In The Eyes of Truth

I didn't know how long I'd been walking. The forest seemed to twist around me, paths looping back on themselves, trees so dense and gnarled they felt like towering sentinels. I'd always considered myself perceptive with my newfound strength had sharpened that edge even more but now, it was useless. Every path felt the same. Every direction led nowhere.
The air was heavy, alive with something I couldn't name. It wasn't oppressive, exactly, but it wasn't friendly either. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
"Alright, forest," I muttered under my breath, gripping my sword hilt. "I get it. You don't like me here."
I pressed on, my boots crunching against the leaf-strewn ground. The feeling of being watched grew stronger, an almost tangible presence weaving through the trees. Then, ahead of me, a figure appeared.
I stopped in my tracks. It was a woman or at least, it looked like one. Her silhouette was slender, graceful, almost otherworldly. As she stepped closer, the faint light filtering through the canopy revealed her features: skin with a greenish tint that shimmered softly, as though it reflected the forest itself. Her hair was long and dark, twined with leaves and vines, and her eyes glimmered like sunlight on water.
A dryad. I'd read about them, mythical spirits of the forest. Stories painted them as protectors, but not all of them were kind. Some lured men to their doom, draining their energy to sustain the forest they loved.
She tilted her head, observing me with a curious expression, and then spoke. "Follow me," she said, her voice soft, like the rustling of leaves in the wind.
I hesitated, my grip tightening on my sword. She didn't seem hostile her aura was calm, almost gentle but I wasn't about to let my guard down. "Why should I trust you?" I asked.
Her lips curved into a small, almost playful smile. "If I wanted to harm you, you would already be lost." She turned without another word, walking deeper into the forest.
I didn't have much of a choice. Gripping my sword tightly, I followed her.
The journey was long, and the forest didn't make it easy. Branches seemed to reach for us, the undergrowth shifting as if alive. At one point, a wild boar charged from the shadows, its tusks gleaming. I stepped forward, sword ready, but the dryad raised her hand.
"Wait," she said softly.
The boar stopped in its tracks, snorting and pawing the ground. The dryad knelt, her green-tinted fingers brushing the soil. A vine shot up from the earth, curling gently around the boar's legs. It squealed, struggling, but then stopped, calming under her touch.
"There's no need for blood," she said, glancing back at me.
I sheathed my sword, though my instincts screamed to keep it drawn. As the boar ambled off, the dryad straightened, her gaze lingering on me. "You fight well, but not all battles require steel."
We pressed on, our path winding through dense foliage. The hours blurred together, but her presence was oddly soothing, even as I stayed alert. We exchanged few words, but her actions spoke enough. When a pack of wild cats circled us, she handled them the same way as the boar, calming them with her touch.
I respected her restraint, but my patience was tested when we encountered something far worse.
It was a creature twisted beyond recognition, a mutant born of some unnatural force. Its massive frame was covered in mottled, scaly flesh, and its eyes burned with madness. It charged us with a roar that sent birds scattering from the trees.
"Stay back," I shouted, drawing my sword.
The dryad's face was stricken with sadness as she reached out a hand, but the creature was too far gone. It lunged, jaws snapping, and I had no choice. My blade met its flesh, glowing with mana as I struck true. The creature fell with a final, mournful cry.
I lowered my sword, panting, and turned to the dryad. She was kneeling by the mutant's corpse, tears streaming down her face.
"Why?" she whispered, her hands brushing its battered form. "It wasn't its fault."
I knelt beside her, guilt gnawing at me despite knowing I'd had no choice. "It was suffering," I said softly. "I didn't want to, but…"
She nodded, her shoulders trembling. With gentle hands, she began to weave vines and flowers around the creature, her tears watering the earth. I helped her dig a grave, the silence heavy between us. When the creature was finally buried, she placed a single flower atop the mound.
"Thank you," she said quietly, her voice steady but laden with sorrow.
We continued our journey in silence after that, the forest seeming less hostile, though no less alive. When we finally reached the edge of the trees, the sky was dark, stars glittering above.
I turned to thank her, but she was already fading, her form blending into the forest like mist.
"Wait," I called, but she was gone.
The only answer was the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind, carrying with it a sense of peace.
The next day, despite the warnings my body gave me aches and soreness from my relentless training then I found myself drawn back to the forest. I couldn't explain it. Something about the dryad lingered in my mind: her calm presence, her wisdom, her sorrow.
Each day, I ventured deeper into the woods, retracing my steps to where I first met her. And, almost as if she expected me, she would appear. Sometimes she observed in silence as I trained, her gaze thoughtful. Other times, she offered quiet advice: to breathe slower, to focus my intent, to move in harmony with my surroundings.
