Odyssey Of The Golden Ring

The dust settled, but the ringing didn't cease. My eyes, strange and unfocused, lingered in a haze, as if searching for something familiar. The sensation in my chest, like the aftermath of a distant explosion, lingered the echo of a boom that I couldn't quite place. Then, there I was, my feet flat on the ground again, my back pressed against the frame of the bed. My eyes still drifted, seeking comfort, but my heart was eerily silent. I could smell the blood.

Drip.

Drip.

The blood pooled, dripping from the bed where a man once lay, lost. He had been the first to speak the language of this strange place — or was it a world?

My mind rang with confusion. My hands reached for my head, where blood dripped — not mine, but his.

I had lost what he said. The words he spoke felt like a bomb to my soul, heavy with death. Who was Aethros? But before I could utter the name, the fire of pain surged through me.

"AAAAH!"

I screamed, unable to contain the excruciating sensation. It was an agony unlike any I had ever known an unspeakable pain beyond comprehension. The name he had spoken "Aethros..." clung to my thoughts, and the moment it did, the pain intensified. It was unbearable as if a force was trying to tear my very being apart.

I tried to block it out, to forget. But the more I resisted, the worse the pain became, pushing against my mind. Every thought of that word sent a wave of fire through me.

It felt like an eternity before my hands finally dropped from my head, my body trembling in the aftermath. My gaze fell to the blood-soaked ground, the deep crimson staining the graywood beneath me.

A sense of unease crept in, and I looked down once more. My lifeless, colorless hands had turned gray like the wood itself. Dead. My mind refused to accept the truth. The truth was that I had died. That I had been thrust into a strange world.

Where once stood the flesh of a man, now remained the frail body of a starving child—one on the edge of death.

I forced myself to push aside thoughts of blood and pain, focusing instead on the body I now inhabited. Who was this boy? Fragments of memories surged through me, flashing like glimpses of another life.

Quick. Fleeting. Scattered.

The boy had no parents. His mother had abandoned him in the village of Nathen, and his father was nothing more than an absence. He had known only servitude, scrounging like a rat, sifting through trash for scraps to survive.

He had no friends. No family. No one.

From the moment he was born, the boy had been mute. A child without a voice.

Another memory struck—a moment of the present bleeding into the past. Ash recalled the old man who had found the boy, curled beside a dumpster. Pity had led him to feed the child, and months passed in silent companionship.

The man's name was Alen.

Because the boy never spoke, Alen simply called him "child." But in time, a quiet bond formed between them.

Then, one day, Alen returned—bloodied, missing an eye. He collapsed onto his bed, calling out for the boy.

But the child remained silent.

In his desperation, in his grief, Alen saw someone else. Someone he had once loved. A child who had long since vanished from his life.

And so, for the first time, he gave the boy a name.

Elliot.

Stomp. Stomp.

Footsteps.

The soldiers were here.

Ash's breath caught. He had to move.

Alen's words echoed in his mind. "Hide it. Hide it!"

The book.

Should I hide… or run? His eyes darted to his left. Lying on the floor was a worn brown book and a diamond-like gem.

He hesitated for only a second before instinct took over. His fingers closed around the gem and book.

Where… where do I put it?

Under the bed.

At the back of the cabin.

Two beds lined the narrow space, leading to a dead end. No exit. Just a cold, gray wall.

It had to go in the farthest corner—deep in the shadows, tucked against the frame.

With what little strength he had left, Ash shoved the book and gem beneath the bed.

Screech.

The marching stopped.

Only the sound of boots echoed against the graywood.

A soldier stepped into the light, his dark blue uniform gleaming with red stripes and golden stars. A military cap sat atop his head, marked with two stars.

"Boys, we've got a mess here."

"Steve," the man in the cap called.

A second soldier entered, clad in blue, devoid of insignia.

"Spread out. Don't touch anything."