CHAPTER 79: RECOVERED A MEMORY

The forest seemed alive, every branch bent by the wind echoing like a scream, every leaf shaking overhead sounding like the snap of bones. His small feet pounded against the damp earth, kicking up mud and twigs, while his shallow, desperate breaths came in broken gasps. He ran—not Damon, not yet, not the being Ester knew. He was the boy, the body, the host before reincarnation.

His legs ached as if they had been chained from within. With each step, a brutal stabbing pain shot from his ankles to his hips. His chest burned, there was no breath left to sustain the pace, and yet, instinct told him: Keep going. Keep going, or it will be the end.

The boy kept glancing back, as if hoping his pursuers were farther away could make it real. But they weren’t. Among the dark trees, figures glided, shadows larger than ordinary men. There was the metallic glint of blades reflecting the dim light of dusk. There was muffled, murmured laughter, like jackals savoring the wait for their prey.

The fear didn’t come just from the pursuers. There was something more. Something inside him that grew with every heartbeat. His body felt hotter than it should have. His eyes burned. There was a flame in him he couldn’t control—and that was what they wanted. That was what they hunted him for.

Tears blurred his vision. His throat ached with every breath. He tripped on a hidden root, nearly fell, but kept going, catching himself on a trunk and lunging forward like a wounded animal.

Until it happened.

It wasn’t the branch, it wasn’t the rock, it wasn’t a blow from the pursuers. It was a presence.

He ran between two larger trees, his feet frantic, and collided. The impact was sharp, violent, his head slamming against something hard.

The world spun. His body flew backward and slammed into the damp earth. The air rushed from his lungs, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream, but nothing came out.

His trembling hands tried to push off the ground, but they were intercepted. Strong arms held him, gripping his wrists firmly. He struggled, kicked, but his body no longer responded properly. The exhaustion that consumed every fiber simply won. The little boy resisted for seconds that seemed eternal, until his strength ebbed away.

Lying, trapped, the boy lifted his face. He couldn’t clearly see the figure that had held him. The world was blurry, clouded by tears and the impact of the fall. But he saw shapes. He saw silhouettes. A group of five, maybe six, approaching in a circle, their shadows lengthened by the torches they carried.

The voices came like blows.

"Finally..." one of them said, his voice deep, tinged with mockery. "We have captured Lilith’s son."

The phrase fell like a sentence.

His small body shivered, not from the cold, but from the weight of those words. Lilith’s son. He didn’t fully understand what that meant. He only knew that his mother—or whoever claimed to be his mother—always warned him about people who hunted him, who wanted to use him, who saw him not as a human being but as a weapon, a vessel for ancient curses.

Lilith. The name was poison to many. And for him, now, it was both curse and identity.

The men laughed. The one holding him pushed his face into the damp earth, forcing him to taste mud and blood, for his lips had split from the fall.

"The prophecy didn’t lie," said another, his voice more distant but full of triumph. "He was born of the forbidden seed."

The boy tried to protest, to open his mouth, but only a hoarse sob escaped.

The hands that held him tightened. His wrists ached as if they were about to break. He wept, and his tears mingled with the mud, creating dark streaks on his young face.

"Tie him up," a firm voice commanded. "Before the mark awakens."

Rough ropes tightened around his arms and legs. He struggled again, but the struggle was now minimal, almost symbolic. Each knot tightened seemed to rob him of his breath, his hope.

"Son of Lilith."

The words repeated inside his head like a constant drumbeat. He didn’t understand their full meaning, but he felt their weight. It wasn’t just capture. It was destiny.

The men lifted him like a sack of wheat, throwing him over one of their shoulders. His body swayed, each step of his captor making his head bang against his leather armor. He moaned, small, fragile, but no one cared.

The torches illuminated hardened faces, scars crisscrossing skin, eyes as cold as the night itself. There was no mercy there. Only mission. Only the satisfaction of having fulfilled a role.

In the back of his mind, between the fear and pain, he felt something. A flame. Small, but alive. Something stirring in his chest, pulsing stronger with each insult, with each knot in the rope. A rage he still couldn’t name.

[You recovered a memory]

The darkness was heavy. Not the natural silence of a night, but a muffled heaviness, as if the air itself had turned to stone. Damon opened his eyes slowly, his eyelids heavy as iron. The first thing he felt was pain.

Not a localized pain. It was total. A silent scream that coursed through every nerve, from his feet to his fingertips. His entire body felt as if it were on fire inside and frozen outside at the same time.

He tried to take a deep breath—and his chest responded with a sharp tug so brutal that the sound that escaped was a hoarse, choked moan. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

"Gh..." his voice trailed off.

His body lay on its side, amidst cold rocks and snow that had invaded the crevice of the ravine. The air was icy, so sharp it felt like blades. Each breath cut his throat like broken glass.

He blinked, his vision blurring. The jagged walls of the natural cave swirled in distorted spirals. The ceiling, high and covered in frozen stalactites, seemed to lean over him like teeth ready to devour him.

Damon tried to move. First, an arm. His trembling hand braced itself against the floor, but gave way soon after. The pain in his back was unbearable—a mixture of torn muscles and open wounds. Blood still flowed, though more slowly, sticking to his skin like a second, stiff garment.

He turned his face away, forcing himself to focus. The memory still burned in his mind. The child running. The ropes tying him down. The voice echoing like a curse: "We have captured the son of Lilith."

Damon swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment. It was as if he had been there. As if it had been him. Maybe it had been. The body now bleeding in that cave held memories that weren’t his, but that pulsed vividly in his mind.

The broken bracelet lay in pieces beside him. The cold, cracked metal reflected a pale sheen from the seeping snow. Without it, Damon was not Damon as Ester knew him. The horns, small but visible, throbbed as if they were alive. The short wings were glued to the ground, motionless, covered in snow and ice. The tail trembled in involuntary spasms.

He took another breath, and the system appeared in his mind with cruel clarity:

[ALERT: Irregular neural activity detected.]

[Physical condition: critical.]

[Advice: Remain still. The slightest exertion may result in organ failure.]

Damon laughed. A broken, hoarse sound that ended in coughing and blood.

"Immobile... is that all you ever say..." he whispered, spitting red onto the frozen ground.

He braced his arm again, forcing himself to roll over onto his back. The movement tore a muffled scream from his throat. Pain tore through his back like liquid fire, and for a moment his vision went black.

When he came back, he was staring at the ceiling. The cold penetrated every inch of his skin, but there was something even worse: emptiness. The loneliness of the cave, the knowledge that he was trapped, far from Ester, far from any help.

Her name flashed through his mind like a spark. Ester. The warmth of their embrace the night before. Her steady gaze, angry yet concealing concern. The memory of her was like a thin thread holding him to life.

He gritted his teeth, breathing deeply. Each heartbeat seemed weaker. The blood seeping beneath him was already forming a thick, dark stain, slowly freezing against the cold stone.

Damon closed his eyes. But there was no rest. As soon as the darkness took him, the memory returned. The boy. The ropes. The phrase. "Son of Lilith."

It was as if his body wanted to speak, as if the buried memories wanted to force him to see the truth.

He opened his eyes again, gasping. His breath grew shallower.

"Lilith..." he murmured, the word strange in his mouth, but laden with a weight he couldn’t name.

The cave returned only the echo of his voice.

Damon lay still for a few seconds, hearing only the sound of his own heart—irregular, faltering, but still alive. His body screamed for rest. His mind screamed for answers.

He placed his hand against the icy wall and began, with effort, to crawl. A slow, painful, yet stubborn movement. Every inch gained seemed to take years off his life.