Disclaimer: I don't own Martin's works.
He woke up to the sound of the wind howling through the endless expanse of white. His eyes fluttered open, only to be greeted by a world of snow, swirling in relentless waves across the frozen landscape. He blinked, confusion clouding his thoughts. Where was he? The biting cold cut through him, wrapping around his frail, emaciated body like a vice. He felt it in his bones—sharp, cruel, unyielding. But there was something else too, something more unsettling than the cold.
He had no idea who he was.
There was a name, faint and distant, echoing in the back of his mind—'Daniel'.
But the name felt wrong, like it didn't belong to him. It carried the weight of a life he couldn't remember, memories that flickered and danced at the edges of his consciousness, slipping away the moment he tried to grasp them. His mind was a tangle of broken images—tall buildings made of glass, strange devices in people's hands, warm sunlight spilling across green fields. They were foreign to him now, those memories. They felt like fragments of a dream, too distant to be real.
But who was he then, if not Daniel?
He pushed himself up from the ground, shivering violently as the cold gnawed at his skin. His body felt small, weaker than it should be. His hands—thin, trembling—looked like those of a child. Panic flared within him as he realized he was no longer who he once was. He looked down at his feet, wrapped in thin, torn furs, his legs trembling from the sheer effort of standing. He was no longer the man he remembered—if those memories could even be trusted.
He was a boy. A small child, lost in a blizzard. Beyond saving.
The endless horizon of snow stretched in every direction, featureless and unforgiving. There was no shelter, no sign of life. Just miles and miles of ice and wind, as far as his eyes could see. The cold stung his face, his breath escaping in ragged gasps that hung in the air like fleeting ghosts. His body felt impossibly weak, and every step sent a shudder of pain through his limbs.
How had he gotten here? There was no answer in his mind, only confusion, only emptiness.
'Daniel'.
Was that who he was? Or was that just a name, a fragment of some other existence that had nothing to do with him?
He tried to focus, to sift through the scattered memories, but it was like grasping at smoke. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more disoriented he became. In his head, there were flashes of warmth, of a world where the sun wasn't something distant, a world of people, of families, of a life that seemed impossibly far away now. A life where survival wasn't measured in breaths taken between gusts of freezing wind.
But none of that helped him now. All he had was the cold, the snow, and the biting realization that he was alone.
His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and his legs trembled beneath him as he forced himself to stand. He couldn't stay here. If he stayed still, he would die. It was a simple truth, one that seemed to settle into his bones, as real as the wind lashing at his face. His stomach growled, the hunger gnawing at him with a ferocity that nearly overwhelmed him. But the cold was worse. Far worse.
He had to keep moving.
But where?
There was no direction, no sense of where to go. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead, the snow whipping in violent spirals around him, obscuring everything. It was like standing in the middle of a white void, endless and indifferent. For a moment, despair gripped him. How could he survive this? He didn't even know where he was, who he was.
But survival was all that mattered. The cold reminded him of that with every agonizing breath.
Picking a random direction, he started walking. His feet sunk into the deep snow with every step, and the wind fought him, pushing him back as if the blizzard itself wanted to swallow him whole. His thin, tattered clothing offered little protection, and each step felt like it was pulling him closer to the edge of collapse. But he kept moving, driven by the simple, primal instinct to survive.
The memories in his head—of Daniel, of another life—flickered again, briefly.
The world he saw in those memories was warm, bright, filled with things that no longer made sense to him. People spoke strange words, lived in places that seemed impossibly far from this frozen wasteland. That world, whatever it was, felt like a paradise compared to the desolation he faced now. But was that world real? Or was it just the fevered imaginings of a dying boy, his mind grasping for some kind of escape from the unrelenting cold?
He didn't know. He didn't care.
His feet dragged through the snow, his body swaying with exhaustion. The cold was everywhere now, seeping into his bones, numbing his fingers and toes until they felt like nothing more than dead weight. But he forced himself to keep walking. One step. Then another.
All he could do was keep moving.
He trudged through the endless snow, his thin legs barely able to carry him any farther. Each step was a monumental effort, his feet sinking into the deep drifts, his breath ragged and labored. The icy wind cut through his meager furs, clawing at his exposed skin like shards of glass, biting into his face, his hands, his chest. Every nerve in his body screamed with cold, but he forced himself to keep moving. The snow blurred in front of him, a never-ending sea of white that seemed to stretch on forever in every direction.
