The fight stretched into an eternity of steel and sweat. Though Rufus had dominated every instant with sheer brute force, Giotto countered each strike with the lethal precision of a coiled serpent.
For the spectators, the mere thought that such a beast of a man could lose to someone smaller, someone without that monstrous strength, was absurd—until Giotto moved.
It wasn't a step, nor a leap—it was a terrifying flow, a supernatural fluidity that denied Rufus any chance of regaining the initiative. Giotto's face was an impassive mask of concentration, but his eyes… they were wells of ice. The eyes of an executioner.
Giotto broke Rufus's balance, closing off every avenue of defense. There was no hesitation. He advanced like a predator: the dagger found the tiny gap between helmet and armor. With a brutal swing of his sword, the giant's head tore free, rolling across the wet ground like a fruit snapping from its branch.
Giotto looked down at the remains with not a trace of emotion, as if they were nothing more than trash in his path. Then, the world began to fracture.
Reality warped like a mirror struck by a hammer. Absolute darkness swallowed the horizon with a sudden, violent jolt, as though it were falling into a void. Only the trail of that abyss remained, barely lit by his emerald eyes—eyes stripped of compassion.
Giotto shot upright, a strangled gasp catching in his throat. It had been a dream, but the sensation still gripped him. His heart pounded so hard against his ribs he swore they would crack. His lungs, empty, burned in their desperate struggle for air.
Blindly, his hands clutched at the fine furs covering his new bed, in his new room, as though anchoring himself to something real.
Slowly, with ragged breaths, the real world bled back in: the dim glow of the room, the scent of firewood from the hearth by the window, its warmth wrapping around him.
He ran a cold hand over his sweat-drenched face, then stared at that same hand—the one that had gripped the dagger—now trembling uncontrollably. But when the realization struck him, a dry, rasping laugh escaped his throat.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
Two days had passed since the duel, yet the same dream stalked him every night. He feared it with the same visceral terror as a sheep sensing a wolf lurking in the pasture.
"I did what I had to do to survive… and besides, I didn't even kill him. So why the hell am I still torturing myself over something I didn't even do?"
For a moment, fear threatened to overtake him. But then came a memory—another cursed memory of the bastard who had changed him so deeply. Like all things tied to the Traveler, it was only a fragment, but useful nonetheless—and even that simple technique for mastering himself could, now or later, be the line between life and death.
The ability to program his mind with a single phrase, to smother his most primal instincts.
Giotto thought back to his university days, when his roommate had introduced him to Dune. He had already used the Fremen battle litany when facing Rufus, as a kind of private joke.
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer," he began, recalling the Bene Gesserit litany. "Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past, I will turn my inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
His mind shifted, as if someone had flipped a switch. His thoughts cleared, setting aside worry and focusing him on the present. It wasn't an absolute change—the emotions still lingered, dormant, biding their time.
«I never imagined reading Dune would turn out to be this useful.»
A warm sigh rose from his diaphragm, brushing past his red lips before leaving him.
"No time to lose my mind," he murmured, moving to the window. The sky was still dark.
For a moment, he stood utterly still, letting his preternatural senses expand beyond the room. He sought the presence of others nearby, but relaxed when he detected only the steady breathing and creaking bones of the old servant assigned to watch over him, turning a corner down the hall.
"I've got half an hour before she comes back. Better make the most of it."
He closed his eyes, letting the sensation he had felt during the fight return. It was like floating in water, aware of every inch of space around him. Freedom was the only word that could describe it.
With a precise motion of his hands and the smallest mental effort—just as the Traveler's memories had shown him—a blinding golden circle of light bloomed on the wall beside the bed.
Moving soundlessly, he approached it with caution. If he wanted to return home, he had no choice. He stepped through the portal, entering that pocket dimension for the second time.
Unlike the air of his own world, tainted by pollution, or the medieval air, fresher and more natural, this place hit his lungs with a sterile purity—like the air of a hospital, with a faintly sweet aftertaste that clung to his tongue.
