The first thing Vance awoke to was a sudden burst of noise: a symphony of chatter, laughter, and a impulse to move. His body urged him to move, to find a more comfortable position.
But years of experience and hardened instincts from military drills kept him still. Instead of reacting, he lay there motionless, letting the voices wash over him in waves. Perhaps, if he listened long enough, he could glean something useful. Anything.
Mentally focusing gradually revealed three voices that stood out from the muddled hum. One of them triggered something deep in his memory—an itch he couldn't place. The other two were completely foreign.
"Bal, don't you think the Vanta branch was a little too quick-footed dispatching us here? And why send this miserable wench along for the ride? What does—"
The voice faded into a series of disjointed grumbles. Male, energetic, far too talkative. Vance recognized the type immediately. Every group had one. Just as he was bracing himself for more, a sharper, colder voice cut in.
"Astre, I'm just as displeased to be here with you as Balgur is. Could you be quiet for once? Your voice is not as pleasant as you think it is."
The contempt in her tone was razor-sharp. There was no hint of humor in it.
"Oh? So the little silver princess found her tongue?" the first voice shot back, thick with mockery. "Funny. Can't say the same for your cooking skills, or your luck with men."
"Astre!" A third voice, heavier and older, stepped in, clearly attempting to restore some order.
He was sure of it. The last voice had to be this 'Bal' who was now clearly trying to douse the brewing flames between his compatriots. However, the familiar voice that he connected to that of a female clearly wasn't finished.
"Mocking my love life? Bold of you, considering the entire red-light district could map out your… deficiencies. Maybe improve your reach before running your mouth." A harsh laugh followed, short and mean.
Vance winced slightly, both from the insult and the dull ache behind his eyes. The entire exchange felt surreal. Despite the strange terms and unfamiliar references, he understood everything. Not just the words, but the meaning behind them.
He felt like he'd known this language forever, even though he knew he hadn't.
Suddenly, like a blade slicing clean through fog, the older, commanding voice silenced them all.
"Hush up."
The word rang out, clean and final. The speaker didn't raise his voice, but his tone carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. When he continued, there was a faint trace of amusement curling around the words.
"Let's not give our not-so-sleeping beauty a poor first impression." A pause followed. Then: "Isn't that right, survivor?"
Vance froze. Had he known he was awake this entire time? How? He'd made no sound, no movement.
A cold ripple of uncertainty slid down his spine. Slowly, he shifted beneath the worn fabric of the cot. Pain greeted him in waves as he forced his limbs to move. Light filtered into the tent as the exit swayed, thin and gold, touching the frayed canvas above him. He let out a low groan as his muscles cried in protest.
"Take your time," the voice offered, now tinged with something almost kind. "Your body isn't in the best shape."
Vance gritted his teeth and sat up. Bandages clung to his arms and torso, stained lightly with blood shifting as a result. A rough cotton tunic had been draped over his shoulders. As he swung his legs to the ground, he noticed how unsteady they felt beneath him.
Stepping outside a burst of sunlight forced him to squint. It was warm, almost too warm, and the air carried the scent of ash and pine. Around him, the world opened up. A small clearing surrounded by ruined stone, and severed trees. In the distance, broken towers leaned awkwardly against the sky.
Near a modest campfire, located in the middle of the clearing threefigures curiously observed his every movement.
They were each clad in armor, but nothing uniform. Each bearing different marks and styles. Etched symbols, decorative trims, and strange runes that shimmered faintly in the sun. Their weapons were real, not ceremonial. Vance didn't need to touch them to know they were sharp. The glint on their edge shared many untold stories.
Looking up after his momentary stupor. At the center, behind a dead campfire, Vance appraised a mountain of a man with midnight-blue hair, piercing pupils of matching colour, rough facial features, and a presence that stretched beyond his size. To his right, a smaller, lanky blond man lounged against a log, a lazy grin on his face. And to the left sat the woman. The same woman who had slain that green-skinned beast. His gaze lingered on her as she invited him to sit alongside them.
"Take a seat," she said, nudging toward a log near the outted fire.
The blond one stood, dusting off his hands. He strolled toward Vance with a bounce in his step.
"Shouldn't we introduce ourselves first, Cecilia?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Short. Talkative. Energetic.
Vance pinned the voice to the man he heard in the tent immediately.
"I'm Astre," he said with a flourish, then gestured to the others individually from right to left. "And these two grumps are Balgur and Cecilia."
Vance hesitated, then gave a stiff nod. Which name should I tell them? Smiling awkwardly, he gave the only one he knew. "It's Vance." His voice cracked a little.
There was a moment of silence, not awkward but weighty. Something about the way they watched him unsettled him. As though they were still deciding if he was safe.
Amidst the silence, the thought that had been gnawing at the back of his mind resurfaced abruptly. Why could he understand them so clearly? Had he unintentionally gained the linguistic skills of this… body, just by transporting over?
This wasn't English. He was sure of it. The words felt different in his mouth. And yet, they came naturally. Effortlessly. With the meaning behind them just as clear as they ought to be.
Before he could think more on it, the man called Bal spoke one more. His voice was deeper now, laced with purpose.
"So, Vance," he said, "ever since we pulled you out of that ruin, we've all been wondering. How did you survive the orc onslaught?"
Vance swallowed. Suddenly the air felt heavier.
"I'm just as confused as you," he admitted.
Balgur didn't blink. "We went back," he said. "To where Cecilia found you. We discovered something… odd."
Vance said nothing. There was no need to.
"There were remnants of blood, scraps of your clothing, and skin, embedded into a stone wall. As if you'd been driven into it."
Balgur leaned forward. His voice was lower now.
"You should be dead"
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Vance's thoughts scrambled to make sense of it. Slowly, but surely his situation was coming together the more they talked. It seemed he had really transported over as the result of the original owners death.
"Maybe he's some kind of abomination? Or maybe he just slipped through the cracks." Astre added.
Vance didn't understand the last part, but he heard enough.
"You think I'm some kind of monster?"
Balgur chuckled. It was a low, rolling sound, not without humor, but far from comforting.
"If you were, you wouldn't be standing right now."
The axes strapped to his back seemed to glint as if in agreement.
Astre moved closer again, crouching beside Vance with all the subtlety of a gossiping child.
"So. You're what? Fifteen? Sixtheen? Now that homes gone, what would you like to do?" He pointed toward the ruins behind them.
Vance followed his gaze. The city stood broken and burned, a husk of whatever it had once been.
But he felt no connection to the place.
Nothing.
Not the faces, not the streets, not plants.
His chest tightened.
His mind drifted elsewhere. To another place. One that now felt more like a dream than a memory.
My home, huh…