My plate was empty, as was true of the others across from me. Jacklin – the portly innkeeper who had such a magical way with bread – had come by and scooped them up with a shining smile and a wonderful warmth, before leaving us with a large jug of tea. Jorge took care to pour each of us a mug full, and I watched the steam curl from its top with relish. The smell was heavenly.

"You said you had a proposition for me," I said, once the scent of mint and aloe had filled my nose.

He hesitated, then looked over at Vera meaningfully. She drew a set of three pebbles out of a pouch strapped to her chest and placed them together in the centre of the table. A moment later I felt the hair on my forearms prickle slightly in response to whatever Skill she had used.

"Privacy ward," she explained for my sake. "Nathlan helped me with the design."

I cocked my head, the explanation prompting a thousand questions about magic and the system and the world I now found myself in, but they got put on the backburner by Jorge.

"Listen Runt, you're in a more delicate position than I think we let on to begin with. You're an unregistered combat classer in the Wandering States, and there ain't a populated town nearby that will abide by that. Smaller villages and outposts won't be a problem, as they won't have anyone with the required class, Skills or training to reliably identify you, but the bigger towns sure as all hells will sniff you out soon as you enter. It's worse for any of the nomadic groups that control the region, as you'd be nothing but trouble to them. Best case scenario, they avoid you. The Tusk-born Reavers might be interested in you, but I promise you, lad; you won't be interested in them."

Jorge left no room for doubt that he was being deadly serious. A hard line creased his forehead, and he gripped my arm hard while looking directly into my eyes. "I need you to understand that you're in trouble here. It's not your fault, it ain't right, but it is what it is."

He relaxed the grip on my arm and leaned back, gesturing to Vera with one hand and pointing in the direction of Nathlan with the other.

"Now to my proposition; come with us. I've spoken with Vera, and we agree this is the best chance you have. Sure, you could strike out on your own, but as I just said, there are more threats out there than you realise and there's precious little you can do about any of them from where you are right now."

"Why?" I asked simply.

"We can help you. I train people, lad, it's what I do. Vera here is also incredibly experienced, and Nathlan – as much as we love to give him grief – is incredibly knowledgeable. A few months with us will make up for your lacking educa–".

I cut him off mid-sentence. "No. I'm not asking why I should join you. Why would you let me?"

I was focused on Jorge now with the same intensity that he had pinned me with before, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Vera's face soften from the stoic mask she usually wore. She reached out and laid a hand on Jorge's arm, stopping him from replying, then leaned forward herself to speak to me directly.

"Because we don't want you to die. Because despite what Jorge said earlier about this world being built on cyclical conflict, it's still relatively peaceful. There's death and violence, sure, but for the most part the world works as it should, and we don't want to see you get churned up and spat out by the few bad bits of this world when we can help."

"But you don't know anything about me."

As soon as the thought came to me, I spoke it into being. And as soon as I'd spoken the words aloud, I realised how true they were, and how ridiculous that was.

"We've spent half the night talking yesterday, and none of you asked me a single question about my life. You don't know a damned thing about me!"

Jorge gave Vera a recriminating look as I started talking, and she showed her hands and winced apologetically.

"You've not asked about my life before I got here, about who I am, you haven't even asked my name! You've just been calling me 'runt' and 'lad' and I've been lapping it all up cus I'm just so sick of being alone out there, but that's really fucking weird!"

I hadn't realised how much my voice had risen in volume or how stressed I was becoming as I talked but suddenly, I was out of my seat and pacing side to side behind my chair, staring at both of them with wide eyes.

Vera was a little taken aback by my rant judging by her body language, but Jorge was not. He sat there, still as a rock and completely calm, his eyes boring into mine. There was no apology there in that face, no surprise either, as if he had expected the cavalcade of emotions I was now expressing to come out at some point. Instead, I saw a slight creasing around his eyes that suggested compassion, or perhaps pity.

That hint stole the thunder from my sails, and I deflated. I tried to dive back into that comforting pool of memory once more. The world outside was terrifying with its uncertainty, and like a child I tried to hide from it.

But there was no pool. There was no still pond waiting for me to reach out, no ripples of a life lived well to comfort me when I sat scared and alone.

I'd held the memories of my past life, of who I was, close to my chest for weeks. They were locked from me most of the time, yes, but at least I knew they were there. At least I could hold to the idea that I'd once been somebody, and, perhaps, could be again.

