Alan's stomach twisted itself into a knot and staged a violent protest against his ribs. The gnawing hunger might have been tolerable if it weren't for the way his body had betrayed him during the past two days of what could generously be called sleep, though it resembled a coma more than rest. No dreams had visited him, just static, the kind of unconsciousness that devoured time and spat out confusion.
He rolled off his rickety bed, a piece of furniture that belonged in a dumpster more than a bedroom. Not that he couldn't afford better, but the decrepit thing had become part of the room's character, like a reliably awful friend who refused to leave.
Alan shuffled toward the wooden window across from his bed, squinting at the light seeping through the curtains. His internal clock suggested three in the morning, which would explain the peaceful darkness outside.
He reached for the curtain and pulled it aside.
Blazing sunlight slammed into his retinas like a physical blow. Alan winced, threw up a defensive hand, and yanked the curtain shut with unnecessary force.
Summer. Of course it was summer.
Now came the most tedious part of his morning routine: locating his glasses. He surveyed his archaeological site of a room with the resignation of someone who had fought this battle too many times. Clothes had colonised one corner, training gear had established a beachhead in another, and books pressed against the wall in defensive formation, as if hiding from his lack of attention.
Decluttering never made it onto his to-do list, assuming he kept such lists. The place hadn't been properly cleaned since he'd moved in, and each day of neglect only added to this monument of procrastination.
He lifted his foot to examine what he'd stepped on during his blind navigation. His glasses stared back at him, somehow unbroken despite the punishment. His luck with fragile objects bordered on supernatural.
This time, he opened his bedroom door and headed downstairs. Electronic warfare drifted from the twins' room, the distinctive bleeps and explosions of their video game console. They noticed him passing but remained absorbed in their digital conquest.
Something nagged at him.
"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" he called through their open door.
"Summer vacation," they replied in perfect unison, their voices synchronised with unsettling precision, though the smugness in their tone made his eye twitch.
"Right, of course." The fog of his extended sleep had apparently scrambled his sense of time. Two days of unconsciousness would do that to a person's grip on reality.
The kitchen sounds grew louder as Alan reached the ground floor. Aisha moved around the stove with the efficient motions of someone who had long ago accepted her role as the household's sole functioning adult.
"Good evening, Alan," she said without looking up.
Aisha had reached her fifties with the kind of tired energy that came from raising twins while managing a household determined to achieve maximum entropy. Her dark hair showed threads of grey despite the scarf she used to conceal them. She possessed that particular brand of competence that came from being surrounded by people who couldn't manage basic survival skills.
"Yeah, hi," Alan managed, his voice still rough with sleep.
"There's pizza if you're hungry." She gestured toward a square cardboard box on the living room table.
"Finally. You're a lifesaver." His gratitude was entirely sincere. His stomach had moved beyond polite requests into active rebellion.
Aisha's mouth curved into what might have been a smirk. Alan dropped onto the couch and grabbed a slice of pizza, which produced a sound like gravel under teeth when he bit into it.
"The pizza's from yesterday, by the way," Aisha added, her grin widening with obvious satisfaction.
"You're thirty years older than me and still play pranks like a kid."
"Says the person who painted my entire hairbrush green last month."
"That was justified retaliation; you started the war."
"I was cleaning your ramen pot," Aisha pointed out with the tone of someone stating obvious facts.
"With bleach, there's a difference between cleaning and chemical warfare."
"Consider yesterday's pizza your reward for the dinner performance," she continued, clearly enjoying herself. "The kids called for you for hours, but you didn't respond to anything."
"I was unconscious. That should qualify as a legitimate excuse, Your Honour."
Aisha's laughter suggested she found his defence less than compelling. "Lunch will be ready in half an hour if you want something that won't require emergency dental work."
"Half an hour?" Alan peeled himself off the couch with the slow movements of someone whose body was still negotiating with consciousness. "Thanks, but I'll eat out. I need to move around anyway."
