Year 1460 of the Holy Calendar – Borderlands of Horsin and Shersia
"Easy… easy…"
A woman's voice floated through the haze, soft but strained. Something cool touched Alaric's lips.
He tried to turn away. His body barely listened.
"Drink," the voice said. "Just a little."
Water slid into his mouth. His throat burned as it went down, but the pain felt far away, like it belonged to someone else.
He blinked.
The sky above was pale, washed‑out blue, cut by bare branches. Everything rocked gently, forward and back, forward and back.
A wagon?
"Is he awake?" another voice asked, lower, older.
"A bit," the woman replied. "He keeps drifting."
Alaric turned his head. The world blurred, then sharpened slowly.
He was lying on a pile of blankets in the back of a cart. Beside him sat a woman in a simple grey habit, sleeves rolled, dark hair tied back. Her face was pretty in a tired way, with circles under her eyes and soot still clinging to her cheek.
She noticed him looking. Her expression softened. "Good morning," she said gently. "Or… afternoon. You've slept a lot."
His tongue felt like wood. He opened his mouth; only a rasp came out.
"Here." She lifted the cup again. "Small sips."
He obeyed this time. The water tasted like life and dust.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Al…aric," he managed.
"Alaric." She smiled faintly. "I'm Sister Elaina, of the Church of the Seven. We're taking you to Shersia."
Shersia.
He'd heard that name before. From Gavin. From his parents, whispering at night.
"What… happened?" His own voice sounded wrong to his ears. Thin. Scraped out.
Sister Elaina's smile faded.
"Do you remember?" she asked.
Flashes came back.
The barrel. Smoke. Screams. White horse. Black spear. His father shouting. His mother's hands pushing him down into the dark. Sirens that didn't belong here.
He swallowed, throat aching.
"Fire," he croaked. "Soldiers."
Elaina's eyes flickered, but she didn't look away. "We came a day after," she said quietly. "Our relief cart was already in the region. We got word that a village on the Horsin side hadn't sent anyone to market. We… went to look."
She glanced past him.
Alaric turned his head just enough to see a second cart behind them, piled with bundled shapes under cloth.
He didn't ask.
"We almost missed you," Elaina went on. "You were lying next to a barrel that had rolled out of a burned house. You were holding that bag so hard I thought your fingers were glued to it."
A small, sad smile touched her lips. "Old Harn nearly broke his toe tripping over you."
Harn.
The name hurt.
"Anyone… else?" he whispered.
Elaina's hand tightened on the cup.
"…No," she said softly. "Not in that place."
The words hit more gently than the truth deserved, but they still hurt like a kick.
All gone.
Dad. Mom. Lena. Joren. The chickens. The field. Everything.
His chest squeezed. His vision blurred.
"I–" The sound snagged in his throat. "I want… to go home."
Elaina's face crumpled for a second. "Oh, love," she whispered. "I know."
Someone else might have said, You can't. She didn't.
The wagon jolted over a rut. Pain flared in his side; he hissed. Bandages pulled at his arm and leg. His clothes, what was left of them, were stiff with old smoke and dirt.
"You were half‑starved," Elaina said. "Burns on your hands, splinters everywhere, a cut on your leg. You'd been breathing smoke too long."
She hesitated.
"You were also talking in your sleep," she added quietly. "Saying strange words. 'Shelter.' 'Siren.' Things I don't hear from boys around here."
Heat crawled up his neck.
So that wasn't… just a dream.
"I thought you were… not all here at first," Elaina admitted. "Then you grabbed my sleeve and wouldn't let go when I tried to move away." Her smile turned wry. "So I decided you were still with us after all."
Alaric's throat tightened for a different reason.
His fingers dug into the blanket.
There was another set of… things in his head. Not like normal memories. Sharper, jagged, full of places that didn't fit this world.
Glass towers that scraped the sky. Metal boxes that roared down black roads. Screens that shouted news of war.
Exploding suns.
Tears finally spilled over.
They came hot and messy, not neat. His shoulders shook. A strange, thin noise slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Elaina reached out without a word and put a hand on his hair, gentle as if he might break.
He clutched the blanket and sobbed.
For Shuru. For his parents. For the village kids. For the hens he'd never get to chase again. For the people in those other memories whose names he couldn't remember at all.
He cried until there was nothing left in him to push out. His chest ached, eyes swollen, nose stuffed.
"I'm… s‑sorry," he hiccuped, not sure what he was apologizing for.
"Don't be," Elaina said softly. "Crying's cheaper than breaking."
He let out a shaky laugh he didn't really feel.
"Rest, Alaric," she said. "We'll get you to Shersia. There's an orphanage there. You'll have a bed and food. And people who'll look after you. That's all you need to think about for now."
Her voice was kind.
Alaric closed his eyes.
He couldn't stop his mind from moving, but the thoughts came slower now, swimming in the fuzz left by tears.
What am I?
I'm Alaric. Son of Tomas and Marla of Shuru.
And…
And someone else. Someone who died under a different sky. Someone who already watched a world burn.
If I've already died once… and I'm here now…
The thought tried to form into something bigger, but he was too tired to hold it.
This time…
That was as far as he got, before exhaustion dragged him under again. The cart rocked on, wheels crunching faintly over rough road and old ash.