Smoke still rose from the north, like a dark shadow hanging in the evening sky. The smell of burning metal and wet earth mixed in the air over the half-ruined town of Arvenmoor. For the third time in two months, Lans Silverkin helped carry the wounded to safety. Yet, his heart still raced like it was the first time.
"Lans, over here! This one's still breathing!" an old woman shouted from behind the rubble.
Moving quickly, Lans weaved through broken houses and fallen wood. His body was small, and his face still looked young, but there was something in his eyes—an innocence not yet destroyed by hate.
"I'll help, Miss Ilyra. Careful, his leg's stuck," he said, lifting an old man pinned under a broken door. His hands were covered in cuts, but Lans never complained.
Around them, there were no soldiers, no flying arrows—only the destruction left behind. Small villages like this weren't battlefields; they were just caught in the middle. Those who stayed, like Lans, were simply trying to survive—day by day, person by person.
As night fell and survivors gathered under makeshift tents, Lans quietly slipped away. Not to be alone—he needed clean water from the forest river nearby.
He moved lightly, always alert. Carrying a leather water pouch, he wiped sweat from his brow. Despite everything, Lans still believed something could be saved.
Then he heard it.
A sound—not a scream, not an animal cry—but a broken song. Like something once beautiful but now shattered. Lans stopped, listening.
"What was that...?" he whispered.
He followed the sound, pushing through thorny bushes and fallen trees. At the roots of an old tree, he found it—a small bird, silver-blue feathers burned and one wing ruined.
Its eyes… they weren't normal bird eyes. They were too deep, too aware.
Lans knelt slowly, careful not to scare it.
"Hey… you're hurt, huh?" he whispered gently, like talking to a scared child. "I won't hurt you. Can I help?"
The bird didn't fly away. It just blinked slowly… almost like it understood.
Carefully, Lans wrapped it in his scarf and carried it back home, hiding it in the attic of his old crumbling house—out of sight from everyone.
He didn't know why he had to hide it. He only knew: when he looked into the bird's eyes, he felt something whisper inside him. Not a voice—more like a feeling. That this bird was not ordinary. And that its story wasn't over yet.
Three days passed. Lans fed it water drops, crumbs of bread, and healing herbs for burns. He cared for it patiently, even when people asked why he wasn't helping at the soup tents. Lans only smiled and said, "I'm tending a wound people can't see."
On the fourth day, before sunrise, someone shouted.
"Dravern troops! They crossed the east bridge!"
Panic spread like wildfire. Lans' village, Thergon, was part of the Alvenreach Kingdom—one of five kingdoms fighting over shrinking lands and resources. Dravern was known for its cruelty, burning villages to starve their enemies.
Lans rushed downstairs. Smoke was rising at the village edge.
"They're burning houses!" someone cried. "They're coming west!"
He raced back upstairs. The bird wasn't healed yet, but it could stand.
Lans hesitated. Should he hide it or take it?
Heavy footsteps and clashing metal sounds came closer.
Without thinking, Lans tucked the bird into his jacket and ran down—only to find two Dravern soldiers lighting torches at his back door.
"No…!" Lans cried, but it was too late.
One soldier raised his sword toward Lans.
Then it happened.
A sharp pull deep inside Lans.
Suddenly… time slowed.
The torch froze mid-air. The sword moved like molasses. Even smoke stopped rising.
Lans stood frozen, breathless.
"What… is this…?" he thought.
He could still move—just barely. Everything else was trapped, like in a dream.
A second later, time snapped back.
The torch hit the hay. Flames burst. The sword slashed through air as Lans jumped away.
He ran—not out of fear, but because he didn't understand what had just happened. His body felt drained, his legs shaky, but he kept running—through cornfields, over fences, onto a dirt path leading to the western forest.
Behind him, the village burned.
Through the trees, Lans fell to his knees. He watched Thergon—the only home he knew—disappear into fire and smoke.
He hugged his knees, tears slipping down.
"What happened back there?" he wondered. "Why did time slow down?"
He looked at the bird resting calmly inside his jacket. Its wing no longer drooped. It could stand strong.
Maybe… it was time to let it go.
"I think you're ready," he whispered.
He placed the bird on a flat rock.
"Fly. Find your way back."
The bird didn't move at first.
Then, something incredible happened.
The bird glowed—a bright silver light, not like fire but like a newborn star—and exploded into a burst of energy.
Lans shielded his face, but the light poured into him, soaking into his body.
He stumbled back, feeling warmth, then heaviness, then a strange lightness inside.
When he opened his eyes—the bird was gone.
The forest, once lit by starlight, fell into deep darkness.
Lans stood up slowly. Everything looked normal… but inside, he felt different.
Not stronger. Not faster. But… something was waiting to awaken.
Night fell.
He made a rough bed of leaves. His stomach grumbled. His mind spun.
Then he heard a low growl.
A black-eyed wolf stepped out of the shadows, baring its teeth.
Lans grabbed a small stick—but he knew it wasn't enough.
The wolf charged.
Instinctively, Lans raised his hand.
And again…
Time slowed.
The wolf's claws froze mid-air. Even its breath paused.
Lans moved—rolled to the side.
The wolf missed him, crashing into a tree, then ran away, confused.
Lans lay on the ground, gasping for air.
He stared at his trembling hands.
"What's happening to me…?" he whispered.
He didn't know what the bird was. Or why it chose him.
But he knew one thing for sure—
He was different now.
And in that cold, dark forest, Lans Silverkin realized:
He had a power no army could match.
The power to slow time.
And his story was just beginning.