One disadvantage of living in a large house revealed itself during his dramatic exit: the considerable distance between decision and door. Alan grabbed his motorbike keys and headed toward the nearest restaurant that might serve food suitable for human consumption.
...
The tree Alan chose for his post-meal rest offered both shade and a clear view of families enjoying the afternoon in the public park. Lunch had probably emptied his wallet, but the relief of eating something that didn't crunch like construction materials was worth the financial sacrifice. Money would work itself out eventually. It always did.
His eyes followed the people moving through the park: young parents pushing strollers, elderly couples walking with careful steps, children discovering physics through playground equipment. The breeze carried scents that reminded him of his house during spring cleaning, mixed with the distinctly urban aroma of nearby food carts.
The contradiction of peaceful nature surrounded by city noise should have been jarring, but somehow it worked. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked with the half-hearted effort of an animal too comfortable to be genuinely annoyed.
For the first time in days, Alan felt something approaching contentment.
Then his head began to pound.
"Perfect spot for a nap," he murmured to himself.
He leaned back against the tree trunk, stretched his legs out, and placed his glasses carefully in his right hand. The folded arms of his jacket created a makeshift pillow. Sure, there were birds overhead ready to provide unwanted decorations, insects with questionable intentions, and grass that was mysteriously damp despite the sunny weather, but the spot had potential.
"This is probably a terrible idea. I'll move in five minutes. Just five minutes with my eyes closed."
Alan let his eyelids drift shut, the sounds of the park fading into a comfortable background hum.
...
Pain exploded through Alan's skull like a lightning strike. Someone was poking him with what felt like a stick, delivered with the enthusiasm of a bored child looking for entertainment.
He kept his eyes closed, hoping whoever was bothering him would lose interest and find someone else to torment. Children had notoriously short attention spans when their games didn't produce immediate results.
But something was fundamentally wrong. His hearing had changed, as if he were underwater or someone had stuffed cotton in his ears. The familiar sounds of the park, birds chattering, distant traffic, and children playing, had vanished entirely. Even the wind felt different, carrying an unfamiliar chill that raised goosebumps on his arms.
That was when he realised the tree was gone.
"What the hell?" Alan's eyes snapped open as something that was definitely not a stick connected with his skull with the force of a baseball bat.
A voice responded in sounds that his brain refused to process as language. The words, if they were words, carried the tone of someone who was either very angry or very surprised, possibly both.
Alan fumbled for his glasses and looked up at the source of the voice. The world swam into focus, revealing a scene that belonged in a completely different century. The tree he'd been leaning against had been replaced by a stone wall that looked like it belonged to a medieval blacksmith's shop. The soft grass had become dry, cracked dirt marked with wheel ruts and hoofprints.
The air carried a bite that hadn't been there moments before. The sky, which had been clear and bright during his lunch, was now choked with thick clouds that allowed only fragments of sunlight to penetrate.
And the buildings, the people, the entire world around him had transformed into something from a historical drama.
A crowd had gathered around him, their faces showing curiosity and concern. Some whispered among themselves in an incomprehensible language, while others tried to communicate with him directly. However, their words bounced off his consciousness without conveying any real meaning.
Alan's mind raced through every language he knew: English, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, and a dozen others. Nothing registered. Not even a hint of familiarity. In his entire life, he had never encountered a situation where his linguistic skills proved completely useless.
The old man who had apparently been hitting him with what turned out to be a wooden staff looked pale and sweaty. His expression suggested he hadn't meant to strike quite so hard, or perhaps he was surprised that his target had finally responded.
Alan's vision began to swim with alarming red tints. His head felt like someone was using it for drumming practice. He dropped to his knees, strength draining from his limbs like water from a broken container.
This was definitely not the time or place to lose consciousness. Every survival instinct he possessed screamed warnings about the vulnerability of unconsciousness in an unknown environment surrounded by strangers.
Someone placed a hand on his shoulder. The weight of what felt like a heavy cloak or blanket settled around him, providing warmth against the unexpected chill.
A voice spoke near his ear, the tone suggesting reassurance despite the linguistic barrier. Alan couldn't understand the words, but something in the speaker's manner suggested it might be safe to stop fighting consciousness.
