The cold concrete pressed against his cheek. He blinked through the blood dripping into his eyes, trying to piece together where he was—what had happened.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering like broken memories.
Voices echoed in the distance. Harsh. Foreign. Laced with threat.
He tried to move, but his arms were bound behind his back—plastic cuffs digging into bruised skin. His rifle was gone. His gear stripped. The faint metallic taste of blood filled his mouth from a split lip.
They'd dragged him here. After the blast.
After…
No. He didn't want to remember that part. Not now.
But memory was a cruel companion.
"Team Alpha, status—" his radio crackled as he reached for it in the smoke. That was before the second explosion. The first one had only hit the street below, this one was the one that threw him against the wall like a ragdoll. The one that silenced the channel for good.
Now he was in their base. Somewhere underground. Concrete walls. No windows. Just the smell of oil, sweat, and death.
A shadow moved past the door.
Then it opened.
Three men entered. Two carried rifles. The third had a knife and a crooked smile.
"Sniper," one of them said in rough English. "You kill many of ours. Now we ask you questions."
He stared at them in silence. His heart pounded, but his face remained still. Calm. Trained.
The man with the knife crouched in front of him. The blade glinted under the light.
"You answer, or you bleed."
He said nothing.
The man's grin widened. The blade kissed his cheek.
He didn't flinch.
He wouldn't give them anything. Not his unit. Not his country. Not a word.
The knife dragged slowly down his arm.
Pain flared. Hot. White. His breath hissed between clenched teeth—but still, he said nothing.
They beat him next. Not to kill. Just enough to keep him conscious. Just enough to remind him that he was alive—and powerless.
***
Kain woke up gasping.
The room in Rovalt swam into focus, shadows playing on the ceiling from the candle he'd left burning low.
His heart was racing. Sweat clung to his skin despite the cold.
He sat up, rubbing his face. His hands trembled slightly.
Kain swung his legs off the bed and stared at the floorboards.
That was years ago. Another world. Another body.
But the pain? The fear?
Still real.
He clenched his fists until the shaking stopped.
Snow tapped softly against the windowpane.
Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into pale grey. Morning wasn't far off.
Kain stood, wrapped his new wolf cloak around his shoulders, and began preparing for the road.
Aravelle was out there. Waiting.
And Kain was done running from his ghosts.
Kain stepped out into the cold morning, snow crunching beneath his boots. The mountain air was sharp and clean, carrying the distant calls of crows and the faint creaking of rooftops settling under the weight of frost.
Rovalt was slowly waking. Lanterns flickered behind shuttered windows. A few bundled villagers trudged through the snow-covered streets, their faces downturned against the wind.
As he walked, his eyes flicked across the storefronts lining the narrow lane. One of them stood out—a small building with a wrought iron sign swaying gently above the door: "Finch & Ember – Tobaccos and Tinctures."
A curl of smoke drifted from its crooked chimney. The scent, faint but distinct, reached Kain on the wind—sweet and woody, touched with something floral. It hit a chord deep inside him, unbidden.
He slowed for half a step, eyes lingering on the frost-rimmed window.
It reminded him of Earth. Of long nights after missions, of quiet moments stolen with a cig and silence. Of comrades lost, and the rare stillness between chaos.
But that life was behind him.
He turned away from the shop and continued on, drawing the wolf-fur cloak tighter around his shoulders. The snow was deeper now, gathering along the sides of the road. Each step toward Aravelle's house felt heavier—not from exhaustion, but from purpose.
Answers waited ahead. About the Soulcraft. About why he had been brought here.
Kain followed the winding path through the snow-laden streets until the houses began to thin. The edge of Rovalt was quieter here, quieter and older. Weathered stone walls leaned into each other like aging companions, and frost clung to every corner of the wood-beamed buildings.
He turned down a side lane flanked by frost-bitten pines and came to a stop in front of a modest house nestled at the foot of a small ridge. Smoke drifted from its chimney, curling gently into the grey morning sky.
This was it.
Aravelle's home.
The place looked worn but cared for—stones stacked tightly, a deep green door with intricate runes carved into the wood, the snow swept neatly from the porch. Wind chimes made of metal and bone clinked softly from the eaves, a haunting tune that was almost musical, almost unnerving.
Kain stepped up to the door and paused, his breath forming clouds in the chill air.
He didn't know what kind of person Aravelle would be now. Not really. He remembered her reputation more than her face—an enigmatic Soulcrafter said to peer deeper into souls than most dared. Some called her a seer. Others, a recluse.
He raised a fist and knocked.
Silence.
Then, the faint creak of footsteps from inside.
The door opened just slightly, and a sharp green eye peered through the crack. A woman's voice, cool and even, spoke.
"You're early."
Kain blinked. "You're Aravelle."
The door opened fully. She stood in the frame, cloaked in a deep violet shawl, long dark hair braided over one shoulder, silver rings on her fingers. She looked younger than he'd expected—but there was an agelessness in her eyes, like she had lived a hundred quiet lives already.
"I am." she said, turning around and walking back into her home.
Kain stepped into the house.
