When Alaric awoke, he lay on soft grass instead of cold stone. The air was crisp, clean, and fragrant with flowers unlike any he had known. Above him stretched not one moon, but two, hanging like pale eyes over a star-swept sky.
He rose, his armor strangely lighter, his wounds gone. His sword, however, gleamed brighter than ever, etched with runes he had never seen before.
A voice rang out—gentle, melodic, and not of this earth.
"You who carry the faith of another world… we summon you to ours."
From the trees stepped figures both beautiful and strange. One bore pointed ears and eyes like emerald fire—an elf. Another was small, barely to Alaric's waist, with a beard that nearly touched the ground—a dwarf. Behind them, cloaked in silver robes, stood a human mage with a staff.
"You are the summoned one," the mage said, bowing. "Our world is besieged by horrors beyond mortal reckoning. We prayed for a champion… and the gods answered with you."
Alaric's hand tightened on his sword. "What witchcraft is this? Speak plain, wizard."
The elf spoke, her voice carrying a sadness that seemed centuries old.
"Demons walk our lands, and the gods of this realm are silent. The kingdoms of men, elf, and dwarf are crumbling. You were chosen, knight, to be our shield."
Alaric looked skyward, to the twin moons. His prayer had been answered, but not in the way he expected. He was no longer in Christendom. He was in a land where faith and steel would be tested against monsters he had never dreamed of.
He lowered his blade and nodded. "If it is God's will… then I will fight."