Shadowbound: The Doctor Who Became a Blade"

The forest breathed.

Not with air, but with something older—thicker. A weight that clung to the bones and pressed against the soul. Elias—no, Nathan—stood at the edge of that breath, a boy carved from memories not his own, shivering in a body too small for all the grief it held.

His bare feet sank into the damp moss, and the cold bit through his borrowed skin. The moon above, etched with shifting symbols, pulsed softly like a heartbeat—watching.

The archway had vanished.

Gone, as if it had never been.

He turned in circles, searching for the stone gate—the one that had whispered madness and promises in the voice of a dead lady . But the forest was whole now. Seamless. Trees stood like sentinels, tall and unmoved. The air carried no wind, no sound, only the stillness of something waiting.

He stumbled forward.

Each step was a question. Each breath, a denial.

What am I?

Where am I?

Why here?

The questions burned hotter than the cold. He tried to recall what had happened in the moment he stepped through the gate. The blur of pain. The tearing of thought. The way his mind had been unraveled and woven back together with threads not entirely his own.

It wasn't a transition. It was a trial.

And slowly, the memory returned—not as words, but as *knowing*.

Louna, daughter of the undesired. The name carved in fire above the gate. Her voice hadn't spoken in sound, but it had etched itself into his soul like a brand.

> *"This world does not grant rebirth without blood. If you wish to claim a life not yours, you must survive the forest that does not forget."*

It had been a test.

A proving ground.

He hadn't been born into this world gently. He had been *cast* into it—dropped like an unwanted coin into a cursed well. The forest was his crucible.

And he wasn't meant to be found.

Not yet.

---

Hours passed. Or days. Time stretched and folded inside the forest, like damp cloth left to rot.

Elias moved with no direction. Hunger clawed at his gut, dull and cold. His limbs trembled with fatigue. He drank from streams that tasted like copper. Ate berries that numbed his tongue. Slept beneath twisted roots that whispered dreams in a language he didn't understand.

He didn't know how he was still alive.

Children didn't survive this place.

And he was no longer a man.

At night, the moon would rise, and with it came the howls—low and distorted. Not wolves. Not beasts. But things that remembered being human. Once, he saw a figure in the distance, hunched and gliding between trees, its face covered in shadows that pulsed like oil. He did not call out. He did not run.

He simply hid—and waited.

This was not Earth.

It was something older. Wilder.

A world that bled beneath the surface.

---

On the fifth morning—if it *was* morning—he awoke to the sound of hooves.

Not far.

Not fast.

His body, still aching and unfamiliar, dragged itself toward the sound, guided by instinct more than will. Through a curtain of vines and low branches, he found them.

Two men. Armored lightly. On horseback. A banner fluttered behind them—black and silver, marked with a crest he didn't recognize: a fang piercing a sun.

Their language was foreign—but not.

The words twisted in his ears, became understandable as if the world itself was stitching them together for him.

"Gods," one of them muttered, pulling his horse to a halt. "A child. Alone?"

Elias opened his mouth—but nothing came out.

The second man dismounted. He knelt, his expression hard but not unkind. "What's your name, boy?"

A thousand names fought for space in his throat.

Nathan.

Doctor Ashford.

Ghost.

Monster.

He opened his mouth.

"…Elias," he said. His voice cracked like frost under boot.

The man looked him over—golden hair caked in dirt, crimson eyes glowing faintly even in daylight. Recognition flickered in his gaze. Fear? Awe?

"By the flame…" he whispered. "It's him."

Elias blinked. "Who?"

The soldier didn't answer. He simply turned to the other. "We need to send word to the estate. The Marquess has been searching for this boy for weeks."

"Are you sure it's him?" the rider asked, frowning.

The kneeling man didn't hesitate. "Eyes like rubies. Hair like firelight. Just like the prophecy."

Elias swayed.

Prophecy?

Estate?

Marquess?

He didn't know these names. These titles. But the word *searching* sparked something strange in his chest. A warmth. A flicker of safety.

He wanted to believe it.

"Come, my lord," the man said gently. "Let's get you home."

Elias let himself be lifted onto the horse.

The forest behind him remained still.

But even as they rode, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was *watching*.

Not finished.

Not yet.

--

The ride out of the forest was slow and jarring.

The horse beneath him moved with practiced grace, but Elias swayed in the saddle, unused to the motion. The armored man—Ser Calden, he'd said—kept a firm hand on the reins and another on Elias's shoulder, steadying him when the path grew rough.

They spoke little.

Every time Elias tried to ask something—*Where are we going? Who is the Marquess? Why were you searching for me?*—the words felt too large for his mouth. He had the voice of a child, but his mind still held pieces of Nathan's logic and silence.

