— • — Monday, 6:00 — • —
Air. That was all Alan could think about, a desperate, primal need that overrode the panic threatening to shatter his carefully maintained composure.
He had woken minutes ago to a wave of disorienting memories, followed by a surge of pure adrenaline. The carriage floor shuddered and bounced beneath him as he forced his eyes to remain shut, his body limp, his breathing a steady, shallow rhythm against the violent hammering of his heart. On his chest, a crushing weight pressed down, feet, he realised. Heavy boots that made each breath a struggle.
The ghost of that monstrous grip still lingered on his neck. What kind of man moves like that?
He was, in every sense of the word, at the mercy of fate. A pawn in a game whose rules he didn't understand. Opening his eyes meant potential unconsciousness; talking was pointless; fighting was suicide. All his martial skills, all his training, were utterly useless here.
Isn't this the part where I discover latent superpowers? Or some noble on a white stallion shows up? Who the hell is writing this script?
A low, guttural voice spoke behind him, words an alien jumble of sounds, tone grim and annoyed. The crushing weight on his chest vanished as the feet lifted. From the subtle shift in pressure, Alan guessed the massive man was to his left. Light seeped through his eyelids from what must be the carriage entrance. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against hard ground told him they were moving fast. Jumping wasn't an option, even if they stopped, that man's speed was preternatural.
He continued the charade, waiting for a miracle.
It came sooner than expected. The carriage jolted to a sudden halt.
The same male voice spoke again, sharper now, laced with tension and haste. The carriage shook violently as the giant's immense weight shifted and then exited.
A miracle!
Alan risked opening his eyes to slits, scanning the interior. Empty, save for him. He remembered three attackers; perhaps the third was driving.
*BAM!*
An explosion rocked the world outside, and a concussive wave of dust and debris blasted into the carriage. Alan scrambled up just as the entire vehicle was flung onto its side. His body slammed against the wooden wall, a white-hot spike of pain shooting through his left leg.
Fantastic.
He had to move. He didn't know what awaited him outside, but he knew with absolute certainty what awaited him if he stayed. Covering his mouth against the choking dust, he hauled himself through the shattered opening.
Chaos surrounded him. The air was thick with grit, blurring everything into vague, hazy shapes. The sounds of more explosions and the violent clash of metal echoed around him. He stumbled away from the noise, each step fresh agony. His foot caught on something solid and unyielding.
A decapitated head stared back at him, not human, but belonging to a creature like a giant turtle, its neck severed by a single, impossibly deep wound.
"Ah... ah..."
A weak, pained gasp cut through the din. Alan whirled, searching, and found a bloodied hand protruding from beneath the wreckage. Without a second thought, he began digging, pulling away splintered wood until he uncovered a young man with curly brown hair. The face looked hauntingly familiar.
*BAM!*
Another explosion. Later. Escape first.
He hauled the boy onto his back, ignoring the screaming protest from his leg, and ran. The wound wept blood with every lurching step; stopping to tend to it was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The path was treacherous, a mountain trail littered with rocks and sheer drops. The sounds of battle faded behind them as dust began to settle, and the sun rose, casting long, hopeful rays between the peaks. Alan might have appreciated the vista if he weren't bleeding out.
His leg was moments from giving way. Once he'd put a safe distance between them and the ruin, he finally stopped. Gently, he laid the boy on the ground and sat beside him. He tore a strip from his shirt, twisted it into a makeshift tourniquet, and tied it tightly above the wound. Infection was a problem for later; survival was for now.
He turned his attention to the boy, Elrik. Superficial scratches marked his face, but his fingers were a mess of swelling. His pulse was steadying, his breathing even. No signs of severe internal bleeding.
Alan allowed himself a single, shaky sigh of relief, tilting his head back to the sky. It was too clear, too vibrant, thrumming with an energy he'd never felt. This... isn't Earth after all. The last vestiges of hope that this was a dream, a hallucination, anything else, crumbled away. His intuition, cold and final, accepted the truth.
His eyes fell back on Elrik. The familiarity was nagging, a puzzle piece from a different box. Maybe just a coincidence? Since they'd taken him too, slavery was the simplest explanation.
Alan pushed himself upright, his body singing with pain. He needed shelter, a village. He couldn't walk much farther, and he was destitute.
