The Lost Vanguard

"Alaric."

The voice startled me, sharp and filled with urgency. I turned toward it, and there she was a woman standing at the edge of the alley, her breath visible in the frigid air. She wasn't alone. Behind her, another man approached cautiously, his eyes darting between me and the boy sprawled on the snow. Eric. He wasn't moving much, his face bloodied, his breaths shallow but audible.

The woman stepped closer, her bright green eyes locking onto mine. Her face was hard to read, a mix of anger, worry, and something else that made me feel like a child caught doing something I shouldn't have.

"Alaric," she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. "What have you done?"

I didn't answer. My fists were still clenched, my knuckles aching from the repeated impact against Eric's face. The fire inside me was quieter now, but it hadn't gone out. It lingered, smoldering, and I could feel it urging me to defend myself, to justify what I'd done.

"Answer me!" she demanded, her voice rising. She stepped past Eric's limp form, glancing at him briefly before her eyes settled back on me. "What happened here?"

"I…" The words caught in my throat. What could I say? That I lost control? That I'd enjoyed it? My chest tightened, and I looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Behind her, the man, another villager, judging by his rough clothing and sturdy build, knelt beside Eric. "He's breathing," the man said, his tone cautious. "But he needs help. We should get him to the healer."

Her eyes flicked to Eric for a moment before returning to me. "You did this, didn't you?" she asked, her voice quieter now but no less intense. "Why, Alaric? What could possibly make you do something like this?"

"He… started it," I mumbled, though the words felt hollow even to me.

"Started it?" she echoed, incredulous. "That boy looks like he's barely conscious, and you're standing here with blood on your hands!" She gestured toward my fists, still caked with dried and fresh blood. "This isn't you, Alaric. What's happening to you?"

"I don't know," I admitted, my voice breaking. I looked down at my hands, the knuckles raw and trembling. The fire inside me flared briefly, whispering that I should have finished the job, that I should have hit him harder. I shoved the thought away, horrified by the very notion, yet dreading its inevitable return.

She stepped closer, placing herself between me and Eric as if to shield him from me. "Go home," she said, her voice low but firm. "Now."

"I-"

"Now, Alaric!" she snapped, cutting me off. "Before I lose my temper."

Her tone left no room for argument. My body moved on its own, my feet crunching in the snow as I turned and walked away. The weight of her gaze followed me, heavy and unrelenting. I didn't dare look back.

The walk back to the house was a blur. The cold bit at my skin, but I barely felt it. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, replaying the fight in vivid detail. The sound of my fists meeting flesh, the way Eric had begged me to stop… and the fire. That damned fire, burning brighter with every hit.

When I reached the house, I hesitated at the door, my hand hovering over the latch. The warmth inside seemed almost mocking, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness I felt in my chest. I pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood smoke and damp earth washing over me.

I didn't sit. I didn't move further into the room. I just stood there, staring at the worn wooden floor, my mind racing. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I stop myself?

The door creaked open behind me, and I turned to see her, woman from before, stepping inside, her face set in a grim expression. She closed the door quietly, her movements deliberate and calm, but the tension in her posture was unmistakable.

She didn't speak right away. Instead, she walked past me, setting something down on the table, a small jar and a cloth. Her silence was heavier than her words, and it pressed against my chest like a weight.

"Sit," she said finally, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I obeyed, lowering myself onto one of the rough wooden chairs at the table. She sat across from me, her green eyes scanning my face, my hands, the bandages on my chest.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked, her voice softer now but no less firm.

I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the table. "He… he started it," I said quietly.

Her brow furrowed. "And you thought this was the way to end it?" she asked, gesturing toward my bloodied hands. "You nearly killed him, Alaric. Do you even understand that?"

"I didn't mean to…" I started, but the words felt like a lie. I had meant to hurt him. Maybe not that much, but I hadn't held back, either.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "You're not the boy I remember," she said softly, almost to herself. "Something's changed in you."

I looked up at her then, my chest tightening. "I don't remember anything," I admitted. "Not you, not this place… not even myself."

Her expression softened, the anger in her eyes replaced by sadness. "Alaric…" she started, but her voice faltered. She reached across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her touch was warm, grounding, but it did little to ease the chaos in my mind.

"You've been through something terrible," she said finally. "I don't know what it is, and maybe you don't either. But we'll figure it out. Together."

I didn't respond. The fire inside me had quieted for now, but I could feel it waiting, lurking just beneath the surface. And as much as I wanted to believe her, to trust her words, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on my own.