The floor was bare gray concrete, as were the walls and ceiling. The only thing keeping the room from feeling like an isolation cell were the four bookcases and several stacks of papers piled in a corner. Even the book that had struck his head that first day still lay on the floor exactly where he had left it.
For a moment, he stood in awe at the idea of having his own pocket dimension, like something out of a novel, a manga, or a comic book. But the fascination didn't last long—the place was painfully monotonous.
«With a little paint and decoration, this could be the ultimate untouched paradise.»
A soft laugh escaped him at the thought.
Wasting no more time, he let his body guide him, following the Traveler's memories to one of the shelves. Slowly, he reached for one of the volumes. It was enormous, as thick as two encyclopedias put together, and seemed to have more pages than The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion combined.
It was so heavy that even with his newly enhanced, supernatural strength, he had to use both hands. He managed to hold it for a moment, but still dropped it, the impact sending a dull thud echoing across the room.
Giotto dropped to his knees, half-afraid he had cracked the floor, but relaxed when he found no damage. Only a small cloud of dust rose from the fallen book.
With some effort, he managed to turn it over to read the title. But as though Lady Fortune were mocking him, he couldn't make sense of it—it was written in a script so bizarre he had to blink several times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating.
«Of course… it couldn't be that easy.»
The alien, rippling shapes defied all logic. He scowled, frustrated, and just as he was about to close the tome… the lines stilled. The strokes rearranged themselves into patterns his mind—though not his eyes—could grasp.
The book hadn't been translated—nothing so convenient as that. Rather, it was as if he had suddenly learned to read the language in an instant. To his eyes, the symbols still looked like strange scrawls, but in his mind, the meaning was clear. The price was a sharp spike of pain behind his eyes.
Giotto ignored the strangeness, already accustomed to his new reality. A smile crept across his face as he read the title:
Foundations for New Wanderers.
----
The village was buzzing with activity. Even after two days, people still whispered about the loss of Lord Rufus and the stranger who had won the favor of His Grace, the Duke. The palace was no different.
"Did you hear?" one maid murmured to her companion. "It seems His Grace, the Duke, is questioning Lord—"
But she fell silent, eyes darting nervously as Sir Alexander strode past them without so much as a glance. Still, the moment he was out of earshot, the two maids resumed their gossip.
Of course, Sir Alexander had heard them. Though it was his duty to punish such disrespect toward the Duke and his household, at that moment he could not have cared less.
"Sir Alexander."
The voice was soft, almost honeyed, calling to him from the corridor and drawing his gaze.
Her eyes, pale blue and shining with a kind of innocent wonder, seemed untouched by the dangers of the world. Her hair, red as a ruby, glimmered in the noon light and fluttered with the sudden breeze that swept through the hall.
A gentle smile curved her crimson lips, lighting up her lovely face, as though sculpted by a master's hand. To Alexander, who was no stranger to admiring beauty, the gown she wore seemed almost an insult.
And yet, despite her radiance, Alexander felt nothing but disdain and irritation, haunted by the memory of his grandfather's words before his departure.
Sir Benjamin's voice, spoken two days earlier in the stark austerity of his study, still pounded in Alexander's skull like a hammer blow.
The room had fallen silent when Sir Benjamin had finished speaking.
"No," was all Sir Alexander said in reply.
Sir Benjamin's gaze hardened. Despite the man's age, Alexander had taken a step back, uneasy beneath the hostility radiating from his grandfather.
"That's enough, Alexander. I've tolerated your… dalliances with Lord Rufus long enough. But now we have a chance to gain standing—an alliance with the ducal house."
Rage flared across Alexander's face.
"I will not marry!" he shouted. "I've already given my heart to another. You cannot ask me to betray them like this!"
"It is time you grew up!" Sir Benjamin thundered. "Time to become a man. You will stop playing games with the heir lord and make your family proud."
"But I—"
"Nothing!" the old man cut him off, staring his grandson straight in the eyes, leaving no room for argument. "The wedding will take place after I return. For now, you will make an effort to grow close to Lady Elizabeth."