I should leave him. I can barely carry myself. The thought was pragmatic, but it felt like a betrayal. With a grunt of effort, he hauled Elrik onto his back again. I'll carry him a little farther, just until the next turn in the road.
Time stretched, measured only by the sun's slow ascent and the burning in his leg. The wind whispered through the mountain passes. The road ahead seemed infinite.
And as if the world itself were listening, he saw it. In the distance, a horse-drawn carriage, standing still and unattended.
Reckless energy propelled him forward. He scanned the area as he approached, nothing. No driver, no passengers. Strange. Who leaves a carriage in the middle of the mountains? Well, I'm certainly not refusing.
He placed Elrik inside the carriage, then approached the horse. It was a calm, sturdy creature. He took the reins, his movements slow and deliberate. A subtle tug, and the horse obeyed, moving forward. It was his first time driving a carriage, but the principles were familiar enough.
— • — An Hour and a Half Later, 8:00 AM — • —
The horse proved indefatigable. Alan wished he could say the same for his own bruised body. I miss my motorcycle. I'd settle for a bicycle right now.
The monotony of the journey gave his mind room to wander. If this is another world, is there magic? He'd seen nothing but that strange explosion during the ambush, something that didn't look like conventional weapons. Or maybe I'm just in the sticks.
His musings were cut short. Beyond the thinning trees below, the outlines of a town emerged. Medium-sized. At their pace, they'd be there within half an hour.
...And then what? He was hungry, penniless, connectionless, and mute. He glanced back at Elrik, still unconscious. He owes me a ransom, and I'll make sure he pays. Assuming he lives.
They reached a fork in the road. The path down to the town was steep. Alan dismounted, biting back a cry of pain as his leg took his full weight, and led the horse down carefully.
The town gate was large and wooden, adorned with a sign in swirling, unfamiliar script. Two guards stood watch, bundled in heavy black winter coats with fur ushanka hats. A polished silver badge gleamed on each chest, etched with a coiling dragon.
A problem. If they searched the carriage and found a half-dead boy, Alan would be arrested before he could even attempt to mime an explanation.
He approached the gate with what he hoped was an innocent smile. The guards stepped forward, and one spoke in a demanding tone. The other moved to inspect the cart.
Alan began moving his hands, gesturing to his mouth and ears, trying to convey muteness and deafness. To his surprise, the guard's stern expression softened slightly with understanding. He turned and joined his companion at the back of the carriage.
I could run now... The thought was fleeting. Being arrested meant shelter and food, and it was starting to seem like a viable plan.
Just as he was resigning himself to captivity, the two guards returned with a conscious, albeit dazed, Elrik. Did they wake him? Or did he choose this exact moment? Alan's main hope now was that Elrik didn't think he was the kidnapper.
Fear coiled in Elrik's gut as the guards shook him awake, peppering him with questions. Where are you from? Why are you here? Is that your friend? It took a moment to process the ache in his body and the fog in his mind.
Why am I here? If I knew, I'd tell you!
The guards motioned for him to get up. They flanked him as he stepped out, as if he might bolt.
And then he saw him. The stray, alive and standing there. A sudden, shocking clarity cut through the pain. He saved me. A flush of embarrassment warred with overwhelming relief. We're alive. That's what matters.
He moved to Alan's side and clapped a hand on his shoulder, forcing a wide, conspiratorial grin.
"Haha, what's up, buddy! You should've woken me earlier!" he said, loudly enough for the guards to hear. He turned to them. "Oh, sorry, I was dead tired. I'm Elrik, and this is... Stark! Yeah, Stark! We're from Branlow village. Here to, uh... look for work!" He watched their faces carefully for any sign of disbelief.
"What's wrong with your hands, then?" one guard asked, pointing.
A fresh throb of pain answered the question. Think, Elrik, think!
"Um... about that..." Inspiration struck like dubious lightning. "I'm sick. A serious disease! It makes the flesh... eat away at the skin!"
"What?!" The guards recoiled in unison, faces etched with fear.
"Is it contagious?"
"Normally, no!" Elrik said, layering on desperation. "But if it's not treated, it gets worse... and then it becomes contagious! I need to find a doctor, real quick!"
The guards shared a look of pure horror before waving them through the gate with frantic gestures. It worked!
