The rain did not fall. It lashed down.
Thick curtains of water turned the city into a blur of distorted lights and impatient horns. The smell of wet asphalt mixed with fuel, and every breath Petrus drew inside his helmet felt too heavy, too damp, too tired.
The visor fogged. He wiped it with his glove. It fogged again.
The app vibrated in his pocket: last delivery.
He felt his body exhausted — not only the physical fatigue of hours riding in the rain, but something deeper. An older weariness. The feeling of always running after a clock that never stopped… and never took him anywhere.
He worked every day. Took overtime. Accepted bad routes. And still, at the end of the month, it was as if he had remained at the same starting point.
Trapped.
The traffic light turned red.
The motorcycle vibrated beneath his legs as he waited. He looked around. Closed cars. Protected people. He was just another shadow beneath the storm.
"Just one more," he muttered to himself.
The light turned green. He accelerated.
The thunder came — but not as it should have.
Before the boom, there was silence.
Absolute silence.
The horns ceased. The sound of rain vanished. The motorcycle engine seemed distant, as if submerged.
The world held its breath.
Petrus felt the chill before he understood. The skin beneath his soaked clothes tingled. A cold unlike the rain ran down his spine.
And then he saw it.
The asphalt ahead rippled.
It did not crack. It did not break.
It rippled like a liquid surface — but shining. A dense, incandescent light, spiraling. It was not white. It was not golden.
It was like metal heated to its limit, spinning upon itself.
"What is that…?"
There was no time to brake.
The front wheel touched the light.
And sank.
No impact. No collision. No pain.
The city simply ceased to exist.
The sensation was impossible to describe — as if the air had been torn from his lungs and replaced with something heavier. He was not falling downward.
He was being pulled inward.
The motorcycle vanished beneath his feet. The handlebars slipped from his hands. He tried to scream, but there was no sound.
Around him, symbols emerged.
Runes.
Concentric circles formed by strokes of metallic light spun faster and faster. He felt his body passing through something thick, like moving through warm water made of energy.
Then came the weight.
Something passed through his chest — not piercing, not wounding — but settling there.
A second heart.
Heavy.
Pulsing.
Each beat echoed inside him like the distant sound of a colossal forge.
Thum.
Thum.
Thum.
He felt fear. A pure, primal fear. Not of dying — but of ceasing to be who he was. Of being undone.
Memories flashed in disconnected fragments: the motorcycle, the smell of rain, the vibrating app, overdue bills, postponed dreams.
Everything seemed small.
Everything seemed distant.
The light intensified until it consumed every thought.
And then — darkness.
—
The first sound to return was an echo.
Footsteps against stone.
A low wind crossing a vast space.
The air was different. Dry. Ancient. Cold, but not damp like rain.
Petrus slowly opened his eyes.
The ceiling was far too high. Stone arches intertwined above him, covered in symbols pulsing with soft blue light. He lay upon a circular platform of black marble, cold against his back.
His body ached — not as after an accident, but as if it had been rebuilt piece by piece.
He took a deep breath.
No smell of gasoline.
No rain.
No city.
He sat up with difficulty. Around him, other identical platforms remained empty. The space was vast, silent, almost reverent.
A tower.
Tall. Ancient. Alive.
"He has awakened."
The voice was deep, marked by time.
Petrus turned his head.
An elderly man with long white hair leaned upon a staff of dark wood. His eyes showed no surprise — only confirmation. Beside him, a young woman with silver hair watched with contained curiosity.
"Where am I?" Petrus' voice came out hoarse.
"In the Tower of Lynthar," the old man replied. "And no longer in your world of origin."
The heart — or the second heart — beat harder.
There was no nervous laughter.
No denial.
Deep down, he already knew.
The old man raised his hand, and a small crystal floated until it hovered before Petrus.
"Touch it."
He hesitated for only a second.
When his fingers met the crystal, the air vibrated.
A deep sound resonated — metallic, ancient.
The iron lanterns along the walls trembled.
Door hinges creaked.
Metal fragments scattered across the hall began to move slowly, as if awakening from a millennial sleep.
Petrus felt it.
He felt every particle of iron around him.
As if the world had revealed an invisible layer — a layer that had always existed, waiting for him.
The old man murmured, almost reverently:
"Metal…"
But what shone in his eyes was not simple recognition.
It was an omen.
"Choose a name," he said. "All who awaken carry the same surname."
Petrus closed his eyes for a moment.
The rain was only a memory.
The deliveryman… distant.
If this was a new beginning, he would not run without moving forward again.
He opened his eyes.
"Petrus."
The old man nodded.
"Then rise, Petrus Alvoran."
At the heart of the tower