Prologue Someone betrayed me. That was the first thing I felt — before I opened my eyes. Before I realized I was lying on the ground. Before I heard the wind or the birds. Everything else — I don't remember. I sat up. Slowly, because my body barely listened, like I'd been lying here for a long time. Beneath me — grass, wet with dew. Above me — a tree. Tree. I know this word. How do I know it? I don't remember. I don't remember who taught me to speak, who explained that the sky is the sky and the ground is the ground. It's all just there, pre-loaded, like someone stuffed my head full of words and took everything else. Who am I? No idea. I tried to remember, and there was just — nothing. Like reaching for something that should definitely be there, and your fingers grab air. And you know something was there. Because a hole doesn't exist without the thing that was pulled out of it. I'm wearing a shirt. Linen, rough, slightly too big. Simple trousers, tied with a rope. Bare feet, dirty — and I don't know if I walked here or if someone carried me. I don't know. I don't know anything. Young hands. I turned my palms over in front of me — twenty, maybe. Maybe less. Maybe more. How do I even know what "twenty years" means? Who explained to me how time works? Damn. No face, no name, no event. Just this rotten feeling, like a splinter you can't pull out because you don't know where it's sitting. I looked ahead. Trees. Lots of trees. Silence. Wind. Birds. Outside — calm. Inside me — not. Fine. I need to get up. I don't know why, but sitting here not knowing who I am — that's definitely not an option. * * * Chapter 1: Dust and Iron His legs almost gave out when he stood. He grabbed the tree, waited, then let go. Forest. Grey bark, yellowing leaves. A path, barely visible under the moss. Something caught the light to his left — under a pile of dead leaves. He crouched, swept them aside. A leather pouch. Worn, tied shut. He opened it. Three copper coins, one tarnished silver, and a small wooden token carved into something like a broken wheel. Or a circle that didn't close. He turned it in his fingers. Nothing. No memory. No feeling. Just wood. Money. Payment. Exchange. Words without a story behind them. He stuffed the pouch under the rope at his waist and followed the path toward the light. Stones bit into his bare feet. The forest thinned. He came out onto a field — dry grass, cold wind, and in the distance, smoke. Not one fire. Several. Thin grey threads rising into the sky. A village. Between him and the smoke — an empty dirt road, packed down by cart wheels. He stepped onto it and walked. Inside him, nothing. No hope, no fear. Just the chain: food, water, shelter. And underneath it all, quiet and sharp, the only thing he knew for certain — someone betrayed me. * * * He heard the cart before he saw it. Heavy creaking, wood on wood. A tired horse pulled it around a bend. On the bench — a man in his fifties, patched cloak, wide hat. Next to him, a girl, maybe ten, chewing on something. The man spotted him. Barefoot, filthy, alone on an empty road. His eyes narrowed. He didn't know what to do. Had no script for this. So he just stood there. The cart stopped. "Walking the road?" Rough voice. Not kind, not hostile. "Yes." "Where to?" He looked at the smoke. "There." "Riverside." The man studied his bare feet, his empty stare. "Run away? Or just lost?" "I don't remember." A pause. The man glanced at the girl. She was watching the stranger with open curiosity, no fear. "Amnesia?" A note of skepticism. "I don't know that word." That seemed to land differently than he expected. The man scratched his chin, then jerked his head toward the back of the cart. "Get in. Riverside's an hour on foot. You'll freeze." Not kindness. Calculation. Strange but doesn't look dangerous. Or maybe the man just didn't want someone trailing behind his cart like a ghost. He climbed into the back. Empty sacks, iron scraps. The cart lurched forward. The girl turned and watched him over her father's shoulder. Pale grey eyes, like the sky. "What's your name?" He almost said I don't know. Stopped. That would sound like a lie. "No name." "Everyone should have a name." "Why?" She blinked. "So people can call you. So they can tell you apart." "What if there's no one to call me and no one to tell me apart from?" Her father laughed — short, rough. "A philosopher. Great. Well, no name means people call you 'Hey, you.' Or 'The Drifter.' Riverside has a few. Looking for work?" "I need to eat." "Old Hollen at the smithy always needs hands. Hard labor. But he'll feed you and put a roof over your head if you last the first week." A pause. "I'm Bern. This is Lira." "Bern," he repeated. Lira. Names. Labels for people. Useful. * * * Riverside was mud, smoke, and a slow river. Dark wood houses, grey stone, straw roofs. A low bridge. Manure on the main street. Children running. Chickens in the dirt. Bern stopped the cart in front of a small house. "Smithy's past the bridge. Tall chimney, can't miss it. Tell Hollen that Bern from the road sent you." He stepped out. "Thank you." Bern was already untying the horse. "Good luck, 'Hey, you.'" Lira waved from the doorway. * * * He crossed the bridge. The planks groaned under his weight. Below, the water was dark and slow, dragging dead leaves downstream. The smell hit him first — hot metal, sharp and alive. Then coal, sweat, something like wet leather. And the sound: not rhythmic hammer-strikes from a storybook, but hard, angry cracks