The silence was the first thing that registered. It was a profound, absolute silence, broken only by the crackle of a fire and the hushed murmurs of an unfamiliar tongue. Pavlo's consciousness, which had been a violent swirl of pain and blinding light, slowly began to coalesce. The scent of pine and smoke, the feel of rough felt beneath him, and the lowing of livestock from outside were jarringly real. He tried to speak, but his voice was not his own; it was deeper, a low, guttural sound that felt foreign in his throat. He opened his eyes, and a world he had only ever seen in history books came into focus.
He was no longer in a hospital bed but lying on a simple pallet inside a round dwelling—a yurt. The walls were made of felt, stretched over a wooden lattice. The roof was a dome, with a hole in the center to let out smoke. Two women, their faces a roadmap of weathered lines, were attending to him, their expressions a mix of concern and reverence. They were speaking a language that was a strange combination of guttural sounds and sharp consonants, a precursor to modern Mongolian.
The air smelled sharply of pine smoke, thick and lingering in the round tent. Pavlo's eyes blinked open slowly, the world hazy and unfamiliar. He tried to move, but an aching stiffness pinned him to the rough pallet beneath.
A woman leaned close, her face rugged and weathered. "Bidai, can you hear me?" she asked softly in a language Pavlo somehow understood—old Mongolian, guttural and quick.
He swallowed, his voice a rasp. "Where am I? Who are you?"
Another woman, younger, touched his forehead lightly. "You are in a yurt of the Bayad clan, young prince. Your father, Temüjin, sends healers."
Pain flickered in his chest. Pavlo's mind spun. "Temüjin... I am... Tului?"
The first woman nodded. "You were sick, but now awake. You carry strength."
Tului—that name echoed in his memory, the youngest son of Genghis Khan. But he was Pavlo, a man born centuries and worlds away. How could this be?
The yurt's felt flap lifted abruptly. The room filled with the presence of a tall man cloaked in fur, his eyes sharp as an eagle's.
"You wake at last," the man's voice rumbled, commanding yet not unkind. "I am your father, Temüjin. That pain will pass. But know this—you are changed."
Tului's head swiveled. "Father, I do not understand. My mind is not yours."
Temüjin's gaze bore into him. "You hold the eyes of wisdom beyond your years. That worries me."
Tului tried to speak again but only a strange, rough growl emerged. Confusion swirled—his voice was deeper, heavier.
"Patience," Temüjin said, waving to the women. "They will restore your strength."
The younger woman, Anya, stepped forward, curiosity bright in her eyes. "You seem... different, Tului. Your thoughts are not like other sons."
Tului met her gaze. "I carry knowledge from a far place, a world I barely grasp. But it may serve this land."
Anya smiled faintly. "Then let us see if this wisdom can protect your people, and win your brothers' respect."
Temüjin nodded. "Tomorrow, you will begin a test."
Tului's heart pounded, an echo of fear and hope. Was this chance a curse or salvation?
Outside, the endless steppe stretched beneath a cold sky. The wind whispered ancient songs, and for the first time, Pavlo—the man turned Mongol prince—felt the heavy weight of a new dawn.