I violently cough up all the smoke in my lungs as I'm casually tossed onto the ground. After gaining my bearings, I look up at the being in front of me—a knight in shining armor, so to speak. The imposing helmet looks down upon me, and his silver armor reflects the scene around him: a burning hell-scape. Blood marks the walls and floors as corpses are strewn across the room—men and children alike.. This knight was the cause of so much destruction, yet I don't hate him. In fact, I don't really hold much emotions towards him.

  "Why didn't you fight back or try to escape like the rest of them?" The masked menace asks, his tone laced with curiosity towards me, the only survivor.

  "For what reason? There was clearly no chance of success in either." I respond coldly.

  The man scoffs before moving into action. He grabs me by the throat, yet I don't resist, fully expecting to be killed here. He looks me dead in the eyes, maybe to try to discern some kind of falsity in my gaze. After a few moments, he lets go, dropping me to the ground. Then, he asks another question.

  "If I spared you, what would you do with the rest of your life?"

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  The question makes me pause. Do I tell him what he wants to hear? What do I even want to do? I never had a choice before.

  "I... don't know." I admit, noticing his slight irritation at how long I took to answer.

  "You have some time to think as I look around. I want your answer ready when I get back."

  The knight pulls out a scroll and rips it in half. A brilliant ring of water spreads out from him, extinguishing the fire around us. Without another word, he strides away towards the more important rooms in the building, perhaps searching for valuables. I sit there, lost in thought, trying to figure out what to do next.

  By the time he comes back, I've made my decision.

  "I still don't know what to do with the rest of my life." I say, "but I'd like to find out where I'm from."

  The knight pulls out a book seemingly out of nowhere. He ignores me as he flips through it. After a while, he speaks again.

  "What name do you go by?"

  "Thirteen." I reply honestly.

  He resumes his search through the text. After a few seconds, he stops and points to a page. It lists numbers one through thirteen—all taken from the same orphanage over ten years ago.

  "It looks like you come from an orphanage nearby," he says. "Now that you know, what next?" His incessant questioning feels almost like another form of torture. I glance at his still-pristine armor, catching my own reflection. A twelve-year-old boy with bright blue eyes and dark black hair stares back at me.

  I take a deep breath, regaining my bearings, then look up at the knight's helmet, attempting to make eye contact.

  "I want to find out more."