Argenton Woodman signed off his journal with his name and age—he was still sixteen as far as he knew—then closed his notebook to wait for midnight to wash away his day's memories like the rain did the blood after a fight.
Every night he forgot yesterday. None of the other soldiers knew about it. If they did, Argenton would be kicked out of Elite Force and it wouldn't matter how skilled he was with all weapons plus combat, or that his father used to be the captain of Elite Force until an accident.
If the Master Magee, the ruler of the country of Noier in the realm of Ozel Emla, found out about his condition, she would send him home—the last place he wanted to be. The words scrawled in his notebook told of a controlling household where his father, Geldon, ruled with an iron fist, forbidding the three older sisters to ever return home.
What kind of home's a home with abuse? Argenton wondered.
So, was the Elite Force camp his home? An escape from his life back in the village of Frankle?
He looked around his room at the guitar in the corner that he knew he could play. Draped over the back of the couch was his uniform jacket with a bloodstain on the front he didn't know how he got. And there was the meager collection of three poetry books his journal claimed he tirelessly read, practically having memorized everything inside.
"And all the things he acquired, would burn in the fire." He cracked a wry smile, reciting a poem.
"When he would fall into ash,
he would forget his past.
For the truth he cried,
the last breath before he died."
With a sigh, Argenton leaned back in his chair. "Guess, remember some, not that poetry helps much." He liked it because it was about him and fell asleep with it in his head, wishing that he wouldn't have to wake up without memory of today.
When the clock striked twelve, a haze of white passed over his sleeping face. His memories flew out the cabin and into the night, to a mist-covered mountain where white fingers snatched it, putting it into a jar, so it would never escape.
* * *
Argenton's morning was all about figuring out what was going on. He would stand before the wall where someone—most likely himself—had written important information about what his role was and what he had to do. At some point during his time here, he had been smart enough to leave messages for himself which included the journal.
"Elite Force soldier. First Tier. The highest rank for a soldier before captain?" He stared at his well-built body, flexed his muscles, then he sang a fire spell. Spells, no matter how much he forgot yesterday, would always be in his mind the same as his name and who was in his family. He also remembered other factual information like who ruled Noier—Septentrionalis or Septent for short—and that his father was the captain of Elite Force, and that Argenton's tawny was named Sarvy.
Two little cat-like ears poked out from under the bed. Then out slithered a weasel-like creature with black fur. At the end of her long tail was a flame that never went out.
"Good morning," she telepathized into his head, but out loud she chortled or mewled.
"Mornin'," he muttered, hesitant to be talking out loud to something that didn't.
"How are you?"
"Lost, guess, per usual, suppose."
"Journal," She pointed at his desk with her tail where his journal lay open, "you had a plan and you told me to tell you that."
YOU ARE READING
There Lives a Beast in the Burning Heart ✓ | a novella
Fantasy[An Ozel Emla Tale] At midnight, fire mage Argenton loses memory of yesterday. It's a curse that's eating away at his sanity. All he knows is that he's a loyal soldier protecting citizens of Noier from forest beasts called Haunters. His father also...
