The man stood at the door, one hand braced lightly against the wood.
There was a narrow gap near the hinge where the frame didn't quite meet the stone. He leaned in enough to look through without casting a shadow.
Outside, the inner yard lay bright beneath the midday sun.
The light was higher now, harsher—no longer the pale uncertainty of morning, but the settled clarity of a day already well underway. Men moved across the yard in disciplined patterns. Some wore partial armour, others only leather and cloth, but the quality was consistent. No mismatched pieces. No scavenged gear.
Uniforms, not militia.
Most wore blue somewhere on their person—trim on a cloak, thread worked into a sleeve, a strip of fabric knotted at the shoulder. Not decorative. Identifying.
Cloth and armour followed the same logic. Partial plate over leather, layers chosen for use rather than display. Everything was clean, oiled, maintained—not polished for parade, but kept ready. Helmets hung in pairs near the wall. Spears were stacked with care. Even the scuffs along the stone spoke of regular movement rather than neglect.
Maintenance like this required money.
Consistency required authority.
This place was funded.
His gaze lifted, tracing the line of the surrounding buildings. Stone walls reinforced with timber where stress would gather. Banners mounted high enough to be seen from within, not outside—signalling inward authority rather than outward display. Carvings along one arch caught the light briefly, shallow but precise.
Whoever controlled this place didn't need to prove their wealth.
They already knew it was there.
He stepped back from the door.
He reached for the handle and turned it slowly, applying pressure by degrees, listening for any give. There was none. The lock held firm, unyielding and quiet.
He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against the wood.
"…Should have lied," he muttered.
The thought came uninvited, sharp and useless.
Silence pressed in around him—and then memory followed.
A voice, calm and unhurried.
"Then start there."
He straightened, the present slipping away as the moment returned with uncomfortable clarity. He remembered the weight of that pause—how silence had stretched, not as pressure, but as allowance.
And how he had understood, suddenly, that whatever he said next would shape everything that followed.
"I'm not from this world," he said quietly.
Silence.
Not the awkward kind. Not disbelief spoken aloud. The kind that settled, deliberate and heavy, as if the words had been placed on a scale and left there to be weighed.
"…World?" the man asked at last.
Just that. No accusation. No curiosity dressed as kindness. A single word, measured.
He nodded once.
"Not from any part of this territory," he said. "Not from any land you could name."
A pause. Careful.
"From another world. One similar to this—but not the same."
The silence returned.
Longer this time.
He didn't fill it. Didn't justify himself. Didn't reach for metaphors or proof. He had already crossed the line where persuasion mattered. Anything more would only make it sound rehearsed.
The man's gaze remained on him, unreadable.
Then he turned away.
"Rest," he said.
The word was not unkind. Nor was it accepting.
The door had opened shortly after.
And closed again just as softly.
The present returned with the same quiet certainty.
The man lifted his head from the door, breath steadying as the memory loosened its grip.
Locked.
So that was the answer. He hadn't been dismissed—but he hadn't been believed either.
That was fair.
If their places were reversed, he wouldn't have either.
He turned away from the door.
The silence pressed in again, familiar and contained.
He lifted his hand and hesitated for half a breath.
Then he slid his finger through the open air in front of him, slow and deliberate, tracing the space where he knew it would be.
The blue shimmer responded at once.
Thin light gathered, edges sharpening as the interface settled into place. Not bright. Not welcoming. Just present—hovering at eye level, steady and indifferent.
Text surfaced.
[Data processing…]
No sound accompanied it. The words simply existed.
Time passed without marking itself. Eventually, the light outside shifted, pale white softening into a muted ginger hue—a brief, fragile warmth that only appeared in the heart of winter, when the sun dipped low and caught the snow just right.
Rare. Fleeting.
Then footsteps approached.
More than one.
Measured. Purposeful.
They stopped just outside the door.
Metal shifted. A lock turned.
The door opened.
Two men stood beyond the threshold, both armoured, both bearing the same blue trim he had seen in the yard—but built very differently. One was lean, sharp-faced, eyes alert and assessing. The other broader, heavier through the shoulders, posture solid as a wall.
Knights.