His mind drifted in and out of focus. He couldn't tell how long he'd been walking—hours, maybe. The passage of time had lost meaning; all that mattered was putting one foot in front of the other. The world felt distant, almost unreal, as if he were walking through a dream, or worse—a nightmare he couldn't wake from. His body screamed for rest, but he knew that if he stopped, he would never rise again.
The hunger gnawed at him, deep and relentless. His stomach was a hollow pit of agony, twisting and aching with a ferocity that almost matched the cold. He hadn't eaten—he couldn't remember the last time he'd had food, or anything warm in his body. The thought of water, even snow, was a distant hope, but his lips were cracked and dry, his throat too raw to swallow even the ice that fell around him. It felt as if his body was slowly collapsing in on itself.
His steps faltered. His legs gave out, and he nearly collapsed into the snow, but he caught himself just in time, standing on trembling legs. A sense of overwhelming exhaustion washed over him. His vision blurred as he swayed on his feet. He could feel the pull of sleep, tempting him to lie down and surrender to the numbness that crept over his body. But he knew what that would mean. If he lay down now, if he closed his eyes in the snow… he wouldn't wake up.
His gaze wandered, and through the dizzying haze of the blizzard, he caught sight of something in the distance. For a moment, he thought his mind was playing tricks on him—just another cruel illusion conjured by the cold and hunger. But no… there it was again. He squinted, trying to focus.
Mountains. Tall, jagged peaks rising against the backdrop of the storm, their dark silhouettes barely visible through the thick curtain of snow.
A spark of hope flickered inside him. The mountains might mean shelter, somewhere to escape the relentless wind and cold. Maybe even something to eat, if he was lucky. His mind, despite the haze of exhaustion, latched onto that thought, clinging to it as if it were a lifeline.
Shelter. The word repeated itself in his head, giving him a small sense of purpose.
Shelter meant survival.
But the mountains were still so far away, distant and unreachable, and the snow beneath his feet seemed determined to hold him back with every step. His legs felt like lead. His entire body was on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, his breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of his own body grew unbearable. Every part of him wanted to give up, to just fall over into the snow and let the storm take him. The promise of relief, of rest, was almost too tempting.
But the sight of the mountains kept him going, that faint glimmer of hope amidst the white void. He stumbled forward, dragging himself toward them. The storm raged around him, the winds howling with a fury that almost drowned out his own heartbeat in his ears, but he kept moving.
His thoughts were a fog, tangled between his desperate need for survival and the hollow ache of not knowing who he really was. Daniel? Was that his name? The memories of that name, of the life tied to it, were too distant, too foreign. The cold and hunger had replaced any sense of identity he might've once had. He was no one. Just a boy, alone in the wilderness, surrounded by an indifferent, merciless world.
He blinked through the snow, forcing his legs to move faster, to close the distance to the mountains.
He would find shelter.
By the time he reached the base of the mountains, the sun had long disappeared behind the snow-laden sky, leaving the world bathed in a thick, suffocating darkness. The blizzard, if anything, had grown worse. Snow whipped around him in furious torrents, and the wind howled like some vengeful spirit, intent on tearing away what little strength remained in his frail body.
His limbs ached, frozen stiff with the cold, and each breath felt like inhaling shards of ice. He had pushed himself for hours—maybe days—but the moment his eyes landed on the jagged rocks rising before him, something deep inside him broke. The journey had drained him of almost everything.
The mountains, once a distant hope on the horizon, now loomed above him like indifferent, cruel sentinels. His head spun with exhaustion, but he forced his feet to keep moving, stumbling blindly around the base, looking for some form of shelter.
Anything.
His hands scraped against the jagged rocks, feeling for an opening, some gap where the relentless wind might not reach.
After what felt like an eternity of wandering in the freezing dark, he found it. A small crevice between two towering stones, barely wide enough for him to crawl through. His heart leapt, his mind too numb to process anything beyond the basic instinct of survival. He dropped to his knees and squeezed his emaciated frame through the narrow gap, the rough edges of the stone scraping against his skin, but the moment he was inside, the howling wind was muted, and the snow could no longer claw at his face.