As his awareness faded, he caught the metallic glint of a sword and heard something that sounded almost like his name. Not quite his name, but close enough to send a final chill down his spine before darkness claimed him.
The voice seemed to unravel in the air around him, each syllable separating and floating away like smoke. It echoed not in his ears but somewhere deeper, in a space beneath memory and conscious thought.
The last thing his fading consciousness registered was a sound like distant bells and words that appeared in his mind with crystalline clarity:
Then the world dissolved entirely, leaving only questions and the lingering taste of impossibility.
— • — Thursday Afternoon — • —
"So, he hasn't woken yet." Albert's voice, gravel-edged from years of duty, cut through the hush of the hut. Rigid routines had weathered him more than age, carving out a man who clung to predictability.
"No, sir. Not a sound. His wounds are only just healed. Could be hours yet before he stirs."
Albert's finger tapped against the sheet of paper on his desk. The crisp, stamped seal glared against the rough grain of the wood.
——————————
Report: Found Person – Case ID: Branlow-197-001
Date of Incident: Thursday, 7th of Gelmar, 197
Time: ~6:00 PM
Location: North Zone, Branlow Village – In front of Garon's Blacksmith Shop (Human)
Summary: Unidentified male, young, found unconscious with severe head trauma. Healer Elias arrived promptly; the wound was closed using healing magic. The subject has remained comatose for three days.
Eyewitness (Garon, Blacksmith): Reported the subject blocking his shop entrance. Initially assumed he was a beggar. Attempted to rouse him gently, then, when ignored, struck him out of impatience.
Village Inquiry: No villager recognised the subject. No family, no acquaintances. Clothing style unfamiliar to any known region.
Action Required: Subject to be questioned immediately upon waking regarding name, origin, and purpose.
Status: Stray.
——————————
"All right. You're dismissed."
"Yes, sir." The guard bowed out, the latch clicking shut behind him.
Albert leaned back in his chair with a weary exhale. Stacks of reports loomed over the room like unstable cliffs. A new building was sorely needed, but the Sheriff would never approve.
"Sir! Reporting in!" The sudden, eager voice jolted him from his thoughts.
Elrik burst inside, a lanky youth bundled in winter-thick clothes, snapping off a salute with almost comical zeal. Not a guard, never had been, but he loved to play the part.
"Ah, yes." Albert slid a sealed envelope across the desk. "Take this to the Sheriff. Quickly."
"Yes, sir! Mission accepted!" The boy's enthusiasm was infectious.
"It's hardly a mission," Albert muttered. "Just a favour, but it matters. Off with you."
"Understood! Excused!" Elrik darted out, leaving the door ajar, boots clattering as he ran for his horse. The envelope weighed heavily in his hands. An official seal meant important information. Vital intelligence.
Duty and curiosity wrestled within him. Just a peek... No. Sir Albert trusts me!
His gaze was fixed on the wax seal. Although he wasn't adept at reading, his uncle's classes had taught him a few letters. Q...C... St...ray? Stray?
— • — Friday, 11:00 — • —
Alan's eyelids crept open, and with the first flicker of awareness returning to his eyes, a wave of pain burst from his chest, twisting him against the leather bed beneath him as he clutched at himself. The air was so cold that every breath escaped in pale mist, yet sweat drenched his skin as though he'd been running for hours.
He tried to push himself upright, to understand where he was, but the fire in his chest reminded him that whatever was happening inside him mattered more than anything around him. His strength ebbed quickly. He fought to keep his eyes open, but the battle was lost; sleep claimed him once again.
— • — Saturday, 18:00 — • —
When his eyes opened next, the scene had shifted slightly. The thatched ceiling above him, pricked here and there with drifting flakes of snow, was unchanged, but this time he was not alone.
To his right sat a man in his forties, brown hair streaked with grey, lines etched at the corners of his eyes. A monocle clung to his right eye. In his hands rested something like a stone mortar and pestle. The man ground into it with such force that it looked more like stabbing than crushing, his focus so absolute he didn't notice Alan's faint stirrings.
