James Silver had always found it easier to breathe in worlds that were not his own.
It was not that his life was particularly cruel—no tragedy stalking his heels, no horror-story childhood to dredge up for sympathy. It was simply… ordinary. The sort of ordinary that clung to a man like the stale scent of recycled office air. He woke to the same ceiling, ate the same meals, listened to the same halfhearted laughter from television programs he didn't care about, and filed the same forms beneath fluorescent lights that washed color from everything they touched.
He worked on the ground floor of a technological integration and innovation corporation, a title that sounded grand until one realized the bulk of his day was spent as a clerk, shepherding paperwork and purchase orders like sheep through narrow gates. His coworkers spoke in acronyms and deadlines. His manager spoke in "synergy" and "alignment." James spoke when spoken to, smiled when the situation demanded it, and returned home in the evening to the small house he shared with his mother—quiet, tidy, and steeped in the comfortable routine of two lives that had long since learned to orbit one another without collision.
And then, when the dishes were washed and his mother retired, James became the truer version of himself.
He became the man who devoured fantasy novels until the words blurred and the pages turned to dreamstuff. He became the man who could recite skill trees and stat spreads, who knew the weight of a critical hit in his chest like a small, sacred drumbeat. He became the man who laughed too loudly with friends over a tabletop, dice clattering like rain against wood, imagination painting castles and dungeons into the empty air between them.
Escapism, some called it, with the faint curl of judgment at the end of the word.
James had never denied it.
Sometimes, a person needed a door.
So when the invitation came—a new campaign, a new world, a new setting called Zoridia—it lodged itself in his thoughts like a hook. His friend group had been buzzing for weeks about a "special DM," an experimental narrative, something immersive. The details were vague enough to be enticing, and James, who had always loved the moment before a campaign began—the clean sheet of possibility—found himself unusually eager.
The address, however, should have been the first warning.
It wasn't in any of the comfortable neighborhoods where they usually met. It wasn't a game shop, nor an apartment with pizza grease on the coffee table and posters on the walls. It was a location tucked off a side road, beyond streetlights that flickered with exhausted determination. The air was sharp with winter's bite, and James's breath spilled pale in the dark as he stood before what could only be described as a shack.
A rundown, sagging structure. Weather-beaten boards. A roof that seemed one good storm away from caving in. The sort of place you saw in horror films right before someone made a foolish decision.
James shifted his backpack strap higher on his shoulder, fingers tightening around the worn canvas as if it might anchor him. He checked his phone again, not because the address had changed, but because he wanted it to.
This is the place, the message insisted. No further explanation.
He glanced at the road behind him. Empty. Silent. No headlights. No distant hum of traffic.
"Of course," James muttered to himself, forcing a weak laugh into the cold. "Of course I'm the first one here."
He stepped up onto the porch. The wood groaned beneath his weight, complaining like an old man disturbed from sleep. His hand lifted to knock, and—
The world stopped.
It did not announce itself with thunder or blinding light. There was no cinematic shattering of reality. It was quieter than that.
The wind died mid-breath.
A dry leaf, caught in the air beside the porch railing, froze as though pinned to invisible glass. James's own exhale hung in front of him, a ghost that refused to drift away. Even the faint buzzing of a distant streetlamp ceased, leaving behind a silence so complete it pressed against his ears.
James lowered his hand slowly, his skin prickling.
He turned his head.
Down the road, a stray cat had been mid-step, one paw lifted, eyes half-lidded. It remained like a statue. The branches of a nearby tree were bent under the weight of a breeze that no longer existed. Somewhere far away, a dog had been barking—James realized, with a jolt of unease, that the bark was cut off in the middle, suspended as if time itself had clenched its fist around sound.
His heartbeat seemed suddenly loud.
A laugh of disbelief rose in his throat, but died before it could escape.
And then he noticed the figure.
It stood just off the porch, close enough that James should have heard it approach—yet how could anything approach when time was frozen?
The thing was humanoid in shape, but wrong in the way that made the mind recoil. Its head was a perfect sphere, smooth and featureless, like polished opal. Yet within that opaline depth swirled something impossibly vast: a spiral of stars, a galaxy turning slowly in silent majesty, as though James were staring into the night sky through a hole punched in reality.
James's mouth went dry.
