Chapter 3 – Unknown Surroundings
It was supposed to be the end.
That last breath in my past world had been final — the flicker of cold steel, the pooling blood, the darkness that swallowed me whole. And yet... here I was.
Alive again.
No. Not alive — reborn.
I came into this world not with dignity, but with a wail. A shrill, raw scream that tore from my throat, one I couldn't control. I tried to stop. I did. But the sound came endlessly, as if my lungs had a will of their own. I wanted silence — observation — but this fragile body had other plans.
I couldn't move. Not properly. My limbs flailed weakly, out of sync with my thoughts. Every muscle felt disconnected, foreign. Fingers curled and stretched with clumsy delay. My head lolled without control, and when light hit my eyes, I couldn't keep them open for more than a blink.
And yet, my mind — my mind — was still intact.
The clarity that made me who I was... it lingered. Matthew Kelenski — or whoever I was now — hadn't been erased. I was still there, deep inside this fragile infant body. Trapped. Watching.
My first breath was painful. The air burned. It was colder than I expected, laced with smells I didn't recognize — herbal smoke, sweat, linen, and something coppery and thick. Blood. My own, maybe.
I was laid on soft fabric, thick and warm, but even the texture felt wrong — too rough, too stiff. Something was wrapped tightly around me, holding my arms close to my chest. A swaddle. My range of motion disappeared entirely.
I panicked — briefly, internally. Not from fear. From frustration.
I needed to see.
Through my squinting eyes, blurry shapes shifted. Shadows moved in and out of golden light. I could barely lift my head, but I caught glimpses — heavy stone walls, a tall arched window half-covered by velvet drapes, soft candlelight flickering above a carved wooden dresser.
The room was large, dim, and warm, with a high ceiling supported by thick beams. A hearth crackled quietly at one end, its flames low and steady. The firelight danced on the stone floor, where thick rugs muffled the shuffle of boots.
Voices spoke nearby. Women — at least two, maybe three — murmured words in a language I didn't know. It wasn't English. Not German. Not Latin. Not anything I'd studied.
"Luh ven'ar... eila, shen vesta..."
Their tones were careful, comforting. But the syllables were like puzzles, unfamiliar and soft-edged. I couldn't even start to decipher them.
It irritated me.
Words were my weapons once. Now they were foreign walls.
Then I saw her.
She leaned over me slowly, like a cautious flame drawn toward kindling. Hair fell loose around her face — long, abysal black, braided on one side, the rest clinging to her damp forehead. Her skin was pale, but not sickly; her cheeks flushed from effort. Lines of exhaustion traced under her eyes, yet they didn't look dull — they shone with something else.
Curiosity.
Emotion.
Something unspoken.
She reached toward me with trembling hands. The midwife tried to support her, whispering something, but she shook her head and insisted. Her fingers brushed my cheek, tentative — as if afraid I might vanish.
Her eyes met mine.
And time slowed.
She had the kind of gaze that demanded attention. Not with authority, but with silence — still, deep, like untouched water. Her irises were a stormy gray-green, the color of sea glass caught in clouds. She looked at me like she was waiting for something. Hoping for something.
Did she... know?
No. She couldn't. No one could.
To her, I was only an infant.
A nameless, crying baby that had burst into her life not minutes ago. I was small — painfully small — wrapped tight in layers of linen. My limbs were scrawny, weak. My skin was soft, untouched by time. My crying had not stopped.
God, the crying. It grated on me more than anyone else. I heard myself scream, a sound I didn't want to make. I tried, mentally, to clamp down on it — to control the spasms in my chest, the tiny lungs forcing air out. But my body didn't listen.
No coordination. No training. Just instincts.
My mind was calm, surgical. But I was imprisoned in this raw, helpless shell.
The woman — my mother, perhaps didn't flinch at the sound. She just cradled me to her chest, resting her chin on the top of my head. Her body was warm. Her heartbeat thudded steadily beneath her skin, louder than anything else in that moment.
It was strange.
I didn't know her name. I didn't know this house. Or country. Or the world.
But her arms were the first thing I could trust.
And so, I watched.
I listened.
The other women around her worked quietly. One gathered bloodied towels and linens. Another lit a few tall candles at a nearby table. A third—older, perhaps a servant—whispered something to the black-haired woman and offered her a glass bowl filled with pale blue liquid.
The woman — perhaps my mother sipped from it slowly.
Her eyes never left me.
I heard them say something again.
"Elah… mor'an, Sylvia. Esha mor'an."
The word Sylvia was clear. A name. Her name. The first solid clue.
I repeated it silently: Sylvia.
My ears sharpened. I focused on tone, repetition, rhythm. The syntax. Were they using subject-object-verb? Or verb-final construction? My crying quieted for a moment — not because I stopped it, but because I forgot to cry.
Then the crying came again. Unbidden.
Sylvia didn't flinch.
She stroked my back with slow, circular motions. Her breath was slow, even. Not a word passed her lips now. But she was thinking. I could see it in her eyes.
And something else—
She was afraid.
She held me not only with tenderness, but with caution. Like she feared I might break — not physically, but... in some deeper, hidden way.
I turned my head slightly, straining against the tight wrapping. My body gave in only a few degrees. From the corner of my eye, I saw movement — a tall figure standing near the door.
A man in dark robes. Face partly in shadow.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just... watched. Like I did.
Then he grinned widely and Said a single word or a name….
"Caelum..."
And held me closer.
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