The space was small, barely enough for him to sit upright, but it was dry, and most importantly, it was sheltered. He collapsed against the cold stone, his body shaking uncontrollably from the cold and exhaustion. Every muscle screamed for rest, but a deep sense of desperation kept him alert. He had shelter, but he was far from safe.
His mind raced, disjointed thoughts swirling in the dark. He was stranded in a world he didn't understand, in a body that wasn't his own. Every time he tried to think about it—about who he was, about the memories of Daniel that seemed both familiar and alien—a sharp, pulsing pain throbbed at the base of his skull. It felt wrong, as if the very act of thinking too hard about those memories would unravel him entirely.
Who was Daniel? The name lingered in his thoughts, but it carried no comfort, only confusion. He had flashes of another life, one so different from this bleak, frozen wasteland—warmth, cities filled with people, things that felt like a distant dream now.
But that was not his life. Not anymore. He was here, in this brutal, unforgiving wilderness, beyond any place he could comprehend. And he had no idea how or why. His breath shuddered in the small, enclosed space, the cold pressing in on him from every direction. He knew, with a clarity that gnawed at his gut, that he was going to die if he didn't find food or fire soon. The blizzard would not let up. The cold would keep sinking deeper into his bones until it consumed him completely.
He shifted in the dark, trying to ignore the hunger that tore at his insides. His body felt alien, too small, too weak, and the thought of surviving out here seemed impossible.
'How am I going to do this?'
The question echoed in his mind, but no answer came.
The memories… they weren't helping. He could see things, strange things—people talking, streets filled with warmth and light. But it was all broken, like shards of glass that no longer fit together. Thinking about it made his head hurt, a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes that forced him to stop. It was as if his mind was rebelling against him, refusing to allow him to piece together whatever life he had before this.
The only truth he had now was this: He was alone, cold, and starving in a world that seemed intent on killing him.
Restless, he shifted again, curling into himself to preserve what little warmth he had. The rough stone bit into his skin, but he didn't care. What was he supposed to do? There was no fire, no food. Nothing but endless snow and wind outside. He tried to think, tried to push through the fog of exhaustion clouding his mind. If he didn't act soon, his body would give out. He needed fire. He needed to eat.
But how?
He had no experience, no survival skills. Everything about this place was hostile. The weight of his situation pressed down on him like an unbearable load, suffocating him. The desperation was creeping in, settling in his bones. His mind raced with fear, the hollow, gnawing thought that maybe there was no escape from this.
For now, all he could do was rest. But he knew that when the morning came—if he lived to see it—he would have to find a way to survive. Otherwise, this small crevice would become his grave.
He stirred from an uneasy sleep, his body curled awkwardly in the cramped crevice where he'd collapsed. The cold stone had offered little comfort, and his limbs ached from the unnatural positions he'd contorted into to fit inside. His eyes blinked open, heavy with exhaustion, the faint light filtering in from the mouth of his shelter signaling that the blizzard had passed, but the relentless cold was still seeping into his bones. He tried to move, but every muscle screamed in protest.
The rest hadn't been restful at all—more like a temporary reprieve from consciousness. He was still bone-weary, his body starved and weak, but a sliver of energy had returned, just enough to force him to open his eyes and confront the world again. The oppressive silence of the snow-covered landscape greeted him, the absence of the storm's howling winds almost as unsettling as their presence had been.
For a moment, he lay still, listening intently.
Nothing.
No wind, no sound of animals, no cracking of branches. Just the eerie, suffocating quiet that followed a storm. The kind of silence that felt like the world itself had stopped moving.
He pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing as his stiff muscles protested the effort. His throat was parched, his stomach an empty pit, and the faint spark of energy that had carried him through the storm was flickering dangerously low. He couldn't afford to stay here much longer, no matter how safe the little crevice had felt. The storm had passed, but the cold remained, and without food or water, he wouldn't last long.
Gritting his teeth against the pain in his joints, he began to claw his way out of the shelter, his fingers numb and clumsy against the packed snow. He shoved it aside, feeling the icy chill sting his hands as he pushed his way into the open air. The sky was gray, overcast with thick clouds that hung low over the landscape. No sun broke through to offer warmth, but the wind had died down, and the snow that had once battered him from all sides now lay still, blanketing the world in an endless, undisturbed white.