He took one step back. The porch creaked—somehow still allowed to make noise—and the sound was the only proof he hadn't become a part of the frozen world too.
The sphere-headed being did not move its mouth—James wasn't even sure it had one. When it spoke, it did so without sound, without vibration, directly into the marrow of his thoughts.
You have been chosen from among your peers, James Silver.
The words were clear, intimate, as if spoken inches from his ear, though nothing touched him.
James swallowed. "Chosen?" he managed aloud, his voice trembling in the stillness. "For what?"
For greatness.
The galaxy within the being's head spun languidly, a slow dance of light and shadow. James had the irrational thought that if he stared too long, he would fall into it. There was an awful gravity to the thing, a pull not on flesh, but on meaning.
You and your fellows were invited to a campaign, it continued. They will not attend. Fate, coincidence, fragile mortal choice—call it what you wish. Only you stand at the threshold.
James's fingers tightened around his backpack strap until the fabric dug into his palm. "Is this some kind of… trick? A prank?"
The being did not laugh.
You will be directly transmogrified into the world of Zoridia. You will experience it as your fellow adventurers would. Not as the main character, but as a side character. The tenth child of Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion.
James's stomach dropped. "The tenth child?" he echoed, incredulous. "That's—what kind of life is that supposed to be?"
One with silk and knives, the voice replied, calm as moonlight. One where love is conditional and cruelty is dressed in etiquette. You will be born into status and yet remain vulnerable. You will be a convenient steppingstone for others.
James's mind raced. It was absurd, impossible—and yet the frozen world around him was proof that the rules he relied upon were already broken.
The being's voice softened, and somehow that was worse.
I will not see you relegated to such a role.
The air seemed to tighten, as if reality leaned closer to listen.
You will be given a system.
A word—simple, familiar, yet packed with promise. James's pulse quickened.
Attributes. Class. Level. A framework inspired by the tabletop games you cherish. In Zoridia they will call spell levels "Spheres." Mana will fuel casting, not daily limits. Your growth will be yours to shape.
James's thoughts scattered into a thousand directions—builds, classes, feats, the cold pleasure of numbers rising. It was a lifeline made of mechanics, something he understood in a situation that defied understanding.
"And… why?" he asked, voice hoarse. "Why me?"
For the first time, the galaxy within that opaline head seemed to swirl faster.
Because you are unremarkable enough to be overlooked… and hungry enough to become more.
The words struck with surgical precision. James felt seen in a way that made his skin crawl. His shoulders stiffened, pride and humiliation tangling together in his chest.
The being continued, almost kindly.
Finally, you will receive a gift from me. Two hidden abilities. One will awaken at age eight. The second at age sixteen.
James's breath caught. "What are they?"
Hidden, the voice reminded him, and James felt a faint pressure—an amused admonishment—against his mind. If I told you, they would no longer be yours to discover.
He wanted to argue, to demand clarity, to fight for control of something—anything—but the world had already been taken from him. He was a man standing on a porch in a frozen night, speaking to a being with a galaxy for a face.
His thoughts flickered briefly to his mother, asleep at home. To his friends, absent. To his job, to his ordinary life.
To the doors he'd always used to escape.
And now one had opened for him.
The being's voice became a verdict.
It is time.
James opened his mouth to protest—and the darkness took him.
It rolled over his vision like ink spilled into water. Sound vanished. Sensation followed, leaving only the faint echo of his own consciousness, drifting in an endless black.
Then—pain.
Not sharp, not cruel, but the startling pressure of existence. The squeeze of lungs that weren't his. The wet, suffocating closeness of birth. His thoughts scattered, disoriented, as if his mind had been poured into a vessel too small to hold it.
A cry shattered the darkness.
It was his—no, not his, yet it came from him. A thin, furious wail that scraped at the air.
Light bled in, blurred and bright, and James—Alaric—blinked through tears he hadn't meant to shed.
He was held.
Arms cradled him with a tenderness that made his chest ache for reasons he did not understand. Warm fabric brushed his cheek. The scent of clean linen and something floral, faint as spring, filled his new, fragile senses.
A woman's face hovered above him.