The forest, once so hostile and overwhelming, began to feel almost welcoming. The dryad whom I had started calling Sylva never stayed long, but her presence changed something in me.
Then, one day, I pushed myself too hard. I had been practicing a complex series of strikes and maneuvers, channeling mana into each motion, testing the limits of my body. Sweat poured down my face, my vision blurred, and my limbs felt like lead. I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
And then everything went black.

I woke to the sound of rustling leaves and the faint scent of flowers. My head throbbed, but the pain was dulled by the softness of the bed beneath me. Opening my eyes, I found myself in a small, rustic cabin. Light filtered through a canopy of vines and leaves that seemed to grow naturally through the wooden walls, as if the structure and the forest were one.
Sylva was sitting nearby, her hands glowing faintly green as she pressed them over my chest. The ache in my body receded like a tide.
"You're awake," she said, her tone as steady and soothing as ever.
I sat up slowly, looking around. "Where am I?"
"My home," she replied. "You pushed yourself too hard."
The cabin felt alive, like the forest itself had created it for her. It was peaceful, yet I could sense a powerful barrier around it, something ancient and impenetrable. No ordinary person could find this place, and even extraordinary ones would struggle.
I muttered a sheepish thanks, but she only shook her head. "You humans are reckless."
Despite her scolding, I could see the faintest hint of a smile.
My days took on a strange new rhythm. I would train in the forest, often to exhaustion, and Sylva would nurse me back to health. Sometimes I woke in her cabin, other times in a clearing where she watched over me. She never let me push myself to the brink again, her scolding turning sharper when I tried.
In those days, we grew closer. I learned that she had lived in the forest for centuries, her purpose tied to its protection. She shared stories of the forest's history, its beauty, and its tragedies. In turn, I told her about my dream, my goals, and the strange new power I was beginning to understand.
One night, as I rested in her cabin, I felt a surge within me, a breakthrough. Mana coursed through my body with new clarity and strength. When I awoke, I knew I had reached two stars. I told Sylva, expecting congratulations, but she only nodded.
"Power is a tool," she said. "How you use it will determine its worth."
That night, exhausted from my training and newfound power, I slipped into a deep sleep. My dreams were vivid, almost prophetic.
I stood in a battlefield. Flames consumed the horizon, and the sound of clashing steel echoed around me. Soldiers fought desperately, their faces a mix of fear and fury. In the distance, I saw a familiar face: the duke's daughter.
She stood defiant, her expression hardened with resolve, as a man I didn't recognize loomed before her. His armor was black as night, his face twisted in anger.
"You dare reject me?" he bellowed, his voice reverberating like thunder. "You'll bring ruin upon your people!"
I watched helplessly as armies clashed, the conflict spiraling out of control. The dream shifted, and I saw Lydia, her face pale and worried. She stood in the duke's castle, surrounded by knights preparing for war.
"*******," she whispered, her voice reaching me through the chaos. "We need you."
Sylva stood in the doorway of the cabin, her face a mask of quiet determination as I readied myself to leave. I felt her eyes follow every movement, her presence unyielding yet calm.
"I can't waste another second, Sylva," I said, my voice firm. "Lydia needs me."
She stepped forward, blocking the door with a subtle gesture. "Greg, you're running toward a storm you can't change," she said softly.
Her words stopped me in my tracks. "What do you mean?" I demanded, my chest tightening.
Sylva sighed, her hand reaching out to brush against my arm. A strange, soothing warmth spread through me, and for a moment, my racing heart slowed. "Your dreams, your memories they are not visions of what is to come. They are the echoes of what has already happened."
"That's impossible!" I barked, shaking my head. "I can still save her. I have to!"
Sylva's expression didn't waver. She lifted her other hand, pressing her palm gently against my forehead. "If you truly wish to see, then sleep," she whispered, her voice layered with something ancient and powerful.
"No! Wait—"
But her touch released a wave of energy that crashed over me like a tide. My knees buckled as a heavy drowsiness swept through my body. I collapsed onto the floor, the world spinning before it dissolved into darkness.
I was standing in the courtyard of the duke's manor. The once-proud estate was in ruins, flames licking hungrily at its crumbling walls. The sounds of clashing steel and anguished cries filled the air.
"Lydia!" I called out, my voice echoing across the chaos.
I ran through the carnage, my sword in hand, but I couldn't feel it. My strikes found no enemies; my shouts found no allies. I wasn't there not truly. This was the past.
In the heart of the manor, I found her. Lydia stood tall, blood staining the hem of her white gown, her hand clutching a rapier. She was surrounded by enemies, her face pale but defiant. Behind her, the duke lay motionless, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him.