Pulled from his memories, Sir Alexander moved forward, his steps slow and measured, until he stood before the beautiful woman.
"Lady Elizabeth," he said, forcing the weariness deep into his throat. "How do you fare, my lady?"
She remained quiet, studying him, her smile still in place—though now softer, almost nervous.
"I hope I'm not intruding, but… may we speak for a moment?"
"Yes, of course," Alexander replied quickly, allowing the princess to lead him into a chamber, two guards trailing behind them.
The room was spacious, with a wide balcony overlooking the village and a table set with tea and biscuits.
When they sat, it was Alexander who spoke first, his voice betraying a hint of nerves.
"If you don't mind, may I ask the purpose of this meeting?"
Lady Elizabeth took up her teacup and sipped slowly, as though weighing her next words.
"Sir Alexander… what are your thoughts on this wedding?"
Her voice held a quiet discomfort, as if she would rather not have broached the subject at all. For Alexander, who had not expected her to mention it so soon, his mask of calm, detached composure shattered at once. He didn't even need to speak; the lady's perceptive eyes had already read him like an open book.
"I see…"
Alexander opened his mouth, desperate to explain himself, but Lady Elizabeth cut him off, her honeyed smile returning—now tinged with a delicate melancholy.
"I feel the same way about this betrothal. Sir Alexander, I do not wish to marry."
Her words, free of deceit, struck him like the shaft of an arrow. For a moment, he searched her face, hoping to find some trace of falsehood. When he found none, a sigh escaped him, releasing the weight that had been choking him since his grandfather's departure.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Elizabeth, but I feel the same. Long ago, I gave my heart to someone else."
A soft laugh slipped from the beautiful woman's lips.
"Do not worry, sir. Our families may have arranged this match, but under the old laws, either of us may dissolve it."
"Forgive my asking, my lady, but… how shall we do that?"
"In three weeks, a banquet will be held. I do not yet know all the details, but many nobles of the realm will attend. There, we may formally announce the dissolution of our betrothal, protected by the ancient laws of Emperor Constantine."
A brilliant smile lit Alexander's face. He rose at once and dropped to one knee in a gesture of respect.
"You have my gratitude, my lady. Forgive me, but I must depart at once."
"Go, then."
And with that, Sir Alexander left, leaving the woman alone in the chamber. As she watched him go, her expression shifted, the mask of innocence falling away to reveal a chilling, glacial coldness.
Two Days Ago
The hall was silent. Duke Oswald sat at the head of the table, signing papers. Beside him, his four daughters sat quietly, waiting.
Suddenly, a heavy knock echoed against the great doors, which swung open wide. Rufus strode in, dressed elegantly in shades of green and violet that made his pale skin and smooth, beardless face stand out like a flower in the desert. He advanced a few steps, then froze when he saw the entire family gathered.
"You're late," Lord Oswald said, setting down his pen and moving the papers aside.
Without wasting another second, Rufus crossed the room toward the table, throwing a sidelong glance at Elizabeth, who watched him with a petulant expression.
"What are they doing here?"
"Our business concerns them as well. Sit."
With a shrug, he pulled out the chair meant for him and sat down with a grace that seemed oddly at odds with his imposing frame.
"You'll be pleased to know, Uncle, that with a single conversation with the Duke of Ashford's envoy, I saved the duchy five hundred gold coins in winter provisions."
"What does it matter? We have more pressing matters to discuss."
"I'm the duchy's treasurer. Saving money is pressing," Rufus shot back, cutting a glance toward his cousins and letting his gaze linger on Elizabeth, who kept staring at him with that superior little smirk, barely stifling a laugh.
"Will you stop looking at me like that?" Rufus burst out, turning toward her. "You're making me uncomfortable."
"Your cousin has discovered that your new friends, the Ashfords, plan to marry Oriana Bellowes to Sir Arthur Ashford…"
Rufus leaned back in his chair and gave his uncle a mocking grin.
"Well. Not exactly Sir Arthur's type, but I suppose they'll make do."