Ravishingly beautiful, in the way myths described goddesses and poets failed to capture. Metallic silver hair spilled in soft waves, catching the lamplight like poured moonlight. Her skin was alabaster, flawless save for the faint flush of exhaustion, and her eyes—her eyes were a polished metal hue, pale and luminous, looking down at him with a softness that threatened to crack something deep within him.
"Shh," she murmured, voice like velvet. "My little star… you're safe."
The words were not English. Yet he understood them.
James's mind reeled, grasping at the edges of language, finding them already woven into him like bone.
The woman—Asimi, a name surfaced unbidden, anchored to her presence—tilted her head, and for a moment he saw the subtle point of her ears, arced elegantly. A Deva. Lune-bound, if the silver hair was any indication. A mother shaped by moonlight.
His throat tightened.
My mother, he realized, and the thought was so immediate, so instinctive, it frightened him.
She adjusted her hold, rocking gently, and a cascade of soft fabric shifted around them—royal sheets, embroidered with sun and moon motifs, the symbols of a faith he did not yet know but would come to.
The room itself was vast, warm with firelight. High ceilings carved with ornate patterns. Pillars gilded with gold leaf. Drapes of deep navy and rich crimson, gathered like pooled ink against the walls. The air smelled of incense and clean stone. There were attendants in the periphery, faces blurred by his newborn vision, moving with practiced quiet.
A new presence entered his frame of view—tall, imposing, a silhouette backlit by the glow of the hearth.
A man.
He stepped closer, and the world seemed to bend slightly around him, as if acknowledging the weight of his existence. He was handsome in a severe, regal fashion—strong jaw, finely trimmed beard and moustache, eyes sharp as honed metal. His build was powerful, not bulky, but carved with the disciplined strength of a warrior who had never allowed his body to soften.
And his hair—
Golden-blonde, yet closer to molten gold than any natural hue, as though sunlight had been trapped in each strand. It shimmered faintly, alight with a restrained energy that made Alaric's skin prickle.
Emperor Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion.
James—Alaric—did not know how he knew. He simply did.
The Emperor's gaze fell upon him, and Alaric felt the strange sensation of being weighed. Not as a baby, not as a son, but as a piece on a board.
Then Tuare's expression softened—just a fraction.
"He has your eyes," the Emperor said quietly, in that same unfamiliar language Alaric understood as if he'd spoken it all his life. "And… he lives."
"As I said he would." Asimi's voice held exhaustion, but also steel beneath the velvet. "He is strong."
Tuare reached out, one gloved finger brushing Alaric's tiny fist. The touch was gentle, careful—yet Alaric sensed a coiled violence beneath the Emperor's calm, a power that could be unleashed if the world demanded it.
Galvanize, whispered some half-formed memory. Damage turned into strength. The Emperor was a man who could be punished by war and come out sharper for it.
Asimi shifted, presenting Alaric more fully, and the attendants drew closer. One held a silver basin. Another held a cloth embroidered with twin sigils: a crescent moon and a stylized sunburst.
A naming rite, Alaric understood with a dizzy clarity. Ceremony. Tradition. The beginning of a life that would be watched, judged, and shaped by others.
Tuare's voice carried through the chamber, smooth and absolute.
"Alaric."
The name landed like a seal pressed into wax.
"Asimi's fifth child," an attendant murmured, reverent. "Her second son."
Tuare's gaze did not waver. "Alaric Voss Ecthellion," he pronounced, and the full name rang with the weight of empire. "Tenth child of the throne."
Something in the room shifted, subtle as a predator's smile. A tenth child. Too far from succession to be cherished for political necessity—yet near enough to matter, near enough to be used.
Alaric's newborn body trembled—not from cold, but from a feeling he could not name.
In the corner of his vision, for a heartbeat, a faint shimmer appeared—like glass catching light.
Text.
Not written on paper, not carved into stone, but floating in the air where only he could see it.
[System: Initializing…]
Alaric's tiny fingers curled reflexively, as if trying to grasp the impossible words. The shimmer flickered, then steadied, waiting like a patient door.
Asimi kissed his forehead, and her lips were warm.
"Welcome," she whispered, "my little star."
And in the gilded heart of the Almeric Empire, beneath sun-and-moon banners and the quiet footsteps of servants, Alaric Voss Ecthellion drew his first breath as a prince—
knowing, even as a newborn, that the palace was beautiful…
and that it was full of wolves.