He stood there for a moment, his breath clouding in the air, taking in the bleak expanse that stretched out before him. The mountains loomed overhead, jagged and imposing, their slopes covered in thick layers of ice and snow. The blizzard had wiped the landscape clean, leaving no trace of his earlier passage, as though the world itself had reset, indifferent to his struggle.
But that struggle was far from over. His body felt fragile, every step a monumental effort. The hunger gnawed at him like a beast in his belly, and his throat burned with thirst. He needed food, water, warmth—anything to keep going. His mind drifted back to the memories that haunted him, flashes of a life that felt more like a dream. Who was he? Who had he been? *Daniel*. The name still felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Nothing made sense.
The memories were disjointed, fractured, like shards of glass scattered across his mind. The more he tried to make sense of them, the more they slipped away, leaving him with only the present—this harsh, unrelenting wilderness. A world where survival meant more than understanding who he had been.
With a grunt of effort, he forced himself to move. His legs felt like lead, but he stumbled forward, his eyes scanning the snow-covered expanse for anything—anything at all—that might help him survive. The mountains still loomed ahead, their rocky slopes offering the promise of shelter or maybe some kind of resource. But the vastness of the snowfield between him and those rocky crags felt insurmountable.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat, each step a battle against his own failing strength. The cold gnawed at his skin, but it was the hunger that worried him most. He could feel his body growing weaker by the second, every ounce of energy spent in the struggle to move forward.
He glanced around, desperate for something, anything that might stave off the creeping numbness in his limbs. A flash of motion caught his eye—a distant shape, too far away to make out clearly, but it was there, just at the edge of his vision. He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision swam from exhaustion.
Was it real, or was his mind playing tricks on him? He wasn't sure, but in his weakened state, he had little choice but to press on.
He trudged along the base of the mountains, his legs dragging through the knee-deep snow, his mind fogged with exhaustion and hunger. The towering peaks that once seemed so full of promise now felt like a barrier, an insurmountable wall that blocked his every attempt at finding shelter or escape. He had wandered for hours, the jagged rocks and snow-laden ridges all blending together into a haze of white and gray, leaving him disoriented and increasingly hopeless.
Every step took more effort than the last, his body weakening with every passing moment. His breath came in ragged gasps, misting in the freezing air as the cold gnawed at his exposed skin. The wind began to pick up, its icy fingers raking across his face, signaling that the brief respite from the storm was coming to an end. The sky overhead darkened once more, the clouds gathering in thick, oppressive swirls that blotted out what little light remained.
Finally his legs gave out, and he collapsed into the snow, his body sinking into its frigid embrace. He lay there, staring up at the darkening sky, the weight of the world pressing down on him. His limbs felt like dead weight, his muscles trembling and useless. The cold had burrowed deep into his bones now, and he could feel it spreading, numbing him from the inside out. Each breath hurt, the air freezing his lungs as he struggled to pull in even the smallest amount.
The wind howled around him, the first gusts of a new blizzard swirling the snow into the air, obscuring his view of the mountains and the world around him. It was as if the storm had swallowed him whole, trapping him in an endless expanse of white and cold. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his body sinking further into the snow, his will to fight ebbing away with every second.
'I can't survive this,' he thought, the words echoing faintly in the back of his mind.
He tried to think of a way out, some way to survive this nightmare, but every thought slipped away from him like a dream fading into nothing. His head spun, and the memories—the ones he had tried to push aside—flickered behind his eyes, broken and disjointed. They didn't make sense. They never had.
But then, something else rose to the surface of his mind, unbidden.
A memory—clearer than the others, though still fractured, still incomplete. He saw it like a vision, a towering citadel, its massive iron gates looming above him, casting long shadows over the ground. The structure was enormous, ancient, and foreboding. Cold, unyielding stone rose up to the sky, its spires disappearing into the clouds. The gates beckoned to him, pulling at something deep within his soul, as though they had been waiting for him all along.
'The Citadel.'