"Your jokes aren't appreciated."
"It wasn't my best, but I think—"
"I brought them to our side, and this is how they repay us? By trying to steal the South from under our noses?"
Silence fell over the room. At last, Rufus spoke.
"Oriana is the key to the South? I seem to recall she still has an elder brother."
"Not anymore."
"What do you—?"
"The Acastres have withdrawn. The young stag lost half his army, and this morning I received word from the front that his head was taken in the last battle. What's more, young Appylton killed her other two brothers. Oriana Bellowes is now heir to Springland—and I will not hand her over to the Ashfords."
A loud sound broke the stillness. Vanessa had leapt to her feet.
"Then that means…?"
"It means the war is over, and the warriors will soon be coming home."
Tears of joy streamed down Vanessa's face as Beatriz, the eldest of the four sisters, moved to comfort her. Both had returned to the duchy while the war still raged.
Rufus ignored the tender scene and turned back to his uncle.
"The Ashfords' troops and supplies helped us win this war. Is it wise to deny them Springland?"
"There's nothing to deny," the duke replied, meeting his nephew's gaze. "This is a plot. Plots are not public knowledge, and the Ashfords won't act on this one until after King Henrick's wedding."
He paused, letting his eyes sweep over everyone present.
"We must act first and end this union before it's born."
"And how exactly do we do that?" Joana, the third sister, asked, doubt clouding her face.
"We will find Oriana Bellowes another husband."
"Wonderful," Rufus said dryly, clearly eager to end the conversation.
"Yes, it is," Elizabeth replied, speaking for the first time, her voice laced with amusement.
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Rufus looked at his cousin, genuinely irritated now. His gaze moved from one sister to the next, and finally stopped on his uncle—only to find everyone's eyes fixed squarely on him.
His usually calm eyes widened as understanding struck.
"You can't be serious…"
"I am."
"Henrick made that poor girl's life hell after he beheaded her grandfather. Now that she's finally free of him, you want to give her to me? That's too cruel, even for you."
"Do you intend to mistreat her?"
Rufus fell silent, staring at his uncle's stone-like face.
"The girl's happiness is no concern of mine. Nor yours."
"She's just a child!" Rufus exploded.
"She's bled, I assure you," Elizabeth said with a cool smile, utterly fearless before her cousin. "She and I discussed it once."
"Well then, you see?" Oswald interjected. "You'll marry her, bed her, and give her a son. After so many games with men and women alike, I'm sure you can manage that, can't you?"
"And if I refuse?"
"You wanted more authority and responsibility. Oriana Bellowes will give you the South—and all the power you've been craving."
"You should be thanking God for this. It's more than you deserve."
"Rufus will do as he's told… and so will you."
All eyes turned to Elizabeth, who suddenly looked uncertain. The haughtiness drained from her face.
"What do you mean?"
"You will marry Sir Alexander."
For a moment, Elizabeth felt the air leave her lungs. When she finally found her voice, it was sharp.
"Absolutely not."
"The young man will inherit his grandfather's position. Rufus will secure the South, and you will safeguard our hold here."
"No. I won't do it."
"Yes, you will."
"I'm already married! Have you forgotten?"
The air grew so thick it might have been cut with a knife.
"No, I haven't forgotten," the duke said, his face hardening as he locked eyes with her. Elizabeth flinched and looked away. "You're still young. You will marry young Alexander and give him a son."
"I'm not a broodmare—I'm the Duchess of—!"
"You're my daughter!" the duke thundered. "You'll do as you're told and marry Alexander of Arnald. That will put an end, once and for all, to the rumors about you."
Elizabeth's face ran through a storm of emotions until panic finally broke her perfect composure.
"Father, please… don't make me."
"Enough!" the duke roared, slamming his fist against the table.
"My family," he said, his eyes sweeping over each of his daughters, then Rufus, and finally settling on Elizabeth, "has dragged the Whiterton name through the mud long enough."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving them all in silence.
The sound of the door closing behind him was like a bucket of cold water poured over the fever of memory.