Neither spoke at first.
The broader one stepped forward and held out a folded bundle of cloth. Wool, by the feel of it. Thick. Clean. Proper winter wear.
"For the road," he said.
The other extended a small satchel after—a loaf wrapped in cloth, and something heavier beneath it that clinked softly when it shifted.
"Follow us."
No explanation. No tone of command. Just expectation.
He nodded once.
The clothing fit better than he expected—rough, but warm. Practical. When he stepped out into the corridor, the cold pressed in immediately, sharper than it had been inside the infirmary.
They led, and he followed.
The keep opened around them as they walked.
Stone corridors widened into open yards. Banners hung from high walls, blue catching the winter light. Soldiers moved with purpose, armour ringing faintly as they passed. Along one wall, a group clustered around a glowing orb mounted on a stand—light shifting within it like mist caught in glass. Further on, racks of tools stood beside crates marked with sigils he didn't recognise.
Not decoration.
Infrastructure.
So it's not time, he thought.
It's worlds.
The side gate came into view ahead—heavy timber reinforced with iron, flanked by watchtowers and guards wrapped in winter cloaks. Beyond it, the forest waited, dark and dense beneath falling snow.
Someone stood near the gate.
He recognised the pale hair immediately.
The knights slowed.
One of them stepped forward and inclined his head. "My Grace. I thought you would be in the dining hall."
"I wanted to see him go," came the reply.
The man's gaze was already on him.
The knights halted a few steps back.
The man took two measured steps forward and extended the satchel himself this time, pressing it into his hands.
"Bread," he said. "And coin. Enough to reach the nearest town if you walk carefully."
He hesitated.
Then accepted it.
"Why do you help me?" he asked.
"There is no reason for kindness," the man replied.
Not unkindly. Simply stated.
He nodded.
A signal was given. The gate guards began to move.
As the iron bolts slid free, he turned back instinctively and inclined his head—not a bow of submission, but something quieter. Controlled. Habitual.
The man's gaze sharpened.
Just for a fraction of a moment.
"What is your name?" he asked.
The pause was brief.
"Lin—" A breath. A correction. "My name is Cyrus, my Grace."
"…Cyrus."
"Yes. Cyrus de—" He stopped himself. "Cyrus de Alaric."
The man studied him, then nodded once.
"I will remember that."
The gate creaked open.
He stepped forward.
Behind him, the man spoke again, not to him this time.
"Watch him," he said. "Report anything unusual."
The knights answered as one.
He did not look back as he crossed the threshold.
The gate closed behind him with a dull, final sound.
Snow swallowed his footprints almost immediately. The path ahead narrowed, trees drawing closer as the keep receded behind him—stone giving way to shadow, order thinning into quiet.
Only then did he look back.
He spotted the tower long before the forest fully closed in.
It rose above the treeline to the west—stone against the dimming sky, banners barely visible at that distance, but unmistakable in shape. A watchtower. Not ornamental. Built to see far.
So they could see him too.
The thought settled without alarm. He adjusted his pace anyway, angling his path slightly north rather than straight ahead. Not enough to look evasive. Just enough to suggest intention rather than flight.
If someone was watching, he wanted them to see exactly what he was doing.
Walking. Conserving energy. No sudden turns.
The snow deepened as the light thinned. Branches closed overhead, swallowing the last hints of colour from the sky. He walked until his calves ached and his breath fogged too quickly to ignore.
Still no lights.
No road.
No sound of settlement.
He slowed, then stopped.
The tower was farther now, half-obscured by trees and distance, but not gone. Too far to reach anything before dark. Too close to pretend he hadn't noticed it.
He exhaled and chose a hollow between two roots, shielded from the wind. Cleared snow with his boot. Set his pack down carefully.
No rush.
He gathered fallen branches with care—dry ones, snapped cleanly, not torn. The fire he built was small, tight, meant for heat rather than signal. When the flame finally caught, it burned low and steady, more ember than blaze.
He sat back on his heels and watched it for a moment.
If they were watching, they'd see Cyrus.
Not someone running.
Not someone hiding.
The sun slipped behind the trees.
The forest quieted.