The name whispered in his mind, foreign yet familiar, as if it had always been there, just out of reach. What was it? Why did it feel like the answer? The answer to surviving this world, this storm, this life he couldn't understand. The image of the Citadel filled his thoughts now, pushing aside the disjointed memories of Daniel, the world he had once known or was dreaming of. It was a beacon in the storm, something solid and real amidst the chaos.
But the thought brought with it no comfort, only dread. The Citadel wasn't a place of safety—it was a challenge. A place of trials, of pain, of survival at its most brutal. The memory was broken, but in that moment, he understood. It was not a sanctuary but a test, and the cost of failure was imprisonment, but for how long he didn't know.
The winds picked up, the snow swirling faster around him. His body was shutting down, but his mind clung to the vision of the Citadel, desperate for something—anything—that could help him survive.
'I have no choice,' he realized, his consciousness flickering like a dying flame.
He had no fire, no food, no tools, and no knowledge of this harsh, frozen land. But the Citadel… maybe, just maybe, if he could remember more, it would show him the way.
His eyelids fluttered, the cold seeping deeper into his bones. The vision of the Citadel faded in and out, the iron gates waiting, the endless spires of stone reaching for the sky. It was there, on the edge of his thoughts, just out of reach. But the pull was undeniable.
The winds howled louder, drowning out his thoughts, the snow covering him in a frozen blanket. He was barely clinging to consciousness now, his body too weak to move. Yet still, the Citadel loomed in his mind, its iron gates creaking open, beckoning him to step forward.
In the distance, he could hear something—a faint sound, almost like a whisper on the wind. Or perhaps it was his own voice, repeating the same words over and over.
Survive.
The cold gnawed at his bones, and his body felt like it had turned to stone, frozen and unyielding. His eyelids were heavy with the weight of exhaustion, and his limbs were numb, barely registering the sensation of the snow that had half-buried him during his collapse. But the vision of the Citadel refused to leave his mind. It burned there, seared into his thoughts with a clarity that nothing else had. The towering iron gates, the cold stone spires, the unshakable sense that it was the only way forward—the only chance for survival.
With a monumental effort, he forced his body to move.
His fingers dug into the snow, trembling, weak, and numb, but still he pulled himself up, inch by inch. Every movement was agony, his muscles protesting, his skin stinging as the cold bit at him anew. But he gritted his teeth, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His vision swam, the world around him a blur of white and shadow, but he pushed on. There was no other choice.
The wind howled fiercely, whipping snow into his face, blinding him momentarily. But he forced his eyes open, blinking against the freezing air, searching for something—anything—that could give him a direction. The mountains loomed behind him, but the Citadel wasn't there. It had never been. It existed somewhere else, far from this frozen wasteland, but he knew he had to find it.
He staggered to his feet, his legs shaking beneath him, barely able to hold his own weight. His body screamed at him to stop, to lie back down and surrender to the cold, but he refused to listen. The image of the Citadel was all that kept him moving now, a beacon in his mind, an anchor in the storm. He had to find it. He would find it.
His feet dragged through the snow, each step a struggle. The blizzard hadn't yet fully arrived, but the winds were already building again, their icy claws digging into his flesh, threatening to pull him back down into the snow. The landscape around him was a desolate, endless expanse of white, with no landmarks, no signs of life, nothing to guide him but the vision in his mind.
Where is it?
The thought echoed in his head, filled with desperation.
Where are you?
The Citadel's gates creaked open in his mind, the stone walls looming higher, a promise and a threat all at once. The memory of it felt real—tangible—but it was incomplete, fragmented. And yet, it was all he had. His only chance of surviving this frozen deathtrap.
His legs buckled again, but he caught himself before falling, stumbling forward in a half-crawl, half-shuffle. The snow was thick beneath him, every movement slow and agonizing. He had no idea where he was going—no sense of direction. Only the desperate drive to find shelter, to escape the death that hovered so close to him now.
Minutes passed, or perhaps hours. Time had lost its meaning. He was running on instinct alone, every part of him screaming for rest, for warmth, for food. But he couldn't stop. Stopping meant death.
And death, here, in this barren, frozen world, was something he feared more than anything.
The wind roared in his ears, the snow thickening again, blinding him. His legs felt like they might give out at any moment, but then, through the haze of exhaustion, something flickered at the edges of his mind—a distant memory, or perhaps a feeling. He didn't know if it was real or imagined, but it was enough.
