The first thing he noticed was the way the air moved.
Not like home—if that's what it was. Here, it shifted slow, heavy, like it had weight and memory. Like it knew he didn't belong.
He stood still for a while. Didn't check the windows. Didn't call out. Just stood. Let the quiet press into him like a second skin.
The room was simple. Bookshelves lined one wall, stuffed with uneven stacks. A low table sat near the hearth, its surface etched with shallow cuts and old ink stains. On the far side, a cot with rough blankets and a half-folded tunic draped over the end. Nothing familiar.
The body didn't creak when he moved, but it wasn't silent either. There was muscle memory he didn't recognize—like his limbs were used to something harder. Fighting? Running?
He didn't want to guess yet.
On the table, a journal sat open. Lines and lines of jagged handwriting. Not his. Not anyone he knew. One phrase was underlined three times:
"The vessel adapts. The soul remembers."
He touched the page without meaning to. The paper was coarse, almost fibrous. Real. Real enough.
A knock broke the silence.
Three soft taps, then a pause. Then one more, like hesitation.
He didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway. A girl stood there—maybe his age, maybe not. Pale skin, braided hair pulled back tight, shoulders squared like she'd already decided what she thought of him. But her eyes... her eyes looked like they hadn't slept. Blue in color, like Spider Lilies.
"You're awake," she said, not surprised.
He nodded.
She stepped inside, shut the door behind her. Didn't come too close.
"They said you wouldn't make it through the night. But I figured you might." Her gaze dropped to his hands. "Strays usually do."
"Stray," he echoed, not liking how it tasted.
"It's what they call you. When your mind shows up somewhere it doesn't belong."
He wanted to ask who "they" were. But the question felt too big. Like it would unlock a door he couldn't close.
So he asked the smaller one. "And who are you?"
"Morana." She didn't offer more. Just crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, like this wasn't her first time watching someone try to reassemble themselves.
He nodded again, because it felt like the only safe move. "I don't remember anything. Not really."
"That's normal," she said. "It comes back. In pieces. Or not at all."
Silence again. Not the sharp kind—just flat. Like there was a clock ticking somewhere, but nobody cared enough to check it.
Morana's expression softened, barely. "You should eat something. There's broth on the stove. It's not great, but it's hot."
He followed her into the next room. The kitchen was even smaller—one chair, a chipped basin, a cast-iron pot that looked older than him. She ladled some into a bowl and handed it to him without ceremony.
He took it. Sipped. Burned his tongue, but didn't flinch.
Morana leaned against the counter. "They said you fell through an alley gate. Not many of those still work."
"I didn't see a gate," he said.
"You wouldn't have."
She waited, like she expected him to fill the silence with something important. A memory. A name.
But all he had was a pressure behind his eyes and the faint, distant ache of loss.
"I think someone took my place," he said quietly.
Morana blinked. "In your world?"
He nodded.
"Happens sometimes." Her voice was gentler now. "Not often. But… sometimes."
The bowl trembled slightly in his hands.
She noticed. Didn't mention it.
After a while, she pushed off the counter and turned toward the back door. "Finish that. I'll be outside."
"Wait," he said, before he knew why.
She paused. Looked at him.
"…Do I have a name?" he asked.
Morana tilted her head, studied him like she was seeing something he couldn't.
"You'll have to earn it."
Then she stepped out into the light.
He stayed where he was. The broth gone cold in his hands. The world too quiet again.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees like it was carrying secrets.
Inside, he sat in a borrowed body, waiting for the pieces to start making sense.
And somewhere, far away, a boy with his face was living a life that wasn't his.
Or maybe he never existed at all.
He set the bowl down, barely half-finished, and followed.
The back door groaned like it didn't want to open all the way. Dust motes swam in the slice of sunlight cutting through the gap.
When he stepped out, it felt like stepping into a different season—brighter, colder, too clean.
The wind met him first, brushing his skin with something sharp underneath. Not snow. Not ice. Just… cold that didn't belong to anything.
