The song faded with the dawn.
By the time the first light bled through the trees, the forest was silent again — as if the night itself had swallowed whatever had been singing.
Taron hadn't spoken a word since.
He kept his sword drawn as they walked, eyes flicking between shadows, boots crunching on dead leaves. Julian followed close behind, Lira between them, her fingers brushing the edge of his sleeve every time a branch cracked too loud.
They didn't stop until the trees thinned into mist and the scent of smoke was replaced by something faintly metallic — oil, steel, and fire.
When they stepped into the clearing, Julian froze.
Before them stood a fortress carved into the mountainside — walls of black stone reinforced with jagged iron, banners of the Black Crown fluttering from spiked ramparts. Men in chainmail patrolled the walls, their armor dull and scarred.
"This…" Julian breathed. "This is your base?"
Taron grunted. "The Bastion of Crows. What's left of the old Black Crown stronghold. We hold the west for now."
They crossed the drawbridge as it rattled under their feet. Archers above watched them with wary eyes. Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and sweat — soldiers sharpening blades, blacksmiths hammering broken armor back into shape, wounded men muttering prayers beside campfires.
It wasn't an army.
It was a memory of one.
Taron led them through the main hall — a long chamber lined with banners and flickering torches. A massive throne of iron sat at the far end, empty and cold.
Julian's eyes lingered on it. "Where's your king?"
Taron paused. His voice dropped low. "Dead. Or worse. The Black Crown fell five winters ago — but not all of us bowed."
He turned to Julian then, eyes sharp. "You fight well for a man who claims not to remember this world."
Julian's jaw tightened. "I told you — I don't."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're lying to yourself." Taron's tone hardened. "You've seen battle. I saw it in your eyes last night. That wasn't fear — that was instinct."
Julian said nothing. The memory of the raider's death still clung to his hands like oil he couldn't wash away.
Taron stepped closer. "We're rebuilding. The empire's fractured, and every fool with a sword wants a crown. I've lost men, friends, brothers — and I need soldiers who don't run when the fire starts. Join us. Help me reclaim what was stolen."
Julian hesitated. "Why me?"
Taron's expression darkened. "Because when you fought, I saw something. You didn't swing that blade like a man learning. You swung it like someone remembering."
The words hit deeper than Julian wanted to admit.
Taron turned away. "Think about it. I'll give you until nightfall." He nodded at Lira. "The girl stays under guard. You're both safe here — for now."
Then he strode from the hall, the iron doors clanging shut behind him.
Silence.
Only the faint hum of wind through cracks in the stone.
Julian exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "He's wrong," he muttered. "I'm not one of them."
Lira sat down on a step near the cold throne. Her eyes were distant, thoughtful. "Maybe not. But he's right about one thing."
Julian looked at her. "What?"
"You don't move like a stranger here. You move like someone who's been through this before."
He frowned. "You're saying I've lived here? That I'm from this world?"
"I don't know," she said softly. "But I've seen what happens to those who fall through the Veil. They come from places where the stars are different, where the air tastes strange. They forget — at first. Then pieces come back."
Julian swallowed hard. "The Veil?"
"It's what separates worlds. Sometimes, when the balance breaks, the Veil tears — and something or someone crosses over." She looked up at him, eyes wide. "I think that's what you are."
Julian leaned against a pillar, staring at the cracks in the stone floor. His mind churned. "So what does he want with me?"
"Taron believes you can help him retake the kingdom. The Black Crown ruled once, but their power came from something older — something buried beneath the ruins. The same thing the raiders wanted me for."
Julian looked up sharply. "The song?"
Lira nodded. "It's not just sound. It's a call — a memory. They believe whoever follows it can find the Heart of Ash, an ancient power that can restore or destroy kingdoms."
Julian's chest tightened. "And you can hear it?"
"Sometimes. In dreams. In the wind." Her voice trembled. "It's growing louder. And it's calling for you, too."
Julian stepped closer, kneeling in front of her. "Then we'll find it. Together."
She blinked. "What?"
He held her gaze. "I don't care what Taron wants, or what this world expects. You said they took you because of the song — then they'll come again. I won't let them."
Lira looked away, her expression breaking into something soft, almost fragile. "Why?"
"Because I made a promise," Julian said quietly. "And I'll keep it — no matter what this place turns me into."
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the faint sound of hammers echoed through the hall, distant and rhythmic, like a heartbeat beneath the stone.
Lira smiled faintly — a glimmer of warmth amid the cold. "Then I guess fate didn't bring me the wrong person after all."
Julian returned the smile — brief, uncertain, but real.
Beyond the walls, the wind howled through the mountains, carrying with it a faint echo of the same haunting song.
And somewhere in the depths of the fortress, unseen eyes watched them through the dark — waiting to see whether the stranger from another world would choose to fight for a kingdom he didn't yet understand.
Later that night, the fortress was quiet.
The sounds of soldiers faded one by one until only the whisper of the mountain wind remained, threading through the cracks in the stone.
Taron had given them a small corner of the old stables — nothing more than a pile of hay, a thin blanket, and a flickering lantern hung from a wooden beam. But after weeks of cold dirt and fear, it felt like a sanctuary.
Julian sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, staring at the firelight trembling across the floor. Lira lay beside him, eyes half closed, humming softly — the same tune she had used to calm him back in the forest.
He broke the silence first.
"I had a mother once," he murmured. "She used to hum like that when I couldn't sleep."
Lira's humming stopped, her gaze lifting to him. "Tell me about her."
Julian hesitated, then drew in a shaky breath. "She was strong. Kind, but… tired. My uncle took everything from her — and then from me." He swallowed, voice rough. "He killed her. And when I tried to stop him, he…"
His voice faltered. The memories pressed too heavy, too raw.
"I died, Lira. I felt it. The cold, the silence… and then I woke up here. In a body that still feels like mine, but isn't. Sometimes I think maybe I didn't survive at all — maybe this is the dream."
Lira shifted closer, her hand finding his. "Then we share the same dream," she whispered.
Julian turned to her, their faces inches apart. Her eyes reflected the lantern light, soft and deep, grounding him. "How do you do that?" he asked quietly. "Make it all seem less… impossible."
She smiled faintly. "By reminding you that you're still here. Breathing. Warm. Alive."
He managed a weak laugh. "Barely."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "Then let me help you remember what it means to live."
The words hung between them — not as an invitation, but as a promise.
They lay down in the hay, the world outside fading into stillness. Julian's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining as the weight of their pasts pressed close but not between them.
Lira's warmth steadied him, her heartbeat a quiet rhythm against the storm inside his chest. For the first time since waking in this strange world, he didn't feel lost.
He whispered, "Tomorrow, I'll tell Taron my choice."
"And tonight?" she murmured.
"Tonight," he said softly, eyes closing, "I just want to remember what peace feels like."
The lantern's flame wavered, casting gentle shadows over them as the mountain wind sighed through the cracks.
Outside, the night deepened — but inside that small corner of the world, there was warmth, and breath, and the quiet ache of two souls holding on to what little light they had left.