The Citadel.
The vision of those massive gates loomed larger in his thoughts. He had seen it. He knew it was real. And he knew—with a certainty that defied all logic—that it could save him.
With a final surge of effort, he pushed himself onward, his body nearly collapsing with each step but still moving. He focused on the memory, the image of those iron gates swinging open before him, beckoning him inside. It was the only thing keeping him upright.
He could no longer feel his feet. His hands, his face—all numb. His body had long passed the point of pain, the cold sinking so deep that it felt like a part of him now. But still, he moved, his thoughts narrowing down to that single point—the Citadel. It was out there, somewhere beyond the snow and wind.
Somewhere beyond this endless white expanse.
And he would find it, or die trying.
His mind felt like it was teetering on the edge of oblivion as the name 'Warrior's Citadel' surged through his thoughts. It was like a spark in the darkness, the first piece of the puzzle snapping into place. His heart beat faster, though his body was failing him. He had to enter the Citadel. It was his only chance—his only hope for survival.
With that single thought, the world around him seemed to ripple. The snowstorm, the biting wind, the barren wilderness—it all spun violently, blurring into an incomprehensible swirl of white. His vision darkened, the ground beneath him tilting, and the next moment, everything faded away as his consciousness slipped from him once again.
When he stirred from unconsciousness, the first thing he felt was the absence of cold. He no longer shivered, no longer felt the frost biting at his bones. But the stiffness in his body remained, and his muscles were sore, his skin rubbed raw from the blizzard.
Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes.
What greeted him was nothing like the frozen wasteland he had been lost in.
He lay on the cold stone ground, the air around him still and quiet. His body, though weak and aching, felt different—protected, almost, like the oppressive weight of the freezing winds no longer held sway over him.
He pushed himself to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. As he blinked his eyes clear, his breath caught in his throat. Before him, stretching high into the sky like an ancient monolith, were the massive iron gates of the Citadel.
It was exactly as he had seen in his mind—towering, dark, and imposing, the gates' surface cold and smooth. Ancient carvings, symbols he couldn't quite understand, were etched into the iron, their patterns interwoven like an indecipherable code. The sheer scale of the gates was overwhelming, as though they were designed not for mere men but for giants.
As he struggled to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him, his gaze fell upon something at the foot of the gates. A rolled-up parchment, tied with a simple string, lay there, almost waiting for him. Hesitantly, he knelt and picked it up, his fingers fumbling with the knot before unraveling it. He unrolled the parchment and stared at the words inscribed in a flowing, elegant script.
Welcome to the Warrior's Citadel, Initiate.
You have been chosen to enter this sacred trial. The only way out is to conquer the Citadel, from the very bottom, here at Level Zero, to the highest peak at Level Twenty. Each level represents a different challenge, each more dangerous than the last.
Level Zero is the Rest Area, but do not mistake it for safety. The landscapes here will shift and change without warning—arid deserts, suffocating rainforests, deadly swamps, perilous mountains, and tundra. Each environment contains its own dangers, both seen and unseen.
Survival here is your first test. Learn the landscapes, master them, or perish within them.
There are no shortcuts.
Every challenge must be faced head-on. You must become stronger, faster, and smarter. Only by mastering every aspect of yourself and this world can you ascend.
Prepare yourself, for this is the beginning of your true test. And remember—there is no escape until the Citadel is conquered.
Good luck, Initiate."
His hands shook as he read the words. His mind was a whirlwind of fear, disbelief, and a gnawing sense of dread. Conquer the Citadel? Survive landscapes that constantly changed, from desert to jungle to tundra? He didn't even know how to make it through a snowstorm, let alone the shifting, hostile environments this place promised.
The reality of his situation settled in like a weight on his chest. There was no way out, no escape, except through mastering and surviving every level of the Citadel. He glanced at the towering gates again, the sheer size of them making him feel smaller, weaker, and more fragile than ever.
He had no idea where to begin. The parchment was right—this was only the beginning of his test. He hadn't eaten, hadn't rested properly, and yet the first step had already been laid out before him. The landscapes, these shifting biomes that could change in the blink of an eye, were his first enemy. He would have to learn their rhythms, their dangers, and find a way to live through them.
He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore. He was fighting for freedom from this place.