Alan stared at him with profound confusion. Not a clue what this guy is saying, but I think he's handling things. The language barrier was going to be a problem.
Elrik kept his hand on Alan's shoulder, taking the reins with the other, and led them through the gate. He glanced back, and the guards weren't following. This was good.
He finally looked up at the town proper. The noise hit him like a physical blow—a cacophony of hawking merchants, haggling customers, and clattering carts. Shops and stalls lined the streets, selling everything from vegetables and herbs to gleaming metalwork and vials of neon-bright potions that shimmered with unearthly light. It was overwhelming. Branlow was a graveyard compared to this.
This place... it doesn't exist near Branlow. How far did we come? A terrible headache began to pulse behind his eyes. He slumped over, cradling his head in his hands.
After the bizarre pantomime with the guards, they were in. The town was a bustling, chaotic marketplace, more vibrant and alien than anything Alan could have imagined. He glanced at Elrik, who was now clutching his head as if it might split open. A head injury from the crash? He gave the boy's shoulder a reassuring pat.
"Hey, you all right?"
Elrik looked up and shot him a glare that could curdle milk. Not a word was understood; then he slumped over again.
Fine, sorry I cared! He couldn't leave him, not yet. He was his only tether to this world.
"Oi," Alan said, extending a hand to help him up. Elrik took it. Their priority was a doctor; his leg was a throbbing mess, and Elrik's hands were clearly broken. He mimed the universal sign for money, rubbing his thumb and fingers together.
Elrik just blinked, uncomprehending. Annoyed, Alan stepped forward and patted down the boy's pockets. Empty.
"Hey! Move aside!" A shout from behind made them both jump. A carter was trying to get past their parked carriage. Elrik snapped to attention, quickly moving the cart aside and offering a stream of apologetic words to the annoyed man.
Now parked on the side of the road, Alan watched the crowd, brain churning. Finally, he settled on the only plan he had. He nudged Elrik, gestured to himself, then to the spot on the ground, and made a "wait here" motion. Then he pointed at Elrik and mimed walking around.
Understanding dawned on Elrik's face. He nodded, scratched his head, then gestured for Alan to stay before wandering off into the crowd. The horse whinnied softly. Probably tired and hungry. Alan removed its saddle and sat beside it, stroking its neck. I hope he comes back soon.
What should we do? Elrik felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. How would I know?
His stomach answered for him with a loud growl. He had no money.
He stopped in front of a small, clean-looking restaurant and approached the counter, where a well-dressed man was intently counting coins.
"Welcome. You can take a seat while we prepare your order," the man said without looking up.
"Thanks. My question might sound strange, but... where am I?"
The man's head snapped up, his eyes scanning Elrik's dishevelled appearance with deep suspicion. "Sorry, we don't serve free meals," he said, turning back to his coins.
He thinks I'm a beggar... Which, to be fair, he currently was. "I didn't ask for food! Well, I was going to, but never mind! Just... what town is this? I'll leave after!"
The man sighed with profound annoyance. "This is the town of Zarethun. A few days' travel north of Zharokh. Now move along."
Zarethun. He'd heard of it, a trading hub. The journey from Branlow usually took a couple of days to a week on the main road. They must have taken a dangerous shortcut. And we're still alive.
He walked away, the new information settling in. I need to find a way back... But did he want to? He'd always dreamed of leaving, of adventure...
His stomach growled again. No. First, he needed money.
A crowd had gathered ahead, buzzing with excitement. Elrik squeezed through the press of bodies, curiosity overpowering his hunger.
"That's the fifth time he's done it!"
"How does he keep winning?"
"It's not magic, he says! Incredible hands!"
At the centre sat a short figure on a red cloth mat. Before him were three small, identical clay pots, upturned. He wore a long black robe, a hood shadowing his face, revealing only a wide, sharp grin.
A large, muscular man slammed his fist on the mat, making the pots jump. "You filthy cheat!" he snarled. He'd just lost his third guess in a row. In a final act of furious disbelief, he snatched up the magician's red cloth mat, shook it out, and even patted down the boy's robes, searching for hidden tricks. He found nothing.
The hooded boy just chuckled, his hands spread wide in innocence. "Pure sleight of hand, my friend. No magic here. Only skill and a little misdirection. A shame luck wasn't on your side today."
