Some days have passed. I can finally see clearly now.
Colors no longer bleed into one another. Shapes make sense. Movements don't blur or vanish the moment they appear. The world has become real, solid—and breathtaking.
I've also gained control over this small, frail body. My limbs no longer flail like wet noodles, and my hands reach what I aim for. I can crawl. Move. Sit. React. Even the wild beat of my heart has settled into something more... human.
It's strange. If I hadn't lived the life I did before this, I might've taken this all for granted. But after a lifetime of constant fear, where every heartbeat could be your last, this—this mundane calm—is a miracle.
They call me Arile. Arile Ludeon.
Took me a while to connect the dots. They'd repeat it gently whenever I stirred. My father's voice firm, proud. My mother's voice sweet like lullabies. Eventually, I accepted it—not just as a name, but as a declaration:
I belong here now.
This mansion is massive. High ceilings, polished floors, walls decorated with symbols I don't understand yet. The fireplace alone could fit the prison's entire rations for a week. It doesn't take a genius to conclude we're rich.
Nobility? Definitely.
Servants scurry about with soft voices and quick feet. Every time my father carries me through the front gate, people bow or place their hands over their hearts in respect.
So, hierarchy exists here too, huh? Well... some things are universal.
My father's name is Olive Ludeon—a tall man with fair-blond hair and steel-gray eyes. Quiet, calculated, and always smelling faintly of parchment and smoke. He's the kind of man you'd fear in the camp. But here... he smiles. Not often but enough.
My mother, Elizabeth, is something else entirely.
She's the first truly beautiful woman I've ever seen—not in the overhyped, magazine sort of way, but in the kind of way that makes you forget how to breathe. White hair that falls like silk, pale skin untouched by the sun, and those deep black eyes that always seem to see right through me. Her presence alone makes the world feel... safer.
The women in the camp? Skin clung to bone, dead eyes, silent mouths. Survivors in the worst sense. There was only one woman who looked remotely healthy—a kitchen staff member. Fat as a whale. The kind who'd hoard scraps while the rest of us starved.
Beauty was something I'd only seen in torn magazines salvaged from the garbage piles. It always felt artificial—too distant to care about.
But Elizabeth—she's real. Gentle. Loving.
And I... I've come to accept something quietly.
I can't remember my real parents. Not their faces, not their voices. Only that they were gone long before I needed them. So, these two—Olive and Elizabeth—they're my parents now. No matter what came before, this is my reality.
My father takes me into the city often now.
It's not vast—probably a mid-tier town—but to someone who's never seen more than dirt walls and iron fences, it feels like a kingdom.
Cobblestone roads. Marketplaces bursting with colors and noise. Vendors shouting deals in a language I barely understand. Kids chasing dogs. Knights patrolling in shining armor. Horses neighing. And carriages lined up in front of grand halls.
Everyone greets my father with reverence. Some even kneel slightly.
I guess he's not just a noble—he's someone important.
I cling to his shoulder, pretending not to care, but I soak in every detail. Every conversation. Every gesture. If this is going to be my new life, then I'm going to master it.
One day, crawling around on all fours, I managed to reach the balcony on the second floor. From there, the city stretches out like a dream. I watch the guards train in the courtyard—swords clashing, boots stomping. Sometimes, sparks flicker from their hands or blades shimmer with unnatural energy.
Magic.
At first, I thought my vision was deceiving me. But no—this was real. Real swords. Real magic.
Fantasy, in the truest sense. The kind of thing the guards used to laugh about during night shifts at the camp. They'd talk about dragons, kings, and mages—half to kill time, half to escape their own hell.
I didn't believe any of it.
Now? I'm living it.
And oddly enough, the moment I confirmed this world allowed both swordsmanship and magic, I knew exactly what I wanted.
Swordsmanship.
Magic might be flashy. Useful, even. But I've always preferred steel—something solid. Something earned.
Besides, I have a strange aversion to magic. Something in my gut warns me. Not fear exactly, but a sense that if I ever do use it... it might not be the world's version of magic. It might be something darker. I can't explain why. Just a hunch.
So, sword it is.
But before that, I need to do something more fundamental: Learn the damn language.
My mother helps with that, unknowingly.
She often hums lullabies or tells me stories. I don't understand most of it, but the rhythm, the repetition—it slowly builds familiarity. Certain words begin to click. Meanings form around tone and gesture.
Sometimes, she picks me up from behind while I'm exploring and coos something sweet. I don't get it, but I feel it.
One day, I surprise her.
I hug her back.
Tightly.
She stills for a moment, surprised, then gently laughs and hugs me tighter. That sound—it's warm. Unfiltered. She doesn't know how much that small act means to someone like me.
Now, I can walk on two feet. Clumsily, but it's progress.
I've been piecing the language together. Still no fluency, but I can mimic enough sounds to be understood. Most of it comes from my mother's stories. Her patience is endless. She never mocks me, even when I butcher entire sentences.
On a trip to the city with my father, I decide to test myself.
"Fa… fa.. ther... Lib... ry... Buk."
He stops mid-step, blinking down at me. I point toward the castle-like building we passed earlier.
His expression softens. He kneels down, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"You want to learn, Arile?"
I nod vigorously.
A smile spreads across his face—slow but wide. Pride gleams in his eyes.
"You are my pride and joy, my son."
He says, ruffling my hair.
That almost broke me. I nearly cried on the spot. But I held it in. Barely.
The library.
It's not just a room. It's a cathedral to knowledge.
High arching ceilings, ladders that slide across bookshelves, sunlight pouring through stained glass. Shelves upon shelves of tomes, scrolls, journals, records. Histories, theories, legends, techniques.
My father carries me to the center, then gently sets me down.
"You'll be fine. Call for me if you need anything."
And then, he leaves.
Just like that.
He trusts me. Believes in me.
A strange feeling blooms in my chest—one I can't quite name.
I turn to the shelves, eyes wide, hands twitching with excitement.
There's so much to learn.
So much to become.
This world gave me a name. A family. A chance.
And I'm not wasting it.