The memory of who he was, of Daniel, felt even more distant now. It was strange, the sense of being torn between two selves—this fragile, lost child standing before the gates of a myth, and the man, almost, he remembered being. But that man's memories were like shattered glass, painful and scattered, fragments of a life that no longer felt like his own.
Here, in this world, none of it mattered. The Citadel didn't care who he used to be, or what he remembered. Only what he could become.
Taking a deep breath, he folded the parchment, tucking it into his threadbare clothes. His body ached, his stomach gnawed with hunger, but he had no choice but to move forward. The Citadel beckoned, cold and unforgiving, and with the wind beginning to pick up again, Daniel knew that standing still would only hasten his end.
With a determined, though shaky step, he turned toward the vast gates of the Warrior's Citadel. This was his first step into the unknown—into a world where only strength, survival, and the will to conquer mattered.
And as he moved closer, the iron gates groaned, creaking open with a sound like thunder, welcoming him into the unforgiving labyrinth that lay beyond.
He stumbled through the iron gates of the Warrior's Citadel, his legs weak, body shaking from exhaustion. The moment he crossed the threshold, the cold wind behind him disappeared, replaced by an eerie calm. The silence was unsettling, as if the very air held its breath. His eyes darted around the dimly lit space. It was a sprawling chamber, the ceiling high above shrouded in shadow. The walls were lined with old weapon racks, empty save for the occasional rusted blade or splintered bow, reminders of those who had come before.
As he moved further inside, his foot caught on something solid. Looking down, he saw a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth. Kneeling, his fingers unwrapped it, revealing several pieces of dried jerky. His eyes widened with hunger. He grabbed a piece without thinking, tearing into it with desperate ferocity. The taste was salty and tough, but it didn't matter. His body screamed for sustenance, and he shoved another piece into his mouth, chewing and swallowing quickly.
For a moment, relief flooded through him. The gnawing emptiness in his belly began to subside as the food settled. He hadn't felt full in... how long? He couldn't remember. It was like a balm to his raw, starved body.
But as quickly as that relief came, something twisted inside him. His stomach clenched violently, and the warmth of the food turned into a roiling, nauseating pain.
"Oh no," he whispered, panic setting in.
He doubled over, gagging, his body rejecting the food as if it were poison. A wave of sickness swept over him, and before he could even comprehend what was happening, he vomited. The jerky he had devoured so greedily came back up, splattering onto the stone floor in a vile heap. He heaved again, his throat burning, his stomach now painfully empty once more.
His entire body shuddered with exhaustion, every muscle in him tensed, as if his body had betrayed him. He sat there on his knees, gasping for breath, staring at the mess he'd made. The acrid smell filled the air, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, trembling.
He felt like a fool. His body wasn't ready. How long had it been since he'd eaten? Days? Longer? He didn't know, couldn't remember. The hunger, the desperation had driven him to gorge on the jerky without thinking, and now he was worse off than before.
A deep sense of hopelessness washed over him. His eyes blurred, and for the briefest moment, he wanted to lie down and give up, to close his eyes and let the Citadel swallow him whole. What was the point? How could he survive this place if even eating turned into a punishment? He was alone, starving, and the monumental task of conquering the Citadel seemed more like a death sentence.
But something deep within him wouldn't allow him to quit. Some stubborn part of him—the part that had fought through the blizzard, that had survived against the odds—refused to let him lie down and die.
He forced himself to breathe slowly, trying to calm the storm raging inside. His mind was foggy, disjointed memories of another life flickering like broken dreams. He could feel the ache of those memories pressing in, but they didn't belong here. He couldn't cling to them now. He had to focus on the present, on survival. The Citadel didn't care about who he had been or the life he had once lived.
He shakily stood up, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, wincing at the soreness in his gut. The jerky had been a mistake, but it was something—food he hadn't had before. His stomach might have rejected it for now, but eventually, he'd adapt. He had to.
His gaze moved back toward the room, taking in the remnants of past challengers. The vastness of the Citadel loomed over him, but in that vastness, there was a sliver of hope. There was food, there was shelter, and somewhere, there would be water. He just needed to take things slowly.
The first step had been painful—more painful than he had expected—but it was a step.
