Arin's past life was a shit show. A bit harsh, maybe, but if you asked him, that's the only way to describe it.
By the time he was ten, most of his friends were already dead. Not in some distant, slow, "grandparents die peacefully in their sleep" way, no, his friends went out horribly.
Accidents. Freak ones. Their bodies twisted, broken, mangled in ways he still saw whenever he closed his eyes. And Arin? He always walked away. Sometimes with scars, sometimes with broken bones, but alive. Always alive.
At first, the adults called it "bad luck." Then they started whispering about curses. By the time he hit eleven, the kids at school had already made up their minds: Arin was a killer.
A bad omen. A plague in human skin. His last scraps of normal childhood were ripped away with the rumors. Teachers looked at him differently. Parents pulled their kids from playdates.
His only refuge had been his parents. And even then, he failed them, too.
By fifteen, when the loneliness had carved its hollow place in his chest, he'd found substances to fill it. A haze to make the weight of reality just a little less crushing. It didn't matter that it destroyed him from the inside out; at least it was something he could control.
That was until his 16th birthday, when his parents found him abusing substances in his room, and they were devastated. They began blaming themselves for what he was doing and swore to do anything to help him.
The very next day, they both died.
A car crash while they were on their way to a rehabilitation center, leaving Arin paralyzed from the neck down. He hated himself, absolutely hated himself. As he lay unmoving on the hospital bed, a single thought crossed his mind.
'Why am I still here?'
It wasn't fair. His friends, gone. His reputation, destroyed. His parents, ripped away in an instant because of him. Every hand that ever tried to hold his had been crushed the moment it touched his life.
So why him? Why was he the one left breathing, trapped in a body that refused to move, staring at ceilings that all blurred into the same white nothing?
Days bled into nights, nights into weeks. Machines breathed around him, nurses whispered about him, and the silence in his head only grew louder. Hope had died long before his body followed suit. By the time his heart stopped, Arin wasn't afraid; he was relieved.
He had lived cursed. And now, finally, the curse was over.
Or at least… that's what he thought.
***
GASP
Air left his lungs in short, ragged breaths. His body shot up from his position on a bunk bed. "Where am I now?" Looking around, he'd see that he was no longer in the corridor of dreams but instead inside a bedroom.
Instead of the hospital gown, he wore in his old world, he was wearing a brown tunic and black pants. His body was no longer skinny, but it still wasn't much to look at, although he was still noticeably taller than he was before...Just a bit. 'Did he do this to me?'
The meeting with the Architect had gone about as smoothly as it could've. All he wished he could have done was ask more questions. 'I don't even know what kind of world he sent me to, or how any of this is possible.'
Clenching his fists, he'd remember their less-than-ideal conversation. 'He's using me as a source of entertainment...'
Dropping his arms back onto the bed, a defeated sigh would escape from his lips, 'It's not like I can do anything about it, he's some kind of god, and I...I'm absolutely useless.'
Dragging himself out of the bed he woke up in, he'd begin to explore his surroundings. Opening the door to the room, he'd find himself in a long hallway, some kind of large Inn.
People were out and about, interacting with each other. The smell of food wafted through the air, mixing with faint hints of herbs and candle smoke.
Arin's eyes wandered, taking in the sight of the Inn's interior. Wooden beams supported the ceiling, and paintings of far-off lands hung crookedly on the walls. A staircase led upward, and doors dotted the hallway like silent sentinels.
Walking through the halls, a few things caught his eye. Skulls of beasts he'd never seen before hung up on the walls, a supposed world map that didn't look anything like Earth, and a book on Laws.
When he went to pick it up, it was completely indecipherable, the words flowing on the pages in a jumbled mess.
Shaking his head, he'd place the book back on the podium where he found it. 'Is it the same kind of effect that didn't let me hear the Architect's real name?'
Continuing through the Inn, he approached what appeared to be the front desk. Guests waited patiently on wooden chairs, conversing quietly over meals, while a large, broad-shouldered man guzzled from a tankard, oblivious to the newcomer.
A woman emerged from behind the desk, her expression bright and welcoming. Her long brown hair flowed down past her shoulders, streaked with hints of gray, framing a face lined with gentle wrinkles. She wore a modest brown gown, practical and unassuming, yet commanding an air of quiet authority.
"Oh, you are awake," she said with a warm smile, stepping around the desk. "You collapsed outside the King's castle. You're lucky I found you when I did. One of the guards might have detained you, and that wouldn't have been pleasant."
She paused briefly, letting her gaze take him in. "Are you all right? I should properly introduce myself. My name is Meriam, and this is my Inn. Welcome."
