Eiran Halefire falls to his doom from Vercrest’s clocktower at midnight. The sound of golden bells ring and resonate throughout his ears. He does not know whether his dissent is an accident or the cause-and-effect of an assassination—why would it be? he wonders, he is but a mere, no-name blacksmith—but, one thing is certain in his mind: he will not be going home tonight.

The moon’s crescent light catches his attention like a sickle would his eyes: it is the last thing Eiran sees, before his cloak whisks away his vision. The young man takes one, last deep breath. He smiles, thinks it is ironic, that life has brought him here when he is only nineteen.

At least, I will not be missed, are Eiran’s final thoughts as his spine crackles, bends into threads of bone; he barely has time to scream, for the impact is relentless, knocking any remnants of life out of him in seconds.

Eiran’s world goes black. The grass beneath his body is dyed a deep crimson, as the crows around him that had been spectating night rising fly, away from the deafening noises of Eiran’s passing. His lungs wheeze loudly, like an automated machine full of blood. It is not a pretty sight nor sound, yet, something slithers towards Eiran nevertheless.

Something ancient, that cannot help but be drawn to the scent of his death.

To enter Eiran’s body, the parasite transforms itself. It had once been nothing but a dark pit of obscurity, which could have been mistaken for the clocktower’s shadow. Now, it molds itself into the shape of a centipede, skittering towards an opening in the young man’s back.

The parasite enters Eiran’s skin, and Eiran’s body convulses. As the creature made of shadow embraces what little is left of the young man’s spine with its many legs, a soft, golden glow emanates from its limbs, causing light to travel through Eiran’s skin, as if it were thinning paper, a lantern of flesh.

The two merge into one—a perfect symbiose, that the ancient, creeping thing had been searching for all this time.

Eiran’s wounds close; from within his body, time is reversed. Life is pushed back, deep into his insides once more, as his heart beats oxygen into veins that had once been severed yet are now pieced back together—the moon descends, and the sun bleeds gold into daybreak again.

For the first time in what seems like a lifetime, Eiran’s eyes widen. He heaves in a breath, it is solace, tastes like a savior. Eiran doesn’t understand, why the mere act of being alive feels so good—but, of course, it does; he has not breathed in hours.

It is then that he realizes, he is unscathed.

I’m alive. Eiran stares at the sky, the twittering birds that greet morning with their song. “I’m alive,” the young man whispers, testing out his voice, which he was certain had been crushed to pieces.

I’m alive, he thinks. And he does not understand, what it is that has happened to him.

He remembers the impact—in fact, he can still feel the wetness of the blood that has soaked into his clothes. The ground he lays on remains tainted a dark shade of brown, it gives off the scent of iron, a smell that overwhelms Eiran, drawing bile up his throat that is now feeling a little too raw.

The young man tries to push against his elbows, then, his hands. Getting up is dizzying, but it doesn’t hurt like he thought it would. Still, something pulses in his mind. The ache is deep, like an imprint in his skull, however Eiran blames it on whatever has just happened, and on his dehydration.

He doesn’t know what to do, nor what to make of this, but he has a hunch that he shouldn’t linger.

And so, Eiran rises to his feet, then makes his way back into Vercrest city, in search of water.

In search of home.

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