It was warmer than he expected. The scent of dried herbs and burning oak drifted from a hearth set into the far wall. Candles flickered on high shelves, their flames catching the glass jars and strange relics lining every surface—bones, feathers, stones etched with runes, and old tomes bound in cracked leather.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click.
Aravelle stood by the fire, her figure lit by the soft orange glow. She stirred the flames with a metal poker, then turned and motioned for him to sit.
Kain crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair beside her.
"How'd you know I was coming?" he asked, eyeing her cautiously.
"I was watching you," she said gently, not looking at him.
Kain raised an eyebrow. Creepy. What's this woman's deal?
She added another log to the fire, sparks drifting upward. "I felt your presence the moment you entered Rovalt."
A confused look fell over Kain's face, "My presence, is that an ability you have?" he asked Aravelle.
"It is," she replied simply, finally turning her eyes to him. They glinted with strange clarity, as if reading something hidden just beneath his skin. "You came here for a reason. What is it?"
Straight to the point. I like that.
"Well, I'm—"
His jaw locked shut with a sudden, unnatural force.
Kain's eyes widened as he clutched at his mouth. His tongue strained against invisible pressure. He tried again. Nothing.
Aravelle tilted her head. "What's wrong?"
"I—" he grunted, then suddenly his jaw relaxed.
'I don't understand,' he said, flexing it. 'It's like something forced my mouth shut.'
Kain tried once more to speak the truth. "I'm from an—" Snap.
Again, his mouth clamped shut, harder this time.
His thoughts raced. 'It only happens when I try to say I'm from another world. That has to be it.'
Aravelle frowned. "What are you doing?"
"I—I'm sorry," Kain said as his jaw suddenly released.
'Guess my plan on getting her to explain what going on isn't going to work, what can I do now.'
'This isn't the time,' he thought. 'Whoever—or whatever—is behind this doesn't want me saying anything.'
'Fuck this, Ima just leave,'
He straightened up in his chair and forced a small smile.
"Look," he said, carefully choosing his words, "I think I might've rushed here too fast. I'm still working some things out."
Aravelle tilted her head slightly. "You came all this way for something. Don't waste the trip."
Kain stood up. "Very sorry, thank you for your courtesies, but I best be going now."
She narrowed her eyes, clearly sensing the half-truth in his tone—but she didn't push.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "The door's always open. If your soul is unsettled, it's best not to force what's buried."
Kain gave a short nod, appreciative of her understanding and he offered a small wave as he headed to the door. The warmth of the fire still clung to his scarf, but as he stepped back out into the snow, a deeper chill took hold.
As soon as Kain closed the door behind him, the sharp click of the latch was swallowed by the cold silence of Rovalt's snowy street.
Then, it happened.
Golden strands began weaving themselves out of the air in front of him—glowing softly in the pale light, curling and twisting like silk in water. Just like before. Just like when he first arrived in this world.
Kain stepped back instinctively, one hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword, though something in him already knew—this wasn't an attack.
The strands gathered into a shape. Letters. Words.
They burned faintly, radiating warmth into the chilled air.
You will not speak.
The souls of this world can not yet know.
The words pulsed once, then held still in the air—radiating warmth that seemed to push against the cold mist around him.
Kain's eyes narrowed. He took a step back, hand hovering near the hilt of his sword—not out of fear, but out of reflex. There was no enemy in front of him. No threat he could strike. Just the same maddening, cryptic force that had met him the day he arrived.
"The hell does that mean?" he muttered under his breath.
But the golden strands were already unraveling, the light dispersing into the snow-heavy air until nothing remained.
Only silence.
Kain stood alone again, heart pounding against his ribs, jaw clenched tight.
You will not speak. The souls of this world can not yet know.
He let out a long breath, steam curling from his lips.
"Great. So I'm muzzled. Perfect."
He turned back toward the snow-covered road, pulling his cloak tighter around him. The wind picked up again, sweeping past him like a whisper he couldn't quite hear.
Something was watching.
...
Aravelle had not moved from her seat by the fire.
But her eyes had followed Kain the moment he stepped outside.
Through the frost-flecked window, she watched him stand still just beyond her door. He looked tense—shoulders squared, breath misting in the cold air. His gaze was fixed on something in front of him. Something she couldn't see.
She squinted, but there was nothing there. No one. Just empty air and falling snow.
And yet… Kain's face shifted—brows tightening, jaw twitching like he was arguing with something that wasn't speaking. Then, for a heartbeat, his hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.
Aravelle frowned.
'What are you seeing, Kain?' she thought. There was no presence. No magic she could sense. No trace of a soul besides his own. And yet… he looked as if he were standing before a ghost that had just whispered something cruel in his ear.
She leaned forward, fingertips tightening around the carved wooden arms of her chair.
Still, she said nothing.
She simply watched. And waited.
Kain didn't look back.
Didn't even glance at her window.
After a long moment, he turned and walked into the snowy fog, the fur-lined cloak trailing behind him.
