Awakening the Heir

The world swam back into focus with a painful, insistent throbbing behind Adrian’s eyes. The scent of antiseptic and something vaguely metallic pricked at his nostrils, a stark contrast to the damp earth and the metallic tang of his own blood he’d last registered. He tried to move, a groan escaping his parched throat, and found his limbs heavy, unresponsive. A hand, calloused and surprisingly gentle, rested on his forehead.

“Easy now, lad,” a voice rumbled, deep and steady as a well-worn river stone. “You’re safe.”

Adrian’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead shutters. Blurry shapes resolved themselves into a dimly lit room, sparsely furnished, with a single, bare bulb casting long, dancing shadows. Standing over him was a man he vaguely recognized, though his memory was a fractured mosaic. The man was broad-shouldered, his face a roadmap of rugged features, framed by iron-grey hair. Silas. The name surfaced unbidden, a whisper from a forgotten past.