Arin stared at her for a moment, still adjusting to the strange new body, the unfamiliar surroundings, and the subtle weight of freedom in his limbs. He nodded slowly, feeling both relief and unease.
"M-my name is Arin, and thank you for taking me in." He bowed, unsure of whether it was a custom in this world or not.
Meriam's eyes softened as she studied him. There was no fear in her gaze, no suspicion, only concern, though Arin couldn't tell if it was genuine or just the well-polished kindness of someone who had run an inn for decades.
She gestured toward a small wooden chair tucked against the wall. Arin hesitated but complied after a few moments.
Meriam leaned against the desk, folding her hands together. "Travelers collapse outside the castle more often than you'd think, but I've never seen a child as young as you out there before."
The words cut sharper than she intended, and Arin stiffened. He didn't reply, afraid that he'd say something he wasn't supposed to.
Sensing his discomfort, Meriam gave a small chuckle, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Don't mind me. I speak too bluntly sometimes. What matters is that you're safe here, at least for now."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But keep away from the castle if you value your freedom. The King's guards aren't… charitable, especially towards peasants like us."
The use of the word peasant had all but confirmed to Arin that this world was set in medieval times or at least something similar to it. "What's the king like?" He spoke softly.
Meriam gave him a soft smile, happy that he was responding, "Well, he's a just ruler if not a bit strict, but he means well for the people...the nobility, on the other hand, is a whole different story."
Her warning carried weight, and Arin tucked it away silently. The last thing he needed was to draw attention in a world he barely understood.
From the dining hall, the loud scrape of a chair broke the quiet. The broad-shouldered man at the table had risen, mug still clutched in his massive hand. His eyes, bleary yet sharp enough to cut glass, locked onto Arin. He lumbered forward, each step making the floorboards groan under his weight.
"Oi, Meriam," the man slurred, though his voice was steady despite the alcohol. "This him? The brat you dragged in?"
"Doesn't look like much. Too clean for a beggar, too lost for a traveler. Not a soldier, not a craftsman. So what are you, boy?"
Arin's mouth opened, but no sound followed. He hated himself for it, for freezing, for appearing weak. Memories of classrooms, of teachers and classmates staring with suspicion, burned through him. Once again, eyes judged him, and once again, he had no answer.
Jorik leaned closer, the stench of ale thick on his breath. "Cat got your tongue? Or maybe you're just hiding something."
Before the silence could strangle him further, Meriam stepped between them, her expression turning sharp. "Enough, Jorik. If you've come here to drink, then drink. If you've come to harass my guests, then find an actual tavern."
The big man snorted but backed off, stomping back toward his table. "Fine, fine. But don't say I didn't warn you. Strays always bring trouble."
The words lingered in the air long after he'd sat down again, the weight of them pressing into Arin's chest.
Meriam sighed and turned back to him, her kind smile returning, though her eyes carried a weariness that hadn't been there before. "Pay no mind to him. He's a good man underneath the bluster, but ale makes his tongue cruel. Still…"
Her gaze flicked briefly toward the door before returning to Arin. "He's not wrong about one thing. Strangers are noticed in this city. More than they should be."
Meriam straightened, brushing her hands together. "No sense leaving you wandering lost. Rest tonight, eat something hearty, and tomorrow I'll help you get your bearings. You'll need work, coin, and perhaps a bit of guidance on what not to do if you want to last long in this kingdom."
Nodding shakily, Arin would get up from his seat, only for his knees to buckle. His body is still getting used to his increased height and the feeling of movement in his body again.
Rushing over to him, Meriam would help him up, "Careful now, you're a strange child, you know?"
Chuckling slightly, Arin would allow Meriam to carry him back to the room he woke up in, his eyes lingering on the encrypted book he tried reading earlier.
Meriam eased him back onto the bed with surprising strength for someone her age, tucking the thin blanket over him as though he were her own son.
"Rest," she said softly. "Tomorrow will come quick enough."
Arin stared at the ceiling, the hum of the inn muffled through the walls. For the first time in years, he felt the steady thrum of a heartbeat in a body that wasn't broken. Yet the unease wouldn't leave him.
His eyes drifted to the door, to the muffled laughter of strangers, and then back to the podium in the hall. That book. The words that writhed away from his sight.
Was it just a language barrier, or something more?
He swallowed, forcing his eyes shut. Sleep tugged at him, heavy and unfamiliar. But as the darkness crept in, Jorik's words echoed like a curse.
'Strays always bring trouble.'
And deep down, Arin feared the man was right.