Flames roared, swallowing the night in a sea of orange and red. Screams twisted through the air, tangled with the crash of falling roofs and the hiss of burning wood.
He didn't know who he was.
He didn't remember a name, a face, or a home—only the fire.
The sky was black with smoke, the air thick enough to choke on. He stumbled forward barefoot, vision blurred by tears and ash. Somewhere far behind, the shrieks faded into silence, leaving only the cruel crackle of flame.
Then everything went black.
When he came to his senses, his lungs heaved as if the fire still surrounded him. His body trembled, his heart pounding like thunder. He was standing in the middle of a bustling town—stone streets crowded with merchants, carts, and strangers shouting over one another.
The noise was deafening, yet to him, the world felt hollow—distant, unreal. His bare feet scraped the cobblestones, his hands smeared with soot and blood not his own. He looked around in confusion, unable to understand where he was or how he had come here.
Then the weight of it all crashed down.
His knees buckled. His vision blurred again as panic clawed at his chest.
"It's all gone… they're all gone."
The words cracked in his throat, breaking apart like the ashes beneath his feet. The crowd passed him by without a glance. And then, the world went dark once more.
When he woke, the sun was low and cold. He was lying beside a heap of refuse in a narrow alleyway, the stench of rot thick in the air.
Days passed in a haze—wandering, starving, ignored. His skin grew pale, his voice hollow, his steps uncertain. One evening, beneath the dim glow of a lantern, his strength failed him again, and he collapsed on the edge of a rain-soaked street.
When he next opened his eyes, the world had changed.
He lay in a small wooden room, the air filled with the scent of herbs and smoke. A fire burned in a stone hearth nearby. Sitting beside him was an old man, his face lined by age but his eyes sharp and alive.
"You've been asleep for two days," the old man said, voice calm but firm. "Found you half-dead by the roadside. The world's cruel to those without a name, boy."
The boy said nothing. His throat was too dry to speak.
The old man placed a bowl of stew beside him. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
He obeyed, hands trembling as he lifted the spoon. The warmth of the food reached him slowly, melting a bit of the cold that had taken root in his chest.
The old man studied him for a while, then said quietly, "You've seen something worse, haven't you?"
The boy froze, the spoon clattering softly against the bowl.
"What's your name, boy?"
The words struck him harder than he expected. His chest tightened. His breath came fast, uneven. He tried to answer, but no sound came—only trembling and the rising panic in his eyes.
The old man moved quickly, kneeling beside him. "Easy now," he said softly, his voice steady and warm. "It's alright. You're safe here."
The boy's shaking slowed. His breathing eased. Within minutes, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep.
When he woke again, morning light spilled through the cracks in the shutters. The old man was sitting at a table, grinding herbs with calm, practiced motions.
"You had it rough," the old man said without turning. "And from the look of it, you don't remember much… not even your name, right?"
The boy nodded faintly.
The old man sighed, his voice softening. "Then we'll start from there."
He stood, his cloak shifting slightly as he turned. "You have potential, boy. If you wish, I can make you my student. I'll teach you the blade—not for vengeance, but so that you may carry on in this cruel world. Strength alone won't heal you, but it'll help you stand."
The boy looked at him, uncertain. "You'd really teach me?"
The old man's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. "Because once, someone did the same for me."
He picked up an old sword resting near the hearth, its hilt worn smooth by time. "Rest for today. Tomorrow, we begin."
The next morning was pale and cold, the forest outside blanketed in mist. The old man was already out, splitting wood near a small clearing behind the cabin.
When he noticed the boy watching, he gestured toward a wooden stick leaning against the wall.
"Pick it up," he said simply.
The boy hesitated, then stepped forward and grasped the stick.
The old man watched closely, silently testing him—waiting to see if fear would return, if his hands would tremble as before.
But they didn't. The boy stood still, calm and steady. His grip was uncertain, yet there was something natural—instinctive—in the way he held the makeshift weapon.
The old man's gaze lingered on him, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before giving way to a faint, distant smile.
He looked at the boy for a moment longer, then whispered under his breath, almost to himself,
"...You did find someone good, didn't you?"
His eyes softened, filled with a quiet warmth that carried both sorrow and pride. Whoever he was speaking to, only he knew. The boy remained unaware — and the secret, for now, stayed with the old man.
He's remarkable… the old man thought, a quiet astonishment stirring in his chest. Even after all that… the fire, the loss… he hasn't broken. There's a calm in him, a focus that most men take a lifetime to forge. And yet… it's there—buried under the sorrow—but it's ready to be wielded.
The boy's brow furrowed as he swung the stick experimentally, watching how it cut through the air. A faint curiosity lit his eyes for the first time in days, and the old man noted it, the subtle shift in posture, the way his fingers flexed instinctively.
"Tell me," the old man began slowly, as though choosing each word with care, "shall I give you a name? It will make it easier… easier to live in this world, to be seen as someone, not just… nothing."
The boy blinked, his hands still holding the stick. He considered it for a long moment, tilting his head slightly as if testing the sound of a name on his lips.
"Okay," he said finally, voice low, detached, without the spark of interest the old man had expected.
"Then your name," the old man said, his voice calm but carrying a weight of decision, "is Ruth."
The boy—Ruth—turned the name over in his mind, It didn't feel like his name. But it didn't hurt to hear it, either. He said nothing.
The old man nodded, as if the silence was confirmation enough. "It will take time," he said quietly. "Time for the name to fit, for it to become yours. But it is yours now, and it is a beginning."
Ruth's gaze drifted toward the forest beyond the clearing, toward the mist-laden trees and the faint flicker of sunlight through the leaves. Something inside him shifted—a small, almost imperceptible spark of curiosity, a thread of interest weaving through the numbness.
He watched the boy closely, then turned back to the fire. The name echoed quietly in his mind—Ruth—and with it, a memory long buried in the ashes. Good… he thought.
"Rest now," the old man said softly, placing a hand on Ruth's shoulder. "Tomorrow, we begin. Not just with the stick… but with what lies beneath it. The mind. The body. And the fire you carry inside."
Ruth nodded faintly, still silent, still distant, but the barest hint of something—curiosity, readiness—stirred beneath his quiet exterior.
And the old man, standing there in the cold morning light, allowed himself a small, rare smile. This boy… he will endure. Perhaps more than anyone I've ever known.