The man spat on the ground and stormed off, hurling curses into the crowd.
"Ah, what a shame. We've lost another player," the hooded boy said with theatrical sorrow. He produced a single, gleaming golden coin from his palm, holding it up so it caught the light. "Well, who's next? The game is simple! Watch the coin, follow the pots. Three guesses. Guess right, and this gold Ulm is yours! Cost to play? Just one Vin!"
He held up a heavy pouch that clinked with promise. "And today, I'm feeling generous! Win, and I'll double the prize to two Ulms!" The crowd roared. Two gold Ulms were two months' salary.
Two gold Ulms? The number echoed in Elrik's head, a siren's call. If only he had a single Vin...
People pushed forward, coins in hand. Elrik, empty-pocketed, tried to back away.
"You seem very interested. Wanna try your luck? It's just one Vin, hehee~" The magician's sly voice cut through the noise, directed squarely at him.
"I... I don't have any money. I need to go—"
"No worries!" the magician chirped. "First game is free! A taste of fortune! On the condition that you come back to play when you've got coins. Deal?"
It was a terrible, transparently bad idea. It was also the only idea he had. "All right," Elrik heard himself say, stepping forward as the crowd parted.
"Marvellous! The rules are simplicity itself." The magician's hands became a blur. He placed the gold coin on the mat, covered it with the central clay pot, and began to slide it around with hypnotic speed. The pots scraped and clacked against each other in a chaotic dance that mesmerised the eye. Then they stopped, three identical pots in a row.
"Where lies the gold?" the magician purred. "Choose."
Elrik's heart hammered. He pointed to the pot on the left. The magician lifted it. Empty.
"A bold first attempt! Again!" The shuffle was faster this time, the movements a fluid, practised deception. They stopped.
Elrik swallowed, his mouth dry. "The middle one."
Empty.
"One last chance! Feel the fortune!" The final shuffle was a masterpiece of misdirection. The magician's hands seemed everywhere at once. They stopped.
Elrik stared, his full focus on the pots. He had to get this right. "The... the right one."
The magician lifted the pot, nothing but thin air.
The gold coin was revealed with a flourish under the magician's own palm. He'd palmed it during the first shuffle.
"So close! Yet so very far," the magician said without a drop of sympathy. "Better luck when you return with your Vins!"
The game was over.
Elrik stood up, the world tilting around him. The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum. Shoulders slumped, he walked away, a hollow shell of defeat. He had been so sure on that last guess. Uh...how am I supposed to earn any Vins?...
He passed right by Alan on the horse without even seeing him.
Alan watched the entire scene unfold from his elevated perch. He saw the three clay pots, the flash of gold, the hypnotic shuffle. He knew this game instantly, the Shell Game, three-card Monte's ancient cousin. Is it just a coincidence? Not like the game is that complicated.
He saw Elrik lose all three guesses, his spirit crumbling visibly with each empty reveal. The boy walked past him, a portrait of utter dejection.
"You all right? You look like hell," Alan said, though he found the boy's miserable, baffled appearance almost comical.
Elrik turned. He didn't look surprised or happy. He just slumped into the cart like a sack of broken dreams.
Was the golden coin that valuable?
Alan nudged the horse forward, leading them down the street until he found what he was looking for: a dilapidated tavern with no door and few patrons. He dismounted and walked over to the despondent Elrik. Apparently, after Elrik left him, people around kept throwing coins in front of him like a lucky fountain. As usual, Alan couldn't refuse gifts.
"Cheer up. It's breakfast time." He spoke to the boy lying in the cart, then emptied his pockets. The clatter of twenty-three tin Vins hitting the wooden cart bed was a beautiful sound.
Elrik's transformation was instantaneous. He lunged for the coins with raccoon-like fervour, collecting and counting them.
"I need you to ask about prices inside," Alan explained, gesturing to the tavern.
Elrik snatched the money and bolted inside, a radiant grin on his face. Fifteen Vins! As he ran, he discreetly slipped three coins into his own pocket. He'll never know.
He approached the old bartender. "What's on the menu? Actually, water first?"
