Salvus awoke to a world that felt simultaneously alive and foreign. The sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving a velvet twilight in its place. The streets were narrow and uneven, paved with cobblestones that gleamed faintly under the soft light of lanterns hanging from wooden posts. Buildings of worn stone and timber lined the roads, their windows dark but for the occasional flicker of candlelight. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke, damp earth, and the distant salt of the sea. It was a world that hummed with life, yet moved at a slower, deliberate pace—far removed from the modern world Salvus had left behind.
He pushed himself to sit up, brushing grit and dust from his dark clothing. His body ached in places he hadn't realized could ache, and every breath felt heavier, denser. But beneath the discomfort, a new sensation thrummed in his veins: a subtle, almost imperceptible pulse of energy that made his skin tingle. He flexed his fingers, watching them glow faintly with sparks of blue light. The memory of the old man's touch—the electricity, the warmth—flashed through his mind, though he couldn't yet place it. Who had done this? And why?
Salvus rose unsteadily to his feet, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. People passed by, glancing at him with curiosity, but none approached. He noticed their clothing: simple tunics and trousers, dyed in muted colors; boots worn smooth from travel; belts holding small pouches and tools. He recognized no technology save for rudimentary lanterns and crude carts, and yet the world had a tangible, raw energy that intrigued him.
Moving down the street, he soon came across a small café tucked between two larger buildings. The sign read "Café Lumen", the letters carved into a piece of polished wood. From within came the low hum of conversation and the clinking of dishes. Salvus entered cautiously, brushing dust from his clothes. The scent of roasted beans and baked bread washed over him, grounding him momentarily.
Behind the counter stood a woman, her movements precise, almost rhythmic. Her name, he would later learn, was Lyra, meaning "lyre," an echo of harmony and hidden strength. Her dark hair was tied back in a braid, and her eyes were the color of storm clouds, calm yet stormy beneath the surface. She moved with the grace of someone trained in discipline, though her outward demeanor was casual, almost playful. Salvus could not yet know that she had once been a general of the emperor's army.