I knew I wasn't getting back home – I wasn't that naïve. But at least I could look to those precious memories to get me through the dark times and remind myself of the life I'd once had. An anchor in a storm. Not so any longer. The seas were churning now, and the skies were dark, and my anchor had been yanked away.

Pressing my forehead to the back of my hands from where they gripped the chair before me, I asked in a quiet voice, "Why haven't you asked?"

"I think you know," he said softly, and I shook at the understanding within those few words. I lifted my head and gazed into the eyes of the bald man before me.

"Where have my memories gone?" My voice was barely more than a whisper, and I cringed internally at how feeble it sounded. Like a wounded animal, hoping for solace in the arms of a hunter.

Jorge sighed again and closed his eyes for a few moments before speaking, clearly choosing his words carefully. "You're God-Touched. Nobody knows what that means really. Just that sometimes, people show up places. Just like you, usually ill-equipped to handle whatever situation they appear in, and never with an explanation of what happened to them.

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"Some get lucky and land in the middle of a town, some don't and die in the wilderness. You got dealt a bad hand in that respect, and it's to your credit that you managed to survive this far. But the point is, there are a few things that all reports agree on when it comes to the God-Touched; they all at some point early on lose their memories. Sometimes its straight away upon being questioned by people, other times its only after a few hours of conversation."

"You knew," I hissed in accusation. "That's why you never asked my name before you left."

He only nodded, not taking his eyes from me. "I knew. That's also why we didn't ask you anything yesterday that might've made you aware of your fading memory."

"Why, Jorge?" I asked. I felt helpless, utterly alone in that moment. I knew they'd likely had a damned good reason for withholding that information… but helplessness was not an easy emotion to sit with. Anger was far easier.

I stood and looked down at him, face set firm in rage. Nathlan tensed. "If I'd known, I could've fought it! I could have written down everything, could have preserved something of my life before!"

Again, his tone was gentle. Calming. I felt his aura brush against my awareness, tamping down the panic raging at the edges of my consciousness, and slowing that trickle of mana that had started draining from my core. Nathlan relaxed slightly once more.

"Because it wouldn't have helped, lad. In every case, its irreversible and permanent. Let's pretend you had; you could have written down the names of your friends and family, maybe some core details or even a sketch of their face if you're quick and talented..."

He let that sit for a moment before asking gently, "What would it mean after it's done?"

I didn't respond, and he answered the question himself after a few moments of silence. "Nothing, lad. Words on a page. You'd have no context to them, and you'd torture yourself trying to remember, asking yourself over and over but getting nothing new."

"Why didn't I realise?" I asked quietly. I was trembling now, and I hung onto the back of the chair as if it was all that was holding me up. The fires of anger gave way to the gnawing of guilt. I'd tried so hard not to lose myself in memories during my weeks in the wild. I'd rationalised it as wasted time, but now I wanted nothing more than to relive what I'd lost. I'd decried it as mental torture, dwelling on a past I couldn't hope to reclaim, but now I couldn't help but see that decision as a betrayal.

"You're God-Touched, lad. Whatever god brought you here, for whatever purpose, stopped you from dwelling on it. I don't know how – the magic the gods wield doesn't obey the same rules as ours. They are not governed by the system and most people believe they created it themselves. All I know is that if their power is bound by any rules at all, they're rules we don't understand.

"Best guess I've heard was from a scholar I spoke with about it once. He said it's likely that divine magic is at play all the time, nudging the God-Touched away from dwelling on their previous life. Once that thin veneer of attention-warding is not enough, something is triggered which rapidly wipes the memory, and that's that."

I shakily took my seat again, sitting down and resting my head against the table as I considered the loss of everything I had ever known and loved. I felt guilt for turning away from my old life, self-loathing that I was feeling sad at all about losing something I didn't even know about. A bizarre mix of conflicting emotions that fought for primacy within me, none making me feel anything good.

There was a palpable feeling of loss ripping its way through me. I knew who I was, what I liked and hated, what I would abide by and could overlook – I just couldn't remember why I held any of those opinions.

Nathlan was the one who made me realise the worst part of it all, though. "You've done this for months already," he said. "This is no different now than the past few weeks. You said you could not remember as soon as you stopped actively reliving the memories, yes? You survived that. You can survive this."

