NOVEL NEXT Chapter : Whispers Of The Past
The city of Ironhold was a sprawling maze of stone and grime, its streets alive with the chatter of merchants, the clatter of wheels, and the whispers of shadowy dealings. Among the throng of ordinary faces, a young boy moved with deliberate care, his delicate features hidden beneath a frayed hood.
His pointed ears, though partially concealed, were sharp and unmistakable—a mark of his difference. Elian knew better than to draw attention to himself. Here, in the heart of the human city, his elven heritage was as much a danger as it was a mystery.
Elian had woken in this world just weeks ago, confused and disoriented. He had no memory of his past life—only fragmented images of a lush forest, sunlight filtering through a canopy of leaves, and a feeling of belonging that was now heartbreakingly absent. Instead, his mind was flooded with the memories of the boy whose body he now inhabited. Flashes of a life filled with love and warmth haunted him: a mother's laughter as she baked bread, a father's strong hands lifting him high into the air.
And then, the terror of that fateful night—dark figures breaking into their small home, shouting, blood, and silence.
These memories weren't his, but they felt real. They filled him with a grief and anger so deep it was as if they were carved into his very soul. Elian's resolve was clear: he would honor the boy's parents by uncovering the truth behind their murder and bringing their killers to justice.
Elian crouched low in the shadow of a crumbling wall, his hood pulled tightly over his head. His fingers brushed the ground, and he focused on the cracked earth beneath him. Slowly, a single blade of grass pushed its way through, swaying in the faint breeze.
"Not here," he whispered, pulling his hand away. The grass withered and disappeared. His powers were a comfort, but they also set him apart in ways he couldn't afford.
Ironhold was no place for a boy without a home. Since waking in this new life, Elian had made the abandoned corners of the city his refuge. The remnants of a collapsed tavern served as his shelter, its crumbling walls and broken beams offering scant protection from the elements. He had scavenged what he could to make it livable: a pile of rags for a bed, an old pot to collect rainwater, and a shard of glass that he used as both a mirror and a makeshift knife.
On good nights, he found scraps of bread or half-rotten fruit discarded by the marketplace. On bad nights, hunger gnawed at him, and the icy wind sliced through the thin fabric of his cloak. The streets were not kind to the weak, and Elian had learned quickly to stay out of sight and avoid drawing attention.
He shared this bleak existence with other urchins who roamed the alleys, scavenging to survive. They were wary of him at first, his odd appearance and quiet demeanor marking him as different. Yet over time, they accepted his presence, if only because survival on the streets left little room for questions. They had their own problems to worry about—where the next meal would come from, how to evade the city guard, and what to do when the Red Vultures came looking for recruits.
The Red Vultures. Even the thought of the gang made Elian's stomach churn. The boy's memories of his parents' murder were murky, but certain details stood out: the rough, scarlet-emblazoned cloaks worn by the attackers, the distinctive tattoo of a vulture claw on their arms.
Though he didn't know why they had targeted the boy's family, Elian's resolve hardened every time he thought of them. The gang was dangerous, and if he wasn't careful, he could easily become their next victim. But he had no choice; he needed answers, and the Red Vultures were the key.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Elian tensed, pulling the hood lower over his face.
"Oi, leaf-ears," a voice called out. "What're you hiding over there?"
Elian turned to see a scrappy girl with wild brown hair and a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying him. Her clothes were patched and frayed, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew the streets well.
"Lena," he said cautiously. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" she repeated, feigning offense. "Maybe I want to know why you're always sneaking around like you've got something to hide. Or how you're always finding food when the rest of us are starving."
Elian avoided her gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't," Lena said, stepping closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I've seen you, you know. Plants don't just grow out of nowhere."
Elian's heart raced. "You must be imagining things."
Lena shrugged but didn't press further. Instead, she said, "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you're gonna stay alive in this city, you might want to be a bit more careful. Word gets around, and not everyone's as nice as me."
Elian watched her retreating figure, unease settling in his chest. Lena's words echoed in his mind: word gets around. It was a warning he couldn't ignore.
Nights in the abandoned tavern were lonely, but they gave Elian time to reflect. He would sit in a corner, his back against the cold stone wall, and let the boy's memories surface. He saw his parents' faces, vivid and full of life. His mother's hands braiding his hair, his father's booming laugh as he told a silly story. Then came the nightmare—a crash of wood splintering, shouts of rage, his mother's scream. He clenched his fists, the ache in his chest almost unbearable.
"I'll find them," he whispered to the empty room. "I'll find out who did this. And I'll make them pay."
He opened his eyes, and the room seemed to hum with energy. A vine coiled its way up the cracked wall, blooming with tiny white flowers. Elian reached out, brushing a petal with his fingertip. The plant responded to his touch, as if recognizing him.
For the first time in days, a small smile flickered across his face. Even amidst the cold, the hunger, and the danger, there was still a spark of hope within him—a reminder that he was not powerless.