"*******," she whispered when our eyes met.
I couldn't truly hear it, when she says my name. It felt like it holds a power.
My feet moved on their own, but I couldn't reach her. The world blurred as her enemies advanced. She fought valiantly, but the sheer numbers overwhelmed her. When they struck the rapier from her hand, she didn't flinch. Instead, she turned toward me, her lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile.
"You have to go," she said, her voice carrying a strength that belied her fading form.
"I'm not leaving you!" I shouted, reaching out, but my hands passed through her as if I were a ghost.
Lydia staggered but managed to push back one final assailant. The effort left her vulnerable. She collapsed to her knees, blood seeping from a wound in her chest.
"Lydia!"
The enemies withdrew, satisfied with their work. She slumped forward but turned her gaze toward me. Her violet eyes, filled with warmth and sorrow, locked onto mine.
"You were always so stubborn," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
I knelt beside her, tears streaming down my face even though I couldn't touch her.
"I… I should have been there," I choked.
She shook her head faintly. "*******, you were there," she said. Her voice cracked, but she continued, each word a struggle. "You were my light… even in the darkest days. I've always loved you. From the moment we met, I knew."
I could only watch as her strength faded.
"Lydia…"
"Live, *******," she whispered. "Live for the both of us." Her lips curved into a final, faint smile.
And then she was gone.
I woke with a strangled gasp, my heart pounding as if I had run miles. Sylva sat nearby, her gaze heavy with sympathy.
"You saw," she said quietly.
I couldn't speak. My throat felt raw, my chest hollow.
"You can't change what has already passed," she continued, her tone soft but firm. "But you can honor her wish. Live, Greg. Not in the shadow of the past, but in the light of what's to come."
I stared at her, the weight of Lydia's final words pressing down on me. For the first time, I realized that my journey wasn't about saving Lydia and it was about carrying her memory forward.
"I'll never forget her," I whispered.
Sylva nodded. "Then you've already begun."
As I sat there, the ache of loss still fresh, a quiet resolve began to take shape within me. Lydia's sacrifice would not be in vain. I would grow stronger, not just for myself but for the memory of the woman who gave her life so that I might live.
The question lingered in my mind, gnawing at me like a splinter buried deep under the skin. Was this sorrow truly mine, or was it his? The knight whose memories haunted my dreams, whose life seemed to overlap with mine in ways I couldn't fully understand.
Sitting in the soft glow of Sylva's cabin, I stared into the flickering embers of the fire, my hands clenched tightly around the edge of a worn blanket. The images of Lydia, her smile, her voice, her sacrifice they felt as vivid and real as any memory of my own. Yet, a part of me hesitated, uncertain.
Were these feelings truly mine? Or was I simply a vessel for someone else's grief?
I tried to untangle the threads in my heart, but they were knotted too tightly. The knight's memories were so vivid, so overwhelming, that they felt like my own. Was my sorrow a mere echo of his pain, or had my soul truly connected with hers in some inexplicable way?
Sylva seemed to sense my turmoil. She sat silently across the room, her presence a quiet reassurance. Finally, she spoke, her voice gentle but probing.
"You're torn," she said, not as a question but as a truth.
I nodded slowly. "I don't know what's real anymore. These memories… these feelings they feel like they belong to him, not me. But then…" I trailed off, unsure how to put it into words.
Sylva tilted her head slightly, her green eyes shimmering like dew-dappled leaves. "Does it matter?"
Her question caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Whether the memories are his or yours, the pain you feel is real. The love, the loss, the longing it's all part of you now. Maybe it started with him, but it's become yours through your journey."
I sat back, letting her words sink in. Could that be true? Did it even matter where the feelings came from, if they had shaped me so deeply?
"You carry his memories, yes," Sylva continued. "But you are not bound by them. You are Greg your choices, your actions, your heart. Perhaps the past has guided you, but it does not define you."
Her words struck a chord deep within me. I had spent so much time wondering where the knight ended and where I began, that I hadn't stopped to consider that maybe the distinction didn't matter.
As I gazed into the fire, I thought of Lydia again her strength, her sacrifice, her final words. Whether my feelings were borrowed or my own, one thing was clear: I couldn't let her down.
"I'll carry her memory," I said softly, more to myself than to Sylva. "I'll live for both of us. But I'll live as me."
Sylva smiled, a faint but genuine warmth in her expression. "That is all she would want."
For the first time in days, I felt a measure of clarity. The emotions swirling within me didn't have to be separated into "his" and "mine." They could coexist, intertwining into something uniquely my own.
And with that realization, I felt the faintest glimmer of peace amid the storm.