Time passed slowly.
The trees shed their green, trading it for brittle gold and rotting brown. Each night grew colder than the last, and the wind carried a warning with it winter wasn't far behind. The mercenaries added layers to their cloaks, built fires earlier, and cooked thicker stews. Elias noticed it all, even if he didn't say a word.
He couldn't speak their language. Not really. It wasn't just unfamiliar it felt like it had never been meant for his mouth. Some ancient dialect twisted through too many cultures to trace. The words had rhythm, tone and shape. But the meaning always danced just out of reach.
Toma spoke to him constantly, like the words might sink in through repetition alone. "Gahjek tor venra, Shirah," he'd grin, slapping Elias's shoulder like they were old friends. Mira muttered sharp things under her breath, like "Fenrak dosh venek," especially when cleaning her arrows. Others barked things mid-fight like "Vrul vrul akna!" always loud, always urgent.
Still, Elias listened. Watched. Studied. Over time, the sounds began to settle into patterns. A clipped grunt meant danger. A soft "nah" with a nudge meant something like "it's fine." A jab to the chest, followed by a wave, meant he was expected to follow. And "Shirah" he heard it constantly, always while looking at him. It meant "mute." or atlest probably.
He didnt know why they kept him around, maybe he was interesting enough. But they were his guide in this new world of his, so he kept up.
He carried supplies, stood watch during the day, and never complained. They gave him a cloak, boots, and eventually a dull dagger. They didn't ask questions about his past. None of them wanted to share theirs either.
Then came a job.
A soft-handed noble hired them to deal with a goblin infestation in some mountain cave. Promised there might be ruins, treasure, maybe even magic buried in the stone. The mercs didn't care. They were paid to kill, not believe.
Toma tossed Elias the dagger. "Vulden rask? No?" Then pointed uphill and grinned. "You come. Shirah fight now."
The climb was steep, the rocks slick with frost. Fog clung to their boots and snuck into their lungs. The closer they got, the quieter the birds became, until the only sound was their own gear clinking together. The cave yawned open at the ridge dark, mossy, and stinking of old blood and rotting meat.
They lit torches and went in.
The first goblin died before Elias even saw it Mira's arrow caught it in the eye. But the rest came fast, screeching, thin and wild, blades flashing in the dark. One of them slashed Toma's arm. Halric roared and swung with brute strength. The rogue with the twin daggers laughed as he killed.
Elias didn't move at first. The others were fast, trained. He felt like dead weight until one of the goblins came at him directly.
Elias didnt think
He ducked the swing, grabbed the creature's wrist, twisted until the bones snapped, and buried the dagger in its neck. It died choking, gurgling, on its own blood.
Some Blood sprayed across Elias's face.
But he didn't flinch. Instead he looked menacing
eyes glowing faintly with just a trace of red, flickering like a dying ember.
The fight ended fast. No treasure in the cave. Just bones, filth, and cold.
As they filed out, Mira spat, muttering something that sounded like disgust. Toma laughed and clapped Elias on the back. "Ha! Shirah fight!"
Halric gave a grunt. Not a smile. But maybe that was his way of saying "good job."
They set up camp at the base of the ridge. Smoke curled up into the gray sky. The others ate, cleaned wounds, passed around a flask. Elias sat apart, staring at the blood still clinging to the dagger.
He didn't feel proud. Or sick. Or shaken.
Just… hollow.
The longer he went without blood, the more the hunger grew. Not just in his stomach, but deep in his bones, in his spine, behind his eyes. And now that he'd admitted it really admitted it there was no turning back.
He wasn't human anymore.
He didn't sleep that night. The others did, tossing in their cloaks, muttering in strange dreams. Elias stayed by the fire, watching it burn down to embers. He tried to remember what normal food tasted like. Tried to remember what it felt like to feel full. Warm. Safe.
He couldn't.
Instead, he wandered into the woods while the others slept. The moon was high, the trees whispering as the wind moved through them. He crouched by a brook and looked into the water.
His reflection stared back.
Not a monster. Not a ghost. Just a man who'd died and come back wrong.
He remembered the deer. The man in the village. The way it felt when the blood hit his tongue like breathing after drowning.
That wasn't instinct. That was craving. Maybe even the beginning of a addiction.
Sitting in silence Elias learnt something.
He was learning that this wasn't some flashy fantasy. No silver-lined powers handed to him. Just hunger. Strength. And Silence. Something cold growing behind his ribs.
He went back to camp just before dawn, cloak damp with fog, boots muddy.
None of the others noticed he'd gone. But they looked at him a little differently that morning.
And for the first time, Elias didn't feel like a stranger among them.
He felt like a shadow slowly settling into place.