Darkness.
Not the soft veil of sleep, but a suffocating abyss. Elias floated, weightless, as if even the memory of his broken body had been stripped away.
Somewhere in that void, a light flickered.
It was faint at first, like a candle in a storm. Then it grew, burning brighter until it cut through the nothingness. He squinted—not that he had eyes anymore, but some lingering fragment of him tried to see.
A book hovered before him.
Not one from the library. This one was bound in pale leather that shimmered faintly, as if it were woven from starlight. Its pages turned on their own, though there was no wind. He couldn't read the script—alien letters that twisted and blurred whenever he tried to focus.
And yet, he felt it. The weight of history. The pull of destiny.
The book pulsed once—light flaring like a heartbeat. Then it snapped shut.
Elias fell.
When he opened his eyes, the world was blinding.
Sunlight poured down, too sharp after the dark. He groaned, clutching at his head, only to realize the ache in his ribs and the crushing pain of the shelves were gone. Instead, he lay on rough soil, his hands caked with dust. The air was thick with the smell of grass and dung.
Voices.
He turned his head and saw them—men and women in coarse tunics and patched trousers, staring down at him with wide, suspicious eyes. Children peeked from behind their parents' legs. A dog barked once, then fell silent, ears pinned back.
Elias pushed himself upright. His throat was dry. "Where…" His voice cracked. "Where am I?"
The villagers exchanged murmurs. Their language was harsh, clipped, full of consonants that grated against his ears. Not a word was familiar.
A man stepped forward, lean and sun-baked, holding a hoe like it was a weapon. He barked something, stabbing the air with the tool, as though warning Elias to stay down.
Elias raised his hands slowly. "I'm not—" He stopped. They didn't understand him. And he didn't understand them.
Panic gnawed at his chest. This wasn't the hospital. This wasn't even a place he knew. The landscape behind them stretched into rolling fields of golden wheat, dotted with thatched roofs and smoke curling lazily into the sky. In the distance, beyond the fields, a dark line of forest pressed against the horizon.
This wasn't home. This wasn't anywhere on Earth.
The villagers muttered louder. One spat at the ground. Another crossed herself—or at least, made a gesture like it. The man with the hoe took another step closer.
Elias swallowed hard. His mind, trained by years of reading about wars and the fragility of civilizations, was already screaming at him: Stranger. Outsider. Threat.
He opened his mouth to try again, but the words died as movement rippled through the crowd. The villagers fell silent. Heads turned.
From the dirt road beyond the wheat, the sound of hooves approached.
Elias followed their gaze. Riders emerged—five of them, armored in mismatched steel and leather, their horses kicking up dust. At their head flew a banner, black cloth snapping in the wind. A hawk, wings spread wide, a crown above its head.
The villagers bowed their heads. None dared to move.
Elias stared, chest tight, unease crawling through him. He didn't know what the banner meant, only that the men who bore it carried themselves with authority.
The riders slowed, their eyes settling on him—the stranger in their midst.
And for the first time, Elias felt the weight of being truly foreign, truly alone.