The Seal - By SealMBe

They say life is meaningless. But if you were on the brink of death, clinging to every last thread of hope to survive, would life have meaning then? Absolutely.

Cold steel grew slick with sweat—fear, exhaustion, and a simmering anger, perhaps even deeply buried hatred, dripping onto its surface. Eyes dimmed of their brightness locked onto another pair, devoid of emotion, a mirror reflecting the brutal truth of a hard, treacherous life. Long, dark brown hair fell over a solid shoulder, brushing against a muscular neck. A robe draped over a scarred, battle-worn back, each mark telling the story of a warrior. A calloused hand gripped a blade gleaming under the harsh noon sun—a weapon that had tasted the despair of countless lives.

A leg pressed firmly against the broken chest of a pale-faced boy whose gritted teeth barely masked his unbearable pain. Pain that would make grown men crumble. But for him, falling to the ground was not the same as kneeling. In a life-or-death situation, the hidden village taught one rule: To kneel is to live as the dead. To stand tall is to die, but truly live. The choice lay in the kind of death one desired.

"I said, who are you? Why are you tracking us?" the man demanded, his tone cold and menacing. The boy writhed as the blade pressed deeper into his fragile neck, painting it with streaks of crimson blood mingled with salty sweat.

"I am Glida Ufitry, of the village of Arzu. I'm on a journey to the Kingdom Lands," the boy replied through gritted teeth, his fierce eyes meeting the man's without wavering. His voice was cold, a stark contrast to his usual playful personality. If this is the end, he thought, then I'll die as a man of worth—not a coward.

The mention of the Kingdom Lands ignited a visceral reaction in the man. His emotionless eyes burned with fury for a fleeting moment—rage so intense it nearly drove him to end the boy's life right there. But before he could strike, a gentle yet commanding voice called out from behind him, "That's enough. Let him breathe."

Without a word, the man stepped back, though his sharp gaze never left the boy. His stance remained tense, ready to strike at any moment, sword in hand and muscles coiled like a predator.

A pair of brilliant blue eyes, filled with guilt and empathy, approached the boy. The woman smiled warmly, her voice a soothing melody. "Are you hurt?" she asked, scanning his battered body. A pause. "Ah, you are. I'm so sorry for the painful welcome. I hope you'll accept my humble apology." Her hand reached out to him with care.

Glida couldn't respond. He was entranced, his exhausted mind struggling to process the situation. His heightened instincts, honed by survival, crumbled under the weight of her gentle presence.

"I see. You won't trust a stranger after her bodyguard nearly killed you," she said with a light laugh that sounded more like music. She sat beside him, her silver hair falling in waves that seemed to glow under the sunlight. Her gaze wandered toward the brilliant blue sky.

"I'm Nyssa," she said softly, her tone inviting yet unobtrusive. "What's your name?"

Glida remained silent, his body unresponsive.

"Malik," Nyssa called out to the cold warrior, "please sheath your beautiful blade."

"But—" Malik began, his tone sharp, only to be interrupted by her gentle insistence.

"I know, I know. Worry not. His heart is unusually pure," she said with a soft laugh, turning back to Glida. "It's almost impossible to find such a heart in times like these, isn't it?" she remarked, directing her words toward both the boy and her companion.

Malik hesitated, then cleaned his blade with precision before sheathing it. He leaned against a nearby tree, his eyes closed—not in sleep, but in sharp alertness, his hands resting on his sword's hilt. A sentinel at rest.

Glida, still lying on the ground, tried to rise but was quickly overwhelmed by the pain. He remained where he was, resigned to his fate. If I feared death, I wouldn't have left the village, he thought, recalling the words of his strange, vagabond friend.

The silence stretched between them—the boy's stillness, the man's feigned sleep, and Nyssa's serene smile. It was Glida who finally broke it, his voice hoarse but resolute: "I AM… ugh… GLIDA UFITRY… OF ARZU. REMEMBER MY NAME!" He summoned every ounce of strength to deliver those words before succumbing to unconsciousness.

Nyssa chuckled lightly. "So, you're not mute after all," she said. She glanced at Malik, her expression softening. "Help me bring him back to the village."

The warrior rose and lifted Glida into his arms with surprising gentleness. Nyssa watched the boy's sleeping face with a bittersweet smile, her playful demeanor masking a deeper pain. For a fleeting moment, she envied his reckless courage and unyielding spirit, wondering how he would have fared in her own tumultuous past.

And so, the three of them journeyed northward, to a small village nestled at the edge of the forest, at the foot of a towering mountain where rivers converged at a crystalline lake. There, fate would continue weaving its threads.