Behind him stood a boy, Alan's age perhaps, though far taller. A leather satchel hung at his side. He wore thick, fur-trimmed clothing, brown gloves matching his hair and most of his attire. His gaze was fixed, curious, on the man's work.
A sudden stab of pain tore through Alan again, not just in his chest, but throughout his limbs, a searing numbness that pinned him motionless. His body refused to obey him. Desperately, he tried to piece together what had happened. He had been sitting in the garden after a meal, and then... red. A deep, suffocating red that filled his vision. And now, here.
Had there been an accident? A car veering through the garden fence, colliding with me? But this place... these old wooden walls... nothing like a hospital.
A final flash of eerie green light swam before his eyes, and then darkness swept him under once more.
— • — Sunday, 21:00 — • —
This time, Alan woke with a start, sharper and lighter than before. The pain was gone, his body strangely whole. He couldn't quite remember the last two times clearly enough to compare, but the difference was undeniable.
He blinked up at a ceiling of smooth wood, not thatch, then sat upright in sudden alarm, turning his head from side to side.
He was on a couch now, comfortable and soft. Behind him, a small fireplace flickered. To his left, a woollen rug stretched across the floor, and another sofa faced his own. A sound drew his gaze: the soft thump of something falling. Beside him lay a heavy, light-brown coat, as though it had slid off when he rose.
He glanced down. His clothes were unchanged: black shirt, black sweatpants.
He stood, his legs tingling with faint numbness, an unsettling ache threading through his bones. But the silence of the room soothed him, no footsteps, no voices, no one.
What is happening to me? The questions multiplied in his mind, each heavier than the last, and not a single answer in reach. Even his memories blurred, leaving him unsure of what he had truly seen and what he had dreamed. Was this even real? He couldn't say.
Though the fire burned nearby, a shiver ran through him. He slipped into the fallen coat after a quick inspection and turned to trace the source of the cold. At the far wall, opposite the fire, his hand found the outlines of a wooden door braced with iron corners. Air leaked in beneath it.
Alan tried the handle; it held fast. Locked? He turned again, half-expecting to find a key waiting, but nothing of the sort. With a sigh, he returned to the fire, plucked a half-burnt stick from the grate, and raised it as a torch. The door revealed itself more clearly now—two iron locks clamped it shut. No chance of forcing this open.
A faint light caught his eye to the right. He lifted the torch, finding another door that led deeper into the house. For a moment, he wavered, torn between fear and the need to act. At last, he pushed forward.
He moved on tiptoe, careful, every step slow as though the floor might betray him. His mind betrayed him first, conjuring images from horror films. I'd better not be the first to die in this one! Still, standing idle seemed far worse.
He entered the room's centre. The faint glow came from the moon, silver light spilling through a wooden-framed glass window. Alan swept the torch back and forth, mapping the space. A kitchen? A large pot sat on coals, shelves lined with pots and pans. Ordinary enough, except for the herbs strung beside the window. Strange, unfamiliar plants hung in clusters, and one of them... glowed.
Alan had seen glowing fungi before, but nothing like this. No plant should shine so brightly, especially once cut. Its colour, its intensity, unnatural.
The thought pressed harder now: I must be dreaming. Just a dream, a strange one, but nothing more. Yet everything around him was too sharp, too vivid to dismiss.
He leaned toward the window, trying to glimpse the world beyond. Nothing but a hazy white glow met his eyes. Snow? Is the glass covered in snow? The idea was absurd; it had been midsummer only moments ago. But what did that matter? He had been in a sunlit garden only moments ago, too. Things were shifting too quickly, too violently, for reason to keep pace.
It felt as if he had stepped into another world entirely. Even the air pressed heavy and strange against his lungs.
The torch in Alan's hand was shrinking fast, its mass crumbling away to flame and ash. He turned back toward the fireplace to fetch another, hoping also to cast some light into the remaining corners of the strange room.
