Lucien woke to a low hum.
He lay on a white bed, the air heavy with a scent he could not name. Above him, the ceiling gleamed like polished steel. A faint blue light shimmered in front of his eyes, forming letters that seemed to float in the air.
[Name: Lucien de Mireval] [Class: Blacksmith – Apprentice] [Level: 1]
He blinked.The words followed his gaze, hovering no matter where he turned. Curious, he reached out to touch them. His fingers passed through the light as if it were smoke.
"What sorcery is this?" he murmured in old French, his voice raw. "Une vision? Une tentation du démon?"
The blue symbols flickered but did not answer.
He heard footsteps. The door slid open with a hiss, and a woman stepped in. Her uniform was white, her hair tied back, her face calm and bright. She smiled when she saw him awake.
"Bonjour, monsieur. Vous êtes réveillé."Her accent was strange, her tone unfamiliar. The words were French, but fast, softened, and clipped.
Lucien sat up slowly. "Où suis-je? Est-ce... l'hospice du Temple?"
The nurse blinked, confused. "Pardon? Vous... vous pouvez répéter?"
He tried again, slower. "Le Temple. Les frères. Jérusalem."Her brow furrowed. The smile faded. She took a step back, staring at him as if he were speaking in riddles. Lucien saw fear bloom in her eyes before she turned and hurried out of the room.
He was alone again.
Lucien swung his legs off the bed. His body obeyed, though weakness clung to every muscle. He walked to the window, pressing his palm against the cool glass.
Outside stretched a city of glass and light.
Towers pierced the sky. Vehicles without horses moved along roads that glowed beneath them. Screens the size of buildings displayed faces, words, and moving images. The noise of the world was a constant hum of energy and life.
"This is not Jerusalem," he whispered. "Nor any kingdom I have known."
The door opened once more.
Two men entered, dressed in black suits, their expressions serious. One carried a tablet, the other a small device that blinked with blue light. They spoke quickly, their voices professional but impatient.
"Monsieur de Mireval, we need to ask you a few questions. You were found inside a B-Class Rift near Lyon. Can you tell us what happened?"
Lucien said nothing. His gaze drifted back to the window. The words they spoke meant little to him, and even when he caught fragments of meaning, he felt no trust. These were not knights. Not priests. Not men of faith.
They pressed again, voices sharper now."Who are you working for? What guild sent you? How did a Level One blacksmith end up in a restricted zone?"
Still, he stayed silent.
The younger agent sighed. "He's not talking. No ID, no record in the System database. Just that name. Lucien de Mireval."
The older man rubbed his temples. "Call Mira. Maybe he'll listen to her."
An hour later, Mira de Beaumont entered the room.
Her presence changed the air. She wore a fitted uniform lined with silver thread, her long musket strapped to her back. Her gaze was steady, sharp, but not unkind.
"Lucien, isn't it?" she said softly. "You were found by my guild, the Blades of Lyon. You're safe now."
Lucien studied her face. The light in her eyes reminded him of someone he once knew—a squire who had followed him into battle long ago and never returned.He lowered his head but said nothing.
The agents exchanged looks. "He doesn't respond to us. Maybe he'll say something to you."
Mira hesitated, then sat beside the bed. "You don't have to speak if you don't want to. You've been through enough. But you should know this place is not your enemy. My guild will take responsibility for you until you recover."
The agents started to protest, but Mira's tone left no room for argument."He'll register with the Association in a few days. Until then, he's under my protection."
She stood and gestured to Lucien. "Come. Let's get you out of this place."
The ride through the city was silent.
Lucien sat in the back seat, watching the world race by through the window. Neon lights painted the streets in colors he had no name for. Giant screens hung between towers, displaying news feeds and live footage from ongoing Rift operations.
One of the screens flickered.
The image changed to a creature of bone and flame tearing through a city block, its roar shaking the camera. It was the same kind of monster he had fought at Jerusalem.
His hand clenched tightly.
The world had changed. The war had not.
Lucien looked out over the city, the blue glow of the Rift footage reflecting in his eyes.
His battle was not over.