He was clearly trying to soften the blow. Unfortunately, he made it far, far worse.

I stared at the chair beneath my hands, unable to raise my gaze even an inch. While I couldn't hold the memories themselves in mind, I could still remember how I'd felt reliving them. The feelings conjured during those rare moments where I let myself dwell on the past were bittersweet. When I would sip deep from that memorial pool, I'd always come away with an enduring sadness, and something else, too. Painful in a way that told me all I needed to know about what I'd had. What I'd lost.

"I don't know my own name," I said. "I couldn't tell you who my parents were, or whether I had siblings. I don't know how old I am."

Nathlan said nothing, and the others let me talk, too. "I know I like honey in my tea. I know I love to run, and that the smell of pine sap makes me nostalgic for something, though I couldn't tell you what. I know spring is my favourite season; when the wildflowers are out, and the world breathes deep for the first time since winter."

I gulped, feeling the knot in my throat bob as I did. "I know what love feels like," I whispered.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I sat there, and they sat in silence with me. I couldn't say for how long, but by the time I had pulled myself together enough to raise my head, the sun was higher in the sky and the man I had been before was gone.

"What do I do?" I asked hopelessly, looking at them for guidance, for help, for some way out of the dark maze my thoughts had become trapped in.

"We want to take you with us. Our plans have changed some given the problems we ran into in the valley," he said, and Vera scowled at the reference to the hated mercenaries. "We'll head to the Panyera, which gives us ample opportunity to train you up and teach what you need to know. If you want to leave once you get there, that's your choice."

"As for why we want you with us?" He sped up at that, as if anticipating me interrupting before he could finish, but I just sat there listlessly, staring off into nothing. "I'll tell you if you want, but I'd prefer not to until we've established a level of trust. I have a good reason, and it's in your best interest too, but telling you now will probably change some things that I don't want to risk yet."

He seemed inclined to say more but cut himself off, simply waiting for my answer. I looked at them all for a few long breaths before responding. "Yeah, sounds good. Thanks."

I wanted to explain myself, or rage at them about the unfairness of it all or leave them alone and try to figure things out myself, but there was just so much I didn't know. I was in a new world, and my old one was now just as mysterious and alien too.

"As sad as it is to say, you three are the only people I know."

The weight of that truth settled on me, and I felt my shoulders shaking again, so I quickly excused myself and stumbled away towards my room.

*Vera*

Vera watched the boy climb the stairs and winced as he moved out of sight. She was probably no more than a decade or two older than him, but it was hard to think of him as anything other than a boy in this moment. The imposing frame of a wild-bitten warrior had been entirely overcome by the desperate look in his eyes.

"That was worse than I thought," she remarked.

Jorge looked at her and nodded. "Aye, could've been a fair bit worse, mind. We're lucky he had a good few weeks to come to terms with this place before he lost everything else. Most of 'em are killed on sight."

Vera looked shocked at that revelation. "But why? Didn't you say most of the survivors appear in cities and towns?"

"Aye, but what do you think happens when a stranger turns up somewhere they shouldn't be, and when asked who they are and what they're doing, starts having a breakdown? Lots of itchy fingers in those environments. Not to mention the fact that they have a habit of appearing in places with high mana concentrations…"

Vera finished the thought for him. "… Which are often owned by wealthy or powerful people who don't take kindly to strangers and are more suspicious of anyone who looks to have snuck past whatever security arrangements they've put in place. Yeah, I can see that being a problem." She considered for a few moments before asking, "Do you think he'll accept?"

"Aye, he's got no other choice. He needs help, and we're the only ones who will give it."

"Makes us sound quite bad when you say that, Jorge."

"Aye it does, but picking up desperate people and offering them a way out is something of a specialty for me, ain't it?" He smirked over at her as he said it. Rather than returning the smile though, she frowned and looked away.

"You know as well as I do that not everyone takes the way out when it's first offered."

She didn't hear his reply, lost in memories as she was. It wasn't until he gripped her shoulder with enough strength to break a table – still trivial for her to resist if she wanted to – that she returned back to the room.

"You made it in the end, lass, and that's all there is to it," he said, clapping her shoulder before withdrawing his hand. "And if Vera the Burnin' Bi–"

"Don't say it," she warned him. He raised his hands in mock surrender, though she knew he wasn't cowed. The cheeky bastard.

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