*Cre-eak!*
A sound cut through the silence, freezing him in place. He stepped back, pressing his spine against the windowed wall, torch raised and sweeping left and right. Nothing. He turned again toward the window, telling himself it was only the wind rattling the glass, or his own nerves playing tricks on him. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, and leaned closer to the hanging plants.
The glowing sprig by the corner released a scent so sweet, so strangely inviting, it almost pulled him forward. His hand twitched, ready to pluck it, but reason clawed him back. What if it were poisonous?
Then, without thought, his hands moved. He caught a wrist lunging from behind, used his own momentum to pivot, and hurled the intruder over his shoulder. The body crashed hard onto the kitchen steps with a deafening thud that shattered the oppressive stillness.
Alarms rang in Alan's skull. He stumbled back, whirling around the corner. He wasn't alone. Another set of footsteps. He dropped into a defensive stance, waiting for the next strike. The torch sputtered out, plunging him into darkness, but he could still sense the vibrations in the floorboards, faint but certain.
A second sound—where? Where? Behind me?
He leapt forward just in time, narrowly avoiding a massive hand that tore straight through the wooden wall as if it were wet paper. Another hand followed, gouging out a second hole. Then, with a splintering crash, a hulking body forced its way through the breach, moonlight and a gale of icy wind flooding in around it.
Alan saw them now, three figures. The one he had thrown was already scrambling to his feet. The brute who had smashed through the wall towered over them, his frame filling the jagged opening. And a third stood motionless at the kitchen door. All three wore black masks, their forms wrapped in dark, tight-fitting garb.
What the hell is going on?! Would it kill one of you to explain?!
As much as Alan wanted answers, who they were, why they were here, nothing about them suggested conversation. Should I bolt through the hole in the wall? Every instinct screamed: bad idea.
He snatched a broken plank from the wreckage and swung it at the figure by the door, an easier target than the gorilla that had just torn the wall apart. But with terrifying speed, the man caught him by the throat and lifted him clean off the ground.
"Ghkk—!" The sound strangled in Alan's throat. What kind of monster moves that fast without snapping his own arm?!
He kicked wildly, aiming for the man's face, but the grip only tightened. His vision blurred, his limbs thrashing on their own, desperate for air. His strength bled out, the world dissolving into a wash of white sand, then sinking into absolute black.
And then...
The hulking man hoisted Alan over his shoulder and stepped out through the gaping hole in the kitchen wall, the other two masked figures close behind. Outside, their carriage was waiting. Hardly ideal transport in the middle of a snowstorm, but it served their purpose well enough.
Just before climbing aboard, the brute thought he heard a faint gasp. He turned his head, scanning the storm. Nothing. No one. The wind howled too loudly for anything to be certain. Dismissing it, he climbed inside the carriage, unaware of the boy clinging for dear life beneath it, fingers hooked to the frame, body trembling as he fought to keep his back from scraping against the frozen ground.
Since the appearance of the strange boy, the stray, and Elrik's return from the Sheriff's office, the youth's curiosity had burned hotter than ever. Who was this stranger? What made him so dangerous? He'd even snuck off with his uncle Elias, the village healer, to try and see him for himself. But the boy had only been asleep then, unresponsive, a disappointment for Elrik.
Earlier today, Albert had given him a cryptic order: stay inside, no matter what. Elrik assumed it was the weather, or perhaps a warning about prowling beasts. But mystery gnawed at him, and he wanted the truth for himself.
So when night fell and the snow thickened, he slipped out into the dark. The village streets were empty, the silence broken only by the storm. Nothing unusual... until he reached the edge of his uncle's house. That's where he saw it: a strange red glow, flickering against the storm.
It was a torch, fastened to the side of a carriage. And standing beside it, too close, too sudden, was a massive figure. By the time Elrik realised, it was too late to flee. Panic carried him downward, sliding beneath the carriage, heart hammering.
And... well, that had been a terrible mistake. He didn't realise just how terrible until the wheels began to turn.
What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?!
[Start] Arc 1: A Problematic Butterfly