Fragmented voices pierced through the veil of his unconscious like shards of broken glass, each word distorted beyond comprehension.
" ... you shoul-"
Stop being so loud, his mind protested weakly through the haze.
I'm sleeping here... Can't understand you anyway...
But the words didn't stop, and came garbled, filtered through layers of confusion and pain. His consciousness drifted in that liminal space between waking and dreaming, where reality blurred at its edges like watercolours bleeding into parchment.
"Yes bu- #@#!!!@# "
What are you saying? This makes no sense...
He mumbled to himself.
Two distinct voices wove through his awareness. One sharp with concern, the other deeper, more measured. The actual words remained incomprehensible, reduced to static that his injured mind couldn't quite process.
"Soph-@# I kn-@#@#"
Gradually, sensation returned to his battered form.
He lay upon something impossibly soft—silk perhaps, or enchanted cotton that seemed to cradle his broken body. His body felt heavy; something was wrapped around him.
Restraints? No, these feel like bandages.
He tried moving his arm and felt the thick, soft wrappings budge just a little.
Pain throbbed through his skull in steady waves, and his chest burned with each shallow breath.
The memories came flooding back in a rush. The vampire's burning red eyes, the sensation of his fingers tearing through those crimson orbs, the creature's otherworldly shriek, and then...
"The Vampire wa- @#$@#%"
The vampire what? His heart lurched with sudden clarity. What happened after that spell?
Reducto.
Someone had cast it with such devastating precision that the very air had sung with magical power. The vampire had been killed in an instant, reduced to nothing more than ash and fading screams.
His saviour—whoever they were—had displayed masterful control, ensuring the spell's destructive force touched only its intended target.
And now here he was, clearly being tended by that same mysterious rescuer.
The boy opened his eyes with deliberate slowness, immediately cataloguing his surroundings.
A woman in her thirties stood nearby, her golden hair catching the lamplight. Azure eyes regarded him with concern layered beneath something sharper—curiosity, perhaps.
Her high-necked dress of midnight blue spoke of wealth and refined taste.
The man beside her commanded attention without effort. Forty-ish, built like a fortress wall, with coal-black hair and eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail with military precision.
His three-piece suit was immaculate, but scars marred his face. This was someone who'd seen real combat and emerged harder for the experience.
When their eyes met, something extraordinary happened.
Emotions flowed from their gazes like visible currents, not mere observation of expressions, but genuine insight into their inner states. From the woman: concern, maternal warmth, and beneath it all, curious fascination.
From the man: protective instinct, suspicion, and, surprisingly, genuine compassion hidden beneath that intimidating exterior.
The sensation was overwhelming, intimate in a way that made his skin crawl with its invasiveness.
The woman, Sophie, noticed immediately. "Oh, well, aren't you a curious one," she chuckled, deliberately breaking eye contact. The connection severed like a cut wire, leaving him gasping at the sudden emptiness.
What in hell was that? Another magical ability of his?
"Where am I?" The words emerged as a croak, his throat still raw from the vampire's brutal assault.
Sophie's expression immediately shifted to concern. "Dalton, this is why I said I should give him another potion. Listen to the kid—poor baby can barely speak."
Her hand found his hair, stroking with gentle care that sent unexpected warmth flooding through his chest. The endearment should have felt patronising, but instead awakened a longing he hadn't expected. How long had it been since anyone had shown him such unguarded kindness?
"Sophie dear, I told you the boy is fine. Besides, I don't think his body can handle another potion either. He's too young for it right now, so we can only wait," Dalton replied, his voice carrying the weight of hard experience.
"Magical healing has limits. There are boundaries we cannot cross, especially for children's developing systems." Dalton explained.
While they spoke, the boy absorbed details like scattered intelligence.
This was definitely Sophie's room; the flower arrangements, carefully chosen artwork, and personal touches spoke of feminine sensibilities. The bookshelf drew his attention particularly; leather-bound tomes with titles in languages that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them. The very air around those volumes hummed with arcane resonance.
Sophie's touch against his bandages sent cascades of green light rippling across the silk-like bindings. Magic flowed from her fingertips with practised ease, and the restrictions loosened like flower petals opening to dawn.
Freedom flooded through his limbs as he stretched, working feeling back into muscles that had been immobilised.
The simple act of movement drew delighted chuckles from his rescuers. To them, he was just a child revelling in his safety.
Dalton's interrogation began with military efficiency. "So would you mind telling us what happened?"
The tone was deceptively polite, but underneath it all, this wasn't a request.
"Sorry, I don't know." The boy replied. There was nothing much to share, regardless. And he hadn't lied either.
Dalton's expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Do you remember how you got there?"
"No. I don't remember much. All I knew was that I walked into the market and was chased down by that vampire."
Both adults nodded, apparently satisfied. Sophie's expression had softened completely.
Then came the question that stopped his thoughts dead in their tracks.
"Could you please tell me your name?"
The simple inquiry hit him like a physical blow.
What is my name?
Terror crawled up his spine as the realisation crashed over him in waves.
He remembered fragments of his previous existence, knowledge, experiences, and emotions. But the core details of personal identity had been stripped away like pages torn from a book.
Who am I? What am I?
"Are you alright, boy?"
Dalton's voice carried concern
"I-..."
Say something. Anything. Think!
Sophie's intervention descended like salvation. "Dalton, let the poor boy rest now. Dear me, he still looks tired."
Her maternal instincts interpreted his paralysis as exhaustion rather than an existential crisis.
"Come on, dear, you should rest a bit more. I'll call you downstairs when I've prepared some food."
Her touch was gentle as she guided a reluctant Dalton toward the door.
As the door closed behind them, leaving him alone with his spiralling thoughts, he sank back into the pillows with genuine exhaustion.
The magical bandages continued their patient work, knitting flesh and bone with persistent care, but they couldn't heal the deeper wounds to his sense of self.
This is insane. How do I not know my own name?
But the boy's thoughts stopped there. Sleep beckoned him again. Whatever concoction he had drunk beforehand had made him drowsy.
His eyes drifted closed as exhaustion claimed him once more, carrying him toward dreams filled with fragments of memory and a desperate search for a self that he had forgotten.
-
A few hours later, he slightly opened his eyes and peered around the room. Solitude greeted him.
The lights had been dimmed to a gentle amber glow, and the door remained closed. Sleep had done wonders, as his body felt genuinely rested despite the lingering aches.
His enhanced vitality was proving its worth. Muscles that should have been screaming in agony merely felt fatigued, as if he'd completed an intensive workout rather than survived a supernatural assault.
Even his chipped nails had begun to regrow, though he suspected Sophie's potions had accelerated the process considerably.
He sat up slowly. Pain still radiated through his back in measured waves, and an irritating itch scratched at his throat. The slow-burning sensation across his chest reminded him of the vampire's claws.
As he shifted his legs, testing their strength, an envelope materialised before his face with theatrical flair. The wax seal parted to form rosy lips that curved into a woman's smile, speaking in Sophie's melodious voice:
"Dear, if you've got the energy, you should freshen up and come downstairs. I've made a most wonderful stew to nurse you back to health."
The letter promptly tore itself apart, dissolving into glittering motes that vanished into the ambient magic of the room.
A Howler?
His mind was still adapting to this new reality where magic wasn't fiction, but he was coming to terms with it.