Mihail learned quickly that the past did not like being touched.
The realization came not as thunder or divine warning, but as a tightening in his chest whenever he acted too carefully. As though the world itself leaned closer, listening, waiting to see if he would stumble.
Three days passed.
Three ordinary days, filled with work that blistered his hands and silence that pressed against his tongue. He spoke little, watched much, and learned how easy it was to forget that he was no longer the man who had commanded armies.
The village remained unchanged—at least on the surface. Children ran barefoot along the paths. Old men argued about weather they could not influence. Merchants arrived and left, carrying rumors like fleas.
But Mihail heard everything now.
On the fourth morning, he noticed the stranger.
The man sat near the well, boots too clean for a traveler, cloak worn in a way meant to look humble. He drank slowly, eyes moving more than necessary. Watching hands. Watching faces.
Mihail froze mid-step.
He knew that posture.
In his other life, such men had always come first.
The village had not mattered then. It was a footnote, a birthplace mentioned only to establish how far he had climbed. But memory shifted, rearranged itself, and suddenly he saw the connection clearly.
This man should not be here yet.
Not for another year.
Mihail forced himself to continue walking.
Do nothing, he told himself. Observe.
The well was ringed with women drawing water, gossip flowing faster than the buckets. The stranger smiled easily, offered to help, spoke with practiced courtesy.
"What brings you so far north?" one asked.
"Trade," the man replied. "And curiosity. Borders change faster than maps these days."
Mihail's stomach tightened.
That was the first lie.
He remembered now—dimly, imperfectly—but the result was clear. This man would later serve a minor lord. That lord would later swear fealty. That oath would later fracture.
All roads began somewhere.
Mihail turned away before recognition could bloom too strongly in his mind. He did not trust memory to be precise enough to act on.
The day continued.
He helped his father repair a cart wheel. He fetched water. He listened to the rhythm of the village like a man memorizing a song before it vanished.
By noon, the stranger approached him.
"You there," the man said, nodding casually. "Strong arms. You work for hire?"
Mihail met his gaze.
Brown eyes. Sharp, measuring. The kind that remembered faces even when names failed.
"No," Mihail said. "I work for food."
The man chuckled. "Practical. I respect that."
Silence stretched.
In another life, Mihail would have spoken carefully, weighed every word like coin. Now, he felt the urge to end the conversation quickly—to avoid recognition.
That, he realized too late, was the mistake.
"You from here?" the stranger asked.
"Yes."
"You don't talk like it."
Mihail's pulse quickened.
"I listen more than most," he replied.
The man smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "That can be dangerous."
Before Mihail could answer, a shout rose from the far end of the village.
Panic followed.
Smoke.
Mihail turned sharply.
A boy—no more than ten—ran past them screaming. "Fire! The granary—!"
Mihail was already moving.
The memory struck him like a hammer.
This is wrong, a voice in his mind insisted. This happens later. Years later.
But the smoke was real. Black and hungry, curling into the sky.
The granary stood at the edge of the village, old and dry. If it burned, winter would kill them more efficiently than any army.
Mihail ran.
Others followed, shouting, forming a line without instruction. Buckets appeared. Water sloshed. Someone prayed aloud.
The fire was small—but clever. Started low, fed by oil, meant to spread.
Sabotage.
Mihail skidded to a halt, heart racing.
He remembered this now. Not clearly, but enough.
In his other life, the fire had succeeded.
The village had starved.
His jaw clenched.
"Sand!" he shouted. "Earth! Smother it, don't feed it!"
Several heads turned. Confusion flickered.
"Do it!" he barked, louder than he meant to.
People obeyed—not because of authority, but because fear recognized confidence.
They tore at the ground, flinging dirt onto the flames. A man dumped a sack of grain—not water—onto the fire, choking it. Smoke billowed, then thinned.
The fire died.
Silence followed, broken only by coughing.
Mihail stood frozen.
He had spoken.
Too clearly. Too decisively.
The villagers looked at him differently now.
Not with reverence—but with curiosity.
And from the edge of the crowd, the stranger watched with interest sharpened into something else.
"Well done," the man said, approaching. "Quick thinking."
Mihail said nothing.
"That trick," the stranger continued, "not common knowledge."
Mihail wiped soot from his hands. "Common sense."
The man hummed. "If you say so."
Later, after the granary was secured and the villagers dispersed, Mihail found himself unable to shake the feeling that something had shifted.
That night, sleep came fitfully.
When the dream returned, it was different.
The road was there again—but cracked.
The figures stood farther away, their shapes blurred. The woman from the fields watched him with something like concern.
"You changed it," she said.
"I had to," Mihail replied.
The road creaked beneath his feet.
"Every change has a cost," another voice murmured. Not accusing. Informing.
Mihail woke before he could ask the price.
Morning came gray and heavy.
His father ate in silence, glancing at him once with an unreadable expression.
"You handled yourself well yesterday," he said eventually.
Mihail stiffened. "Anyone could have."
His father shook his head. "No. Anyone wouldn't have."
The words followed Mihail throughout the day like a shadow.
By evening, the stranger prepared to leave.
Mihail watched from a distance as the man loaded his horse, movements unhurried. Just before mounting, the stranger glanced back.
Their eyes met.
The man tipped his head, a gesture of acknowledgement.
Not farewell.
Recognition.
That night, Mihail sat alone outside the village, staring south.
He had saved the granary.
He had saved lives.
And somehow, he felt less safe than before.
"A small sin," he whispered. "Just one."
The wind offered no comfort.
Far away, unseen gears shifted.
History did not scream when it was wounded.
It only adjusted its grip.