The morning sun was slow to rise, as if even the sky was hesitant to begin the day.
Auren opened his eyes for the second time in this world.
He hadn't dreamed. Or if he had, it had already slipped through his fingers like water. Only the same unfamiliar wooden ceiling greeted him, the texture of its beams worn and shadowed with age.
He sighed quietly.
Two weeks. That's how long he had been here.
In this strange body. In this strange home.
With a man who called himself "Father."
Callan.
That was the name. The man with kind eyes and soft hands who treated him like he had always belonged here.
But he didn't. Auren knew that. Every time he looked in the mirror, he was reminded.
He sat up and reached for it now, the small bronze-framed mirror that Callan had left beside his bed. Its glass was slightly fogged around the edges from age, but it reflected clearly enough.
There it was again. That same foreign face.
Golden hair. Blue eyes. Skin like snow.
Not his.
No matter how many times he looked, it never stopped feeling wrong.
He placed the mirror back down and rose from bed, running a hand through his hair. The strands were so light, they caught the light like threads of gold. Soft, too. Too soft.
He changed into a fresh tunic, one of the simpler outfits Callan had left for him — off-white linen with brown stitching — and stepped quietly out of the room.
The hallway creaked underfoot, and the smell of herbs was stronger now.
A mix of chamomile, crushed mint, and something a little sharper — wormwood, maybe?
He followed the scent to the kitchen.
Callan was already there, sitting at the table with a cup of steaming tea. A pot simmered on the stove behind him, and on the counter were several bunches of drying herbs hung upside-down.
He looked up with a gentle smile when Auren entered.
"Good morning," he said.
"Did you sleep well?"
Auren hesitated for a beat, then nodded. "Well enough."
Callan motioned to the table. "Breakfast is still warm. I made barley porridge."
The food was simple, but comforting. Warm, soft, with a bit of honey mixed in.
Auren sat down and began to eat silently. Callan didn't force conversation. He just sat there, sipping his tea and observing him with that same quiet kindness.
When they finished, Callan began clearing the dishes. Auren stood up, about to help, but Callan waved him off.
"You've done enough. Why don't you take some fresh air?"
Auren hesitated, then nodded again. "I think I will."
He stepped outside into the morning light.
The cottage was tucked at the edge of a small forest, not far from a narrow path that led into the village — though Auren hadn't gone that far yet. Behind the house was a small garden, filled with herbs and wildflowers. The air smelled fresh, slightly damp from the morning dew.
Everything was so… peaceful.
And yet, it felt temporary. Like a painting that could peel away at any moment.
He walked slowly through the garden, stopping now and then to touch the petals of a flower, or to study a cluster of herbs. He recognized some from Callan's lessons — lavender for calming, sage for pain, feverfew for migraines.
Callan had been patient with him, teaching him the names, the uses. Explaining how to brew, how to grind, how to preserve.
Auren found he didn't mind it.
In fact… it was soothing.
"Maybe this world isn't so bad," he thought, gently running his fingers through a patch of mint. "Maybe… I could stay here."
That thought scared him more than he expected.
Was he really so quick to give up the past?
But then again… what did he have to return to?
His gaze drifted across the garden — until it landed on a single blue flower.
It stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. Its petals were soft, almost translucent. But its stem was dark, nearly black.
There was something strange about it.
He stepped closer, frowning.
The air around the flower felt… still.
Too still.
No wind. No sound.
He knelt and studied it. The flower didn't move. Not even when he blew on it gently.
It looked alive. But it felt… wrong.
He reached out to touch it.
The moment his fingers brushed the petal, it withered.
In an instant, the soft blue turned gray, then black, curling into itself and crumbling to dust.
Auren stared, unmoving.
He wasn't surprised. Not really.
He closed his eyes, inhaled slowly — and when he opened them again, the flower was there. Whole. Blue. Untouched.
"...Illusion?" he murmured.
Or memory?
He didn't think about it any further. He rose and dusted off his knees.
The house behind him felt colder now. More distant. The peace had cracked.
He returned inside.
---
Back in the kitchen, Callan was mixing something on the counter — a thick paste made from crushed herbs.
He looked up. "Welcome back. The air good today?"
Auren nodded. "It was… interesting."
Callan chuckled. "That's one way to put it."
Auren moved closer and eyed the herbs. "What are you making?"
Callan smiled and handed him a small bowl. "Uplen. Good for stopping bleeding. Mix it with a little Azil, and you get Kolos — helps close wounds and numbs pain."
Auren repeated the names silently. Uplen. Azil. Kolos.
"You want to help?" Callan asked. "I can show you how to grind the roots properly."
Auren nodded.
For the next hour, they worked side by side. The mortar and pestle felt natural in his hands. Grinding. Mixing. Smelling. Measuring. Callan showed him the precise way to fold the herbs into cloth, how to dry them without losing potency.
By the end, Auren had learned three new mixtures — and for the first time since arriving, he felt something close to accomplishment.
That night, Callan gave him a book — an old one, filled with herbal recipes and handwritten notes.
"This was my mentor's," he said. "Now it's yours."
Auren accepted it carefully.
He brought it to his room, placing it on the desk beside his bed. The wooden floor groaned as he sat down, flipping through the yellowed pages.
So much knowledge. So much peace.
Before sleeping, he whispered to himself:
"Maybe I could really live here."
But even as he closed his eyes and drifted into uneasy sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling that this peace wasn't built to last.
Something was coming.
He could feel it in the silence.