: her life as she knew it was over.
A strange man in an unfamiliar room, delivering news of ultimate loss and permanent injury—it was a recipe for pure panic. But the girl felt none of it. Her unique sense, even muted by trauma and bandages, didn’t recoil. Instead, it brushed against a core of such steady, genuine kindness in his movents and his voice that her instinct was to trust, not fear.
Slowly, with great effort, she lifted a bandaged hand, turning it over to stare at it as if seeing it for the first ti. The words were a dull echo in her mind.
“Channels… broken?” she murmured, her voice raspy from disuse. “Mom is… dead?” Her face remained eerily placid, the shock too deep for tears. Then, the one ember of concern still glowing within her sparked to life. “Where is… my sister?”
“Your sister?” Her savior leaned forward, his expression softening further with a new layer of sympathy. “I’m sorry. There was no one else around when I found you.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “Mind telling your na? It’s alright if you don’t want to.”
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The girl’s gaze drifted from him to the wooden beams of the ceiling, searching for an answer in the grain. “My na…” The space in her mind where it should have been was just… empty. A smooth, blank wall. A quiet fear, colder than the news of her channels, finally flickered in her chest. “I… can’t rember.”
“Hey, don’t you worry about that,” the man said, his tone instantly shifting to sothing reassuring. He reached for a simple clay cup steaming on a nearby table. “Here. Have so of this. It’ll help.”
He gently helped her guide the cup to her lips. The warmth was the first truly comforting sensation she’d felt in what felt like an eternity. She took a small sip. The flavor blood in her mouth—rich, subtly sweet, and impossibly calming. It was, without a doubt, the best tea she had ever tasted. A tiny, fragile sense of safety began to uncoil within her.
“Thanks,” she whispered, the word feeling foreign on her tongue.
A warm, lopsided smile finally broke through the man’s concerned expression. “I’m Leon.”
The days bled into one another, each marked by the slow, steady rhythm of recovery. Sunlight would filter through the single window of the small, rustic house, painting shifting patterns on the floorboards as the girl’s strength gradually returned.
The quiet was often filled with simple, shared chores. Leon would nd a fishing net by the hearth, his fingers moving with a practiced ease that spoke of a life of self-reliance. The girl, her movents still careful and bandaged, would sit nearby, sorting dried herbs into small cloth pouches for tea or polishing a set of simple wooden utensils until they glead. It was in one of these quiet, companionable monts, the scent of pine and dried lavender hanging in the air, that she finally gave voice to the question that had been burning inside her.
“Why did you save ?”
The question hung between them, interrupting the soft shush-shush of Leon polishing a wooden bowl. He didn’t look up imdiately, his hands stilling for a mont as he considered it.
“Why?” he repeated, setting the bowl down. He leaned back, stretching his shoulders, his gaze drifting toward the crackling fire as if searching the flas for an answer. “Hmm…”
He wasn’t crafting a noble lie or a grand reason. She could feel the truth of him, simple and unadorned as the room around them.
“I just felt that you needed to be saved,” he said finally, looking back at her. His expression was open, devoid of any hero’s pride or expectation. It was a statent of fact, as plain and honest as the man himself. “That’s all.”
There were no hidden motives to uncover, no complex philosophy to debate. The reason was so straightforward, so fundantally rooted in a innate sense of decency, that it left no room for further questions. The girl simply nodded, the quiet certainty of his answer settling sothing restless within her. She picked up another herb pouch, her fingers resuming their work. Sotis, the simplest truths were the most profound.
The seasons turned outside the small cabin window, the deep greens of sumr yielding to the fiery blush of autumn. Recovery was a slow, patient dance, asured not in days, but in the gradual easing of pain and the slow return of strength. Without essentia to accelerate the healing, her body nded at its own stubborn, human pace.
Through it all, the girl who had been saved from the caravan grew into a quiet presence. The trauma had sealed her past behind a door she could not open, leaving a gentle, observant silence in its wake. Yet, despite the shadows she carried, she was never without a soft, persistent smile—a small, brave light in the quiet of Leon’s ho.
One afternoon, as golden leaves drifted past the window, she watched Leon prepare tea at the small hearth, his movents a familiar, comforting ritual. The steam rose in gentle curls, carrying the scent of chamomile and citrus into the room.
“Leon?” she began, her voice quiet but clear. “Can you give a na?”
The teapot stilled in his hand. He turned, his expression one of gentle perplexity. “Are you sure about that, kid?” he asked softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “A na… that’s a big thing. It’s yours. It might co back to you.”
She shook her head, her gaze drifting to the flas in the hearth. “No. I can’t seem to rember my mother’s face… or my sister’s. Or their nas.” Her voice didn’t tremble; it was a simple, sad statent of fact. “I don’t think my na is coming back either. I want… a new one. One that starts here. With you.”
Leon was silent for a long mont, studying her. Then, he nodded slowly. He finished pouring the tea and placed a warm cup in front of her before taking the seat opposite her.
“Aight,” he said, his voice taking on a low, thoughtful tone. “If that’s what you wish.” He leaned back, stroking his chin in mock seriousness, though the warmth in his eyes was genuine. “What about… Rellie?”
The girl—Rellie—tested the sound of it in her mind. It felt light. It felt strong. It felt like a beginning. Her small, ever-present smile widened into sothing brighter, sothing truly her own.
“I love it,” she said, the words filled with a quiet certainty.
A deep, paternal warmth softened Leon’s features. “Glad to hear that, Rellie,” he replied, and for the first ti, her na sounded like it had always belonged to her.
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