The second rider, older and heavier, kept glancing at Elias with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. His name was Bram. He carried a crossbow strapped to his back and rode with the posture of someone used to dangerous surprises.

"Strange place for a boy to turn up," Bram muttered under his breath once, not unkindly. "And not a scratch on him. Not even a torn sleeve."

Calden said nothing.

They rode through narrow trails, past twisted trees and forgotten shrines of stone, until the forest gave way to rolling fields—mist curling over the grass like smoke.

And then Elias saw it.

The estate.

Not a castle, but not a simple manor either. Built of gray stone and flanked by two towers, it rose like a silent watchman over the land. Ivy crawled along its walls. Flags hung still in the windless air, bearing the same crest Elias had seen on Calden's armor—**a fang piercing a golden sun.**

Something in the sight twisted inside him. Not fear. Not awe.

Something quieter.

*Recognition.*

But he had never seen this place before.

Had he?

---

The gates opened with a slow creak, and Elias was handed down into the arms of a steward dressed in dark blue. His face was lined with age, but his movements were sharp.

"The Marquess is not in residence," he said crisply, eyeing the dirt caked on Elias's face. "Lady Emily will want to see him immediately."

He turned to one of the maids. "Warm water. Clean clothes. Quickly."

And then to Elias: "Follow me, young master."

The words hung strangely in the air. *Young master.*

Elias followed, feet aching, head spinning.

The halls were vast, echoing with every step. Tapestries lined the walls—hunting scenes, sigils, strange beasts with wings of flame. Chandeliers swayed gently above, though there was no breeze.

Every servant who passed them paused, staring.

Not with confusion, but recognition.

Like they knew him.

Like they'd been waiting.

---

At last, they reached a high set of doors—tall oak polished to a sheen. The steward knocked once, opened them, and stepped aside.

Inside, the room was sunlit and warm. A large window overlooked a courtyard where rosebushes bloomed despite the late season. A table stood near the window, set with untouched tea and sweetbread.

And beside it—

A woman rose from a cushioned seat.

She was beautiful—but not in the way of statues or paintings. Her beauty was alive. Her hair fell in golden waves, slightly messy as if she'd been running her fingers through it. Her eyes were bright blue, rimmed with red from weeping.

When she saw him, she froze.

"Elias?" she whispered.

He didn't know how to answer.

But her expression melted—grief vanishing into wonder—and she crossed the room in a few quick steps. Then, she knelt and pulled him into her arms.

"You're home," she said, over and over, like a mantra. "You're home, you're home…"

Elias stiffened at first. Her embrace was warm, too warm. Real in a way he hadn't felt in years. She smelled like lavender and bread.

Like—

*Like grandmother.*

His chest tightened.

He wanted to pull away.

He wanted to stay.

---

When she finally let go, tears shimmered in her eyes. She cupped his face in both hands, her thumbs brushing the dirt from his cheeks.

"You've grown thinner," she said. "And your hands are cold—why were you in the woods? Did someone take you? Did something happen?"

He opened his mouth, but the words tangled.

"I… don't remember," he said softly.

A lie.

But not entirely.

Some truths were too broken to speak aloud.

She didn't push. She simply smiled, shakily, and took his hand.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "You're here now. That's what matters."

---

They brought him food—warm soup, bread with melted butter, slices of peach soaked in syrup. He ate slowly, muscles trembling from exhaustion. Emily sat beside him the whole time, brushing his hair back gently.

"You don't have to talk," she said. "Not yet. Just rest. I'll be here."

And for the first time in what felt like years, Elias didn't feel the weight of judgment in someone's gaze.

She didn't see a murderer.

She didn't see a failure.

She saw her son.

Even if he wasn't.

---

Later that evening, when the sky turned violet and the estate glowed with firelight, Emily guided him to a room on the second floor.

"This was always your room," she said, opening the door.

It was large but modest. A soft bed. Shelves of old toys. A small desk and chair by the window. Curtains patterned with clouds.

Elias stepped inside like a stranger trespassing in someone else's dream.

Emily lingered in the doorway.

"If you need me," she said, "I'm just down the hall."

He nodded.

But before she left, he whispered, "Emily."

She turned. Smiled.

"Thank you."

She didn't answer. Just stood a moment longer, her eyes shimmering.

Then she left him in the quiet.

---

That night, Elias couldn't sleep.

He sat by the window, watching the stars emerge one by one above the estate grounds. The moon still looked wrong. Still too close. Still etched with shifting runes.

He thought of the forest.

Of the voice that led him here.

Of his grandmother, fading in that hospital bed.

*You'll find the door,* she had said. *It's yours now.*

And somehow… he had.

But what came next?

Who was he in this world?

What did they want from him?

He stared at his hands—small, pale, unfamiliar.

"I'm not your son," he whispered into the dark.

But the house didn't answer.

Only the stars listened.

---