Back in the present, Elizabeth still stood on the balcony, but now her face bore a mask of icy resolve.
«Father, your plans will not go as you wish.»
But something else caught her eye: that barbarian everyone had been whispering about these past few days was in the training yard, practicing his strange style of fighting with dagger and sword. The place was nearly empty at this hour, save for a few guards keeping watch.
«It wouldn't hurt to get closer to that man. He might just prove useful.»
As Elizabeth plotted, the object of her attention sweated under the noon sun. In the training yard, Giotto repeated again and again the movements that had saved his life, struggling to tame the alien strength that now resided in his muscles.
-------
Yet while the folk of Withertown lived on in blissful ignorance of what lurked beyond their walls, those outside enjoyed no such fortune.
For a veteran like Benjamin, a man who had buried his eldest son after the war, who had served the old duke and laid him to rest just as he now served his son, the village's placid routine felt almost like an insult.
Even having long outlived the age when old soldiers normally die, little in this world could surprise him anymore. He had faced creatures spawned from the very pit of hell, had infiltrated the lands of eternal darkness, had crossed the world and found new empires beyond the ends of the earth, back when the Ghost King threatened to devour every last human soul.
But now, for the first time in over thirty years, he felt a faint prickle trace its way down his spine. It was the same sensation that had seized him when he stood against the Spirit King.
The moon still shone high in the sky when a howl, like that of a wolf, echoed through the entire forest.
"Down!" the old knight ordered his group, urging them into the cover of the undergrowth.
"Sir," one of his soldiers called out, his voice trembling, "how can one of those beasts be here? We haven't even reached the borderlands."
"Silence."
But the instant the word left his lips, a scream of pure horror ripped through the woods from the very man who had just spoken.
In a flash, every blade was drawn. And then they saw it.
A shapeless creature, standing upright on two legs. It had no fur—only oily, putrid flesh. Its wolf-like snout was sealed shut; it had no eyes, no ears on its head. But across its belly, a long, grinning mouth full of teeth split it in two.
The group stood frozen, watching the aberration devour the unfortunate soldier, who, still alive, begged for mercy.
The young man's blood soaked the earth in a dark pool. And just as death was about to claim him, the creature split open down the middle, its lower jaw unhinging to reveal the ghastly interior.
Sir Benjamin hesitated—for the first time in a great long while. Never in his life had he witnessed such blasphemy. For a single, shameful instant, he wanted to drop his sword and flee as fast as his legs could carry him, but his senses returned. Gripping his blade, he lunged forward ten paces in a single bound, slicing the creature in two at the corners of its inner mouth.
The cleft body fell to the ground with a canine whimper.
Benjamin looked at the young soldier, wretched and barely alive. With one clean motion, he drove his blade into the man's head, ending his suffering. Then he turned his gaze to his men.
"Steel yourselves!" he commanded in a hard voice, the voice of a veteran tempered by war. "Ready for battle! We are in enemy territory!"
It was enough to shock them back into courage. Suddenly, the sound of water reached their ears. But they all knew there was no river nearby. Benjamin glanced back at the creature's corpse and let out a shaky sigh as he watched it, though cloven in two, still lapping at the soldier's pool of blood.
Without waiting another second, he raised his sword and severed its head.
"Oh, no…"
A collective moan of horror swept through the forest as the body twitched and mutated. The head began to transform until Benjamin saw something that froze the blood in his veins: the face of an old comrade, a brother from a hundred battles. His eyes held a terror so profound that none of the soldiers who saw it could stifle their retching.
«Eldric… old friend… what have they done to you?»
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
This marks the end of the first arc of the story.
What would you name this arc?
In the next one, we'll see how this world unfolds, how Giotto will survive noble politics and intrigues, as well as the dangers this world hides that are soon set to erupt.
By the way, did you know that this story was originally conceived as a multiverse-travel fanfic—a somewhat simpler tale? But the more I thought about it, the more I felt compelled to turn it into a full novel.
Thank you for reading!
—The Author