Morana was already halfway down the hill.
The house sat on a slope above what looked like a split valley. Fields below, terraced and patchy, dotted with wooden structures that leaned at odd angles. A long, winding path cut through the middle like a scar.
Beyond it—forests. Past that—mountains, gray and soft-edged, smeared into the sky like someone forgot to finish painting them.
He jogged a few steps to catch up.
She didn't turn.
"You said they call people like me 'Strays'?" he asked, breath catching on the last word.
"Yeah," she said, still walking. "Because you're not from here. Not exactly summoned, either. Just… dropped."
He looked around. The trees rustled with something other than birds. The light had a gold tint, but the sky itself leaned violet at the edges. It was Earth-adjacent; almost-familiar.
"What is this place?"
She exhaled through her nose. "This part's called Aras North. The outskirts, technically. Near the Vale Line."
He frowned. "The what?"
She paused at a bent signpost. Its wood was rotting at the base, and a symbol had been carved into it—a circle split by a jagged line.
"The Vale Line," she repeated. "It's where the world starts forgetting what it used to be. Where the real and the not-real bleed together."
"…What does that mean?"
Morana glanced at him, like she was checking to see if he could handle it. "Things aren't stable past the Line. Memory gets weird. Places move. Sometimes time loops, sometimes it skips."
He stopped walking. "Time skips?"
She shrugged. "Not like—travel. Just… missing hours. Waking up somewhere you weren't. Thinking you did something important, but you didn't."
He caught up again. The ground crunched beneath his feet—dirt and brittle roots and something almost metallic. The sky flickered as a flock of pale birds passed overhead; not white, not quite. Translucent, almost unfinished.
Morana led him to a low wall that overlooked the valley. Moss-covered. Half-cracked. She leaned against it like she'd done this a hundred times before. Like this place used to be something else.
He stood beside her. "So, what, I just stay here now?"
"Not exactly," she said. "Strays don't last long if they stay still. The world notices."
"What does that mean?"
She looked down at her hands. "Strays carry memory from somewhere else. Even if it's broken. That… disrupts things. Places like this are built on forgetting. On stillness. When someone remembers too hard, it shakes the ground."
"That's why the alley stretched."
She nodded. "It was rejecting you. Or trying to."
"And now?"
"Now you're in. For however long that lasts."
He stared out at the fields. People moved down there—small figures hauling tools, feeding animals that didn't look like animals. One of them had too many legs. Another glowed slightly. No one looked up.
"What are those?" he asked.
"Workbeasts. Half-bred. Harmless mostly. As long as they're fed."
A silence. Not uncomfortable. Just open.
"You've seen others like me," he said.
"Three," she replied. "Only one made it past the first month."
"What happened to the others?"
"One forgot who they were. Just… walked out into the Vale. Never came back."
"And the other?"
Morana's eyes darkened. "Tried to fight it. That's worse."
He didn't ask what that meant.
Instead, he pointed to the sky. "Why does the sun look… cracked?"
Morana followed his gaze. The sun did look wrong—fractured, like a plate someone glued back together. Veins of darker light ran through it. The shadows it cast didn't all line up.
"No one knows," she said. "Some say it split when the Demiurge fell. Some say it's always been like that, and we just stopped noticing."
He stared a little longer. The light started to make his head throb.
She nudged his shoulder. "Don't look too long. It hums."
"…The sun hums?"
"You'll hear it if you listen. Then you won't stop hearing it."
He looked away fast.
Another silence.
"You said someone else made it past the first month?"
She hesitated. "Yeah."
"What happened to them?"
"They got Named."
He turned to her. "You said I have to earn a name."
She nodded once. "Names hold weight here. Too much. They're not just labels. They're… anchors. Contracts."
"So you're not just Morana?"
"I was," she said, quietly. "Until I gave it back."
He didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't.
