The first thing Elara Veyne realized after opening her eyes
was that the world was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
Not the soft silence of dawn.
But the kind of stillness that meant nothing moved unless it was dragged,
whipped,
or forced.
No engines.
No distant hum.
No vibration beneath the ground.
Only the sound of hooves striking stone,
slow and heavy,
like history refusing to move forward.
She lay on a narrow bed beneath a wooden ceiling,
the scent of oil and iron replaced by dust and cold air.
Her chest rose and fell—
alive.
Too alive.
Memories collided violently inside her skull:
asphalt under neon lights,
traffic roaring like a living beast,
steel machines bending the world to human will.
And then—
A mirror.
A girl's reflection stared back at her.
Young.
Delicate.
Dressed in outdated fabric meant to be endured, not worn.
A noblewoman.
Powerless.
Disposable.
Elara's fingers clenched the bedsheet.
She understood it then.
She had not survived her death.
She had been sent backward—
into a world that did not yet know how to move.
And for the first time since waking up,
Elara smiled.
If this era refused to walk forward—
Then she would build the road herself.