— Verdaal. This world isn't mine, and yet... it is now.
The sunlight that filtered through the shutters was weak and reddish, barely more than a tired glow. Dust motes floated in lazy spirals, like forgotten time slipping between moments. Alaric stirred, groaning as he sat up, coarse linen clinging to his sweat-drenched body. His breath was ragged.
His head didn't ache in the normal sense. It throbbed—an electric pulse behind his eyes, as if a thousand lives whispered just out of reach.
Memories flickered.
Elevator chimes. The buzz of fluorescent lights. Late-night coding in a downtown apartment. A second life—or was this the second?
He looked around the cramped dormitory. Rows of rickety cots lined the room, most empty at this hour. The walls bore cracks filled with moss and age, and the wooden beams overhead were bowed and groaning under unseen pressure.
But his eyes were drawn to the mirror nailed crookedly on the wall.
He hesitated… then rose.
The reflection was strange. A boy—not quite a man—with raven-black hair streaked with shimmering silver, like moonlight trapped in strands. His eyes, once brown, now shone faintly violet. Glowing. Not entirely human. Not anymore.
He swallowed and turned, drawing the collar of his threadbare tunic aside to expose his shoulder.
There it was.
A sigil.
Faintly pulsing. Etched not into flesh, but through it. Angular, otherworldly. A brand burned into his very essence.
He touched it.
"Nytherion," he whispered.
A sudden creak. Then—
"ALAAARIC!"
Before he could turn, a blur crashed into his chest. A bundle of limbs, hair, and heat.
"Uff!"
He staggered back, catching the girl out of reflex.
"Y-You're awake! Finally!" Lyra's voice cracked, caught somewhere between anger and relief. Her arms wrapped tightly around him, trembling just enough to betray her worry.
He blinked. "Lyra…?"
"You jerk!" She stepped back just far enough to punch him—lightly, but with emphasis—right in the ribs.
"Ow." He smiled. "I deserved that."
"You almost died, idiot."
Alaric opened his mouth, but she shoved a crust of bread into it.
"Eat. You skipped dinner, collapsed, and muttered in your sleep like you were fighting dragons in your dreams."
He chewed. "Not… dragons. Bureaucracy. Might be worse."
She snorted, arms folded across her chest. "Still weird as ever."
He swallowed, then looked at her.
Lyra Caelis. Same age, same orphanage, same stubborn streak. Her auburn hair was tied in a messy braid, her cheeks smudged with soot from the morning kitchen fire. She wore the same faded militia jacket over patched jeans, her hands calloused but warm.
She'd been his first friend here.
Maybe his only one.
"Thanks," he said, voice softer.
"For what?"
"For always pulling me back."
Her eyes darted away, and her ears went pink. "Don't get mushy. You're just my responsibility."
"Right. Of course."
They stood in silence for a moment before Lyra clapped her hands. "Come on. I've got leftover stew."
"Bless your culinary soul."
They moved through the orphanage halls—dusty, dim, flickering with light from old Veilflux lamps. Pipes clanked in the walls. Somewhere, an electric rat skittered past a hole in the floor.
The kitchen was cramped but warm. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the pot of broth on the iron stove gave off a comforting aroma of root vegetables and spiced kelhorn.
Alaric sat by the cracked window as Lyra ladled stew into chipped bowls.
From there, he saw it all.
Duskwatch Ward.
His new home.
A sprawl of salvaged tech and half-standing towers. Walls patched with Crucible alloy and rubble. Smoke curled from chimneys. Veilstorm residue sparkled on rooftops, harmless for now. A floating platform blinked overhead, carrying supplies toward the far garrison wall. Soldiers marched past children chasing after an old drone, laughing.
A world in flux.
A city stitched together from remnants and resolve.
"Hard to believe tomorrow's the Rite," Lyra said, placing the bowl before him. "Feels like we were just hiding from frost beetles last week."
Alaric nodded. "Feels like everything's racing forward. Like time doesn't care if we're ready."
She sat across from him. "We never are. But we jump anyway."
He studied her face.
There was steel there.
Lyra had always known what this world was. She had no memories of blue skies or smartwatches. Only Duskwatch. Only survival.
He admired that.
"Do you think…" he hesitated, fingers tapping the table, "we'll both be chosen?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "I want to be."
"You will be."
"You too," she said, meeting his gaze.
He nodded slowly. "I already… I think I was marked. Before the dream ended."
Her eyes widened. "You saw Nytherion?"
"I think so. Or maybe it saw me."
A quiet fell between them.
Then—
A distant buzz. An odd whine in the air.
Lyra stood abruptly. "Do you hear that?"
"Yeah. Sounds like—"
BOOM.
The entire orphanage shook. Dust rained from the ceiling. The windows flashed white.
Then—
A scream.
Alaric didn't wait.
He was already moving—down the corridor, past the cracked prayer alcove and the half-dead Veilcore battery. Children shouted. The matron was trying to calm them. Lights flickered and buzzed.
Then he saw it.
The front door—blown open.
Something stood in the courtyard.
Something wrong.
A creature cloaked in red mist, humanoid but warped. Its limbs twisted backward, joints jutting like spears. A single eye burned on its chest, oozing Veilflux.
A Veilborn.
Inside the Ward?
"Stay here!" Alaric shouted behind him, but Lyra was already beside him.
"Not happening," she hissed, drawing a salvaged shock-blade from beneath her coat.
The Veilborn screeched, and time seemed to fracture.
Alaric's mark pulsed—bright, alive.
For the first time, he felt it respond.
To danger.
To her.
To this world.
And without thinking, he stepped forward.
Because if this world was his now…
Then so was its fight.