The bartender bent down and produced a small barrel and a wooden cup. "Vegetable soup with bread, a Drinn and two Vins. Broth with bread, the same price. Grape juice, three Vins. Water's free."
"You're a lifesaver!" Elrik gulped the water down greedily. "I'll take the bread and broth, and my friend outside will have the same." He didn't know what Alan wanted, and charades seemed too exhausting.
"Have a seat. Julian! Clients!" the bartender called out.
Elrik sat next to Alan, who was studying the wanted posters on the wall, seemingly trying to decipher the text. Elrik rested his chin on his hands. How did that magician do it? I was so close... Though frustrated, he couldn't deny the magician's skill; it was too entertaining to watch that trick, even if he couldn't figure out how it was done.
The smell of broth interrupted his thoughts. A young man, about his age and height, with pale blond hair and cool grey-blue eyes, approached with two trays.
"Here is your order: two plates of stew and flatbread. Bon appétit," he said pleasantly before turning and leaving the tavern.
Elrik attacked the food, nearly weeping with gratitude. He didn't notice Alan quietly getting up and slipping out.
Bon appétit. The phrase echoed in Alan's mind. Not because it was French, but because the mouth that spoke it didn't match the words. The lips were out of sync, a fraction of a second off, like a badly dubbed film. Translation magic?
He followed the blond server, Julian, into the back alley. The young man was sitting on a stool, washing dishes with practised efficiency, sleeves rolled up.
Alan took a breath and spoke, his voice soft but clear in the quiet alley. "Привет. Извините, можно вас на минутку?"
Julian froze. His hands stilled in the soapy water. He turned slowly, his sharp grey-blue eyes scanning Alan, calculating. A tight, polite smile appeared on his face, but his right hand crept subtly behind his back.
"Sorry, man. I didn't catch that," Julian said calmly.
"But you did understand," Alan replied in the same language. "And you understood me just fine. Russian, huh? The accent, the eyes, that reaction. Not to mention the knife you're reaching for."
The polite smile vanished. Julian's fingers wrapped around the hilt of a blade. "I don't know who you are," he said, his voice low and icy. "But if you take one more step, I'll gut you where you stand. I'm not going back. I don't care who sent you."
Alan raised his hands slowly in a gesture of peace. "Whoa, relax. Do you think I would approach you in the open like this if I intended harm?" He kept his voice calm and reassuring. "I just want to talk. We're both not from around here. I noticed the lip sync. It seems your translation isn't quite up to par."
Julian hesitated, the knife still held ready. The tension was a live wire between them.
Then a quiet voice spoke from directly behind Alan, cold metal pressing against his throat. "Unfortunately, I find that hard to believe."
Alan's blood turned to ice. The Julian in front of him dissolved into wisps of smoke-like mist. An illusion.
Second time I've been ambushed from behind. This is getting annoying. What kind of ability is this? No incantation, no warning. Despite the calm analysis in his mind, his face showed pure shock and irritation.
"W-Well?" Alan stammered, injecting fear into his voice. "May I know why there's a knife at my throat? I don't remember threatening you."
"Not yet," Julian hissed from behind.
Extremely cautious, paranoid. Has he been chased before? Then he needs to feel in control. "Look, I'm willing to do anything to prove I mean no harm. There's no need for this."
Julian's voice was cold. "Hmm. You don't seem dangerous. And I'd prefer it if you were telling the truth. We'll go to—Agh!"
His sentence ended in a grunt of pain and the sound of shattering ceramic. The pressure on Alan's throat vanished. He lunged forward, spinning around to see Elrik standing over a staggering Julian, holding the remains of a broken plate. Julian was clutching the back of his head, dazed.
Elrik, having noticed Alan's absence, had followed him out, plate in hand. Seeing the altercation, he'd decided on a preemptive strike as payback for Alan's help.
"You!" Julian growled, fury blazing in his eyes. He tried to rise, but Alan was on him in an instant, his foot planting firmly on Julian's chest, pinning him to the ground. He held Julian's own knife to his throat.
"This isn't how I wanted this to go," Alan said, his voice now steady and cold. "But you will listen. I meant what I said: I don't intend to hurt you. As long as you do the same."
Julian's eyes darted, searching for an escape that wasn't there. He let out a long, ragged sigh of frustration and forced his body to go limp against the dirty ground. "Fine."