Instead, he leaned on the wall beside her and let the air move around them again. Far off, something howled. Not a wolf. Not even close. But Morana didn't flinch, so he didn't either.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was low.
"You'll remember more soon. Or you won't. Either way, the world will try to shape around you. And you'll either break it… or it'll break you."
He looked at her.
And for the first time, she looked tired. Not like she hadn't slept—like she had. Just not the kind that helped.
Her gaze lingered on the valley like she was memorizing it. Or maybe bracing for it to change.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
She let the question hang.
Then, "Long enough to stop counting. Not long enough to forget what it felt like to land."
The wind shifted again, carried a scent he couldn't place. Sweet and metallic. Faintly electric. Like ozone, but warmer. It passed through him and didn't leave.
He crossed his arms. "Do people ever go back?"
"To where they came from?" she asked.
He nodded.
She shook her head. "Not whole. Not the way they expect. Some try. Most just… fade."
"Fade?"
"Your world doesn't have a place for you anymore. When you left, it kept going. Filled in the space. You try to return, you're just… overlap. Like a ghost of yourself haunting someone else's timeline."
The ache behind his eyes pulsed again. Not pain. Pressure.
He looked down at his hands. The knuckles still didn't feel like his. The faint scars, the way they flexed—every movement felt secondhand.
"Who was I before this?" he asked.
Morana didn't answer.
Instead, she said, "Don't chase that too hard. The memory you're looking for isn't the one that matters."
"Then what does?"
"The one that hasn't happened yet."
A crow landed nearby. Or something crow-like. It had too many joints in its wings and no beak—just a narrow slit where the mouth should've been. It watched them, head cocked, like it was listening.
"Doesn't that thing seem wrong to you?" he asked.
She smiled. "You're starting to see it now."
"See what?"
"The way the world wants to be. And the way it really is."
The creature croaked once, then flew off. The air bent slightly where its wings passed.
Morana pushed off the wall. "Come on. You'll need gear."
"For what?"
She looked back at him. "Stray or not, you're still breathing. Which means they'll come for you eventually."
He stayed where he was for a second longer. The sky was shifting again. Bluer than before, but distant, like a screen stretched too thin. Something moved behind it.
He stepped away from the wall.
Followed her down a narrow path that cut through tall grass and rust-colored flowers that shivered even without wind.
"Who's they?" he asked.
"The Irons," she said. "Or the Watch. Depends who you ask."
"And they… what? Capture Strays?"
"If they get to you first, yeah."
"If?"
"If we get to you first," she said, "maybe you stand a chance."
The path bent toward a grove of twisted trees. The bark was blackened, but not burnt—more like it had grown that way, gnarled and sunless. Hanging from some of the lower branches were strips of cloth, tied like warnings or prayers. A few had symbols drawn in ink that shimmered faintly in the light.
He slowed. "What is this?"
"Marker Grove," she said. "Memorial. For the ones who didn't make it."
He didn't ask if she'd left one here.
Didn't have to.
They passed through in silence. His skin prickled the whole time, like the trees were watching. Listening. Judging.
When they emerged, the valley had opened wider. In the distance, rooftops. Smoke from a chimney. Voices, faint but real. A settlement. Small. Hidden.
"Welcome to Thorne's Edge," Morana said, nodding toward it.
"Is that where you live?"
"Where we gather," she said. "No one really lives here. Not in the permanent way."
He followed her steps. The ground beneath them felt heavier now. More decided.
"You said people get Named," he murmured. "What was the name of the one who survived before me?"
Morana glanced back, a shadow passing through her expression.
"Didn't keep it long," she said. "Burned too fast."
He swallowed.
And still, he followed.
Behind them, the Marker Grove stirred like it had overheard something it wasn't supposed to.
Ahead, the edge of the village waited. Lamps flickered on—gold and low, like stars trying not to be noticed. The light brushed the corners of broken signs, leaning gates, worn paths. All of it quiet, watching.
Waiting.
He stepped into it.
And for the first time since waking, the world didn't push back.