And he was gone
***
Kain walked quietly back through the snow-draped path into the heart of Rovalt, the faint crunch of his boots swallowed by the thick silence of morning. The sky overhead was still a pale grey, the sun muted behind layers of drifting clouds. Icicles hung from the corners of rooftops like frozen fangs.
Just as he crossed the old stone bridge into the main street, a sudden thud hit his shoulder.
Kain paused.
The black cat had reappeared—once again, as if out of thin air—now perched like a shadow on his cloak, its amber eyes peering forward as if it belonged there.
"You really need to stop doing that," Kain muttered, giving it a sideways glance. The cat blinked once, slowly, before curling its tail neatly around itself.
'Persistent little thing,' he thought.
Together, they passed a baker brushing snow from his windowsill and a pair of bundled children racing toward the well. The smoke shop Kain had noticed earlier stood tucked between a stone apothecary and a candle-maker's hut, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze.
Kain stepped inside, ducking beneath the low doorframe. The smell of oakmoss and spiced leaf tobacco filled the air, instantly comforting.
Behind the counter stood a short, broad man with a thick brown beard and a long pipe clenched between his teeth. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly as he spotted the cat now perched on Kain's shoulder.
"You know cats can't smoke," the shopkeeper said dryly.
"Good thing I'm buying for myself," Kain replied, glancing at the cat.
The shopkeeper chuckled.
Kain stepped up to the counter and looked over the neatly arranged wooden boxes behind the man.
"You have anything strong, but smooth?" he asked.
The shopkeeper reached below the counter and pulled out a small rectangular tin wrapped in cloth and stamped with a wax seal.
"Mountainleaf blend," he said, tapping it twice. "Tobacco grown and cured right here on the slopes. Mellow enough for calm nerves, sharp enough to keep you warm."
Kain nodded. "Perfect."
He exchanged a few silver coins, slipping the tin into his satchel. The shopkeeper slid a small flint striker across the counter with a nod.
"On the house. Weather like this, you'll want a quick light."
"Appreciate it," Kain said, tipping his head slightly.
As he stepped back outside into the crisp mountain air, the black cat leapt down from his shoulder, landing softly in the snow beside him.
It looked up at him with that same unreadable gaze.
"You're weird," Kain muttered, opening the tin and pulling out a hand-rolled cigar, wrapped in dried Mountainleaf. He struck the flint, caught the flame, and took a slow drag.
The warmth spread down his chest, cutting through the cold.
The cat padded silently beside him as he continued down the street, smoke curling into the wintry sky.
Kain made his way back through the snowy streets of Rovalt, the smoke from his cigar curling into the frosty air and disappearing above rooftops dusted in white. The black cat trotted quietly beside him, its paws leaving no print in the fresh powder, as if it wasn't entirely there.
He pushed open the door to the Crooked Tavern, a dull bell chiming overhead. The warmth hit him immediately—the scent of roasted meat, baked bread, and burning oak stirred something in his chest he hadn't realized he missed. Normalcy. Quiet.
The inn was livelier now. A few townsfolk and hunters nursed drinks or meals at scattered tables. The bartender gave Kain a nod from behind the counter.
Kain returned it and made his way to a corner seat near the hearth. The cat slinked in and curled up under his table like it belonged there.
He ordered a simple meal—roast lamb, a thick slice of bread, and a bowl of broth. When it came, steaming and rich, he didn't speak. Just ate in silence.
With each bite, his mind wandered.
Back to Aravelle's cottage. Back to the words he couldn't say. Back to the message that burned into the air like gold-threaded truth: "You will not speak. The souls of this world can not yet know."
He chewed slowly, staring into the fire.
If someone—or something—was controlling what he could reveal, then it meant they were watching. Maybe guiding. Maybe just observing. Either way, it changed everything.
He wasn't just some lost soul thrown into a new body.
He was part of something deliberate.
Kain looked down at his hands, rough with old scars and fresh calluses. They still trembled faintly from the dream. From the memory.
From the weight of silence.
The cat pressed against his leg gently.
Kain let out a slow breath and looked back into the fire.
Just as Kain was placing his empty bowl to the side, the door to the inn creaked open behind him. Cold air spilled in, curling around the tables and muting the soft murmur of conversation. Everyone glanced up.
A group stepped through the threshold—four in total.
Hunters, clearly.
Their cloaks were heavy with snow, boots caked in ice and mud. They looked tired but alert, the kind of tired that comes from constant danger, not just a long hike. Weapons hung at their hips—swords, a bow, one with a long spear strapped across his back.
Their presence changed the air in the room instantly. Conversation slowed. A few glances were exchanged. Not fear—just awareness.
They shook off the snow and stepped further inside, the one standing in front pulled back her hood to reveal a face weathered by frost and fire alike, even so, she was beautiful.
The bartender looked up. "Rough roads this time of year."
"You could say that," the lead hunter said with a curt nod, her eyes scanning the room. They lingered a moment on Kain, but she said nothing more. She moved to the bar, her group following.
Kain returned to his seat instead of leaving. Something in his gut told him not to walk away yet.
The cat stirred at his feet but didn't move.
The fire crackled louder than before.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
And inside, something had shifted—small, quiet, but unmistakable.