After a few pitiful bites of jerky and a cautious sip from his waterskin, the child sat back, propping himself against the cold stone wall of the citadel chamber. His stomach still churned from the earlier ordeal, but this time he ate slowly, forcing himself to stay in control. The jerky was dry and tasteless in his mouth, but it was sustenance—enough to keep him alive.
For now.
As exhaustion swept over him again, his mind fogged with weariness, the child knew he needed rest. He couldn't survive on pure will alone. He curled up against the wall, clutching the waterskin to his chest like a lifeline, and closed his eyes. His body, beaten by hunger and the relentless cold of the blizzard he had escaped, slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When he woke, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. But something was different—the ache in his limbs was still there, but muted, like a shadow of its former intensity. His mind, too, felt clearer, though his stomach growled, reminding him that hunger was always present. Yet he felt rested, more so than at any point since he'd arrived in this strange, hostile place. Maybe it had been hours, or maybe days. He couldn't tell.
Stretching his stiff limbs and gingerly testing his sore muscles, the boy stood up and looked around. The chamber was large, filled with shadows and echoes, but something had caught his eye before—the broken weapons scattered in the far corner of the room. He wandered over, his footsteps echoing against the stone.
The sight was a disappointment.
Rusted swords, splintered spears, nothing that seemed even remotely usable. He sifted through the debris with a frown until something small and sharp caught his eye. A flint stone, jagged and useful. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It wasn't much, but it was something. If he could find a way to start a fire, it might save his life later.
With the flint stone tucked into his pocket, he continued to explore the chamber. His eyes landed on a door, almost hidden in the shadows. Above it, the number "0" was carved in crude, bold strokes. At its base lay a parchment, rolled tightly and yellowed with age.
He bent down, his fingers trembling slightly as he unrolled the parchment. The message was brief, written in sharp, deliberate handwriting:
"This is the entrance to the first trial. Once you pass through this door, you will not be able to return until the environment is mastered. Survive its dangers. Learn to hunt, track, and endure the elements. Time flows differently within. "
His breath caught in his throat. A sense of finality washed over him. Once he crossed through that door, there would be no coming back—not until he had mastered whatever horrors lay within. The idea of being trapped in a deadly environment with no way out... it chilled him to the bone. But there was no choice. He couldn't stay in this entry chamber forever, surviving on scraps of jerky and sips of water. His supplies wouldn't last beyond three days. If he didn't face the trials, he would starve.
Steeling himself, he stood up and gathered his remaining supplies. Three small pouches of jerky and a single waterskin—barely enough to survive for long, but it would have to do. He strapped them tightly to his belt, feeling the weight of his decisions as much as the weight of his supplies.
His heart pounded in his chest as he approached the door. He hesitated for a brief moment, his mind flickering back to the broken memories in his head. Who was he? Was he truly Daniel, or just the shadow of someone else? None of that mattered now.
Survival was his only goal. The citadel demanded it.
With a deep breath, he grasped the iron handle of the door and pushed it open. The air beyond was dry and warm, a stark contrast to the frigid blizzard he had come from. He stepped through, squinting against the blinding light, and the heavy door closed behind him with a deafening thud.
He was in a desert.
Stretching out before him was a vast expanse of golden sand, dunes rising and falling like an ocean frozen in time. The sun blazed high in the sky, merciless in its heat. The air was stifling, and the ground beneath his feet burned with an intensity that made him wince. There was no shade, no visible water, and certainly no sign of life.
The challenge had begun.
The wind picked up, blowing hot gusts of sand across the desert, stinging his skin. He shielded his face with his arm and took a tentative step forward. The heat was unbearable, far worse than he had imagined. His body, already weak from hunger and exhaustion, felt like it might give out at any moment. Each step took monumental effort, the sand shifting beneath his feet with every movement. He could feel his energy sapping away with each second under the brutal sun.
But there was no turning back. He had chosen this path.
As the desert stretched endlessly before him, the boy felt the weight of the citadel's first trial bearing down on him. He had no choice but to endure—to learn, adapt, and survive this unforgiving landscape.
And so, with determination burning as hot as the desert sun, he pressed on, one step at a time.
So?
How was it?
Thank you for taking your time and going through the story.
Reviews and constructive criticism would be helpful, though.
Cheers,
Shags.