against iron. Like someone beating the anvil to make a point. The smithy stood apart from the other buildings. Low roof, wide door, thrown open. Heat poured out like breath. He stopped at the entrance. Inside, lit by the forge glow and two greasy candles, a shape moved. Massive. A broad-shouldered old man with close-cropped grey stubble on his head and jaw, his back turned, hammering a strip of metal in long tongs. Each blow punched the air. He waited. Not out of politeness — he just didn't know the protocol. The old man finished, grabbed the glowing piece and shoved it into a barrel. The water screamed. Steam swallowed him for a second. Then he turned. A face carved by wrinkles and scars. One scar ran from his temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into a permanent half-grimace. Small, sharp eyes found the stranger immediately. "What do you want?" His voice sounded like iron dragged across stone. "Bern from the road sent me. Said to ask for Hollen." Hollen looked him up and down. Bare feet. Simple clothes. Empty stare. "Bern. Right. Always picking up strays." He stepped closer. "Who are you?" "I don't remember." Hollen snorted. Wiped his forehead with the edge of his leather apron. "Another one. Had a guy like you last year. Wandered around, stole a knife, disappeared." He crossed his arms. "Looking for work?" "I need to eat." "Smart answer. Not completely stupid then." He pointed a thick thumb toward the back corner. "See that pile?" A heap of old, rusted iron. Broken plow blades, snapped scythes, harness rings, shapeless chunks. "Sort it. Reforge — one pile. Melt-only — second. Junk — third. Think you can manage?" He looked at the pile. He knew the words — iron, rust, forge — but not how to tell one from another. "No." Hollen grunted. Less annoyed this time. Almost curious. "Fine. Once. Watch." He walked to the pile and flipped a few pieces over. "This — low-grade. See how it flakes? Rust ate through it. Furnace only. This one — still good. Solid core. Can be reshaped. And this — garbage." Quick, no sentiment. He listened. His eyes memorized the fracture patterns, the color of rust, the sound each piece made hitting the floor. "Got it?" "Not yet." "You won't until your hands learn it. Start. I'll tell you when you're wrong. Work until sundown. You eat tonight. We'll figure out somewhere to sleep." Hollen went back to the anvil. * * * The work was mindless. Dust, rust, cold iron. His fingers turned black. Grime packed under his nails. His back ached. But there was a strange clarity in the monotony. No need to think. No need to remember. Just look, touch, decide. He made mistakes. Hollen walked past and jabbed a finger. "Not there. See the crack? Furnace." Or: "That one's still got life. Don't toss it." He moved the pieces without shame or frustration. A mistake was a fact. Facts get corrected. The light shifted from yellow to orange. Hollen finished his last piece, dropped it in a box, killed the forge. The smithy went dark, quiet. The heat began to drain. "Enough. Come eat." * * * The back room was small. A stove, a table, two stools, a shelf with rough dishes, a cot buried under sheepskins. Hollen ladled thick stew into two wooden bowls. Cabbage, onion, something fatty. He set one down, tore off a chunk of black bread. "Eat." He brought the spoon to his mouth. The taste hit him. Salt, fat, the bitterness of cabbage, a trace of smoke. The first conscious taste in his new memory. He ate slowly, feeling every part of it. Warmth spread through his stomach and pushed the cold back. Hollen finished fast, wiped the bowl with bread, leaned back. Lit a pipe. Bitter smoke mixed with the smell of food. "So," he said, blowing a ring of smoke. "What do you remember?" "Nothing." "Nothing at all? Name? Faces?" "No." "Where did you wake up?" "In the forest. By a path." Hollen squinted. "Have anything on you?" He pulled out the pouch and emptied it on the table. Copper, silver, the wooden token. Hollen picked up the token, turned it in his calloused fingers. His face gave nothing away. "Wanderer's mark. Some temples hand these out. Nothing special." He tossed it back. "Coins are real. That's something." He smoked in silence. "Tomorrow you keep sorting. Then coal, water, bellows. Dirty work. You want to leave — leave. Just tell me first. Don't tell me?" He held up a thick finger. "I'll rip your ears off. Clear?" "Clear." "Sleep by the stove. I'll give you skins. Wake me at dawn." Hollen stood, stretched — bones cracking — and walked into the smithy. * * * He sat alone at the table. Picked up the token again. The broken wheel. Nothing. He put it back. He looked at his hands — black with soot and rust. At the empty bowl. At the shadows on the wall from the last candle. He was here. He had work. He would have food. He had a roof. But inside — the same emptiness. The same quiet certainty that someone had betrayed him. And now, in the silence, a new question, born from the simplicity of this day: Why any of this? Why sort iron? Why eat? Why sleep? So tomorrow I can sort iron again? He didn't know the answer. He didn't even know if there was supposed to be one. He gathered the sheepskins by the stove and lay down. Warmth seeped through from the stones. Behind the wall — Hollen's heavy breathing, already asleep. He closed his eyes. No faces behind them. No dreams. Just the dark red afterglow of hot metal burned into his vision all day. And the feeling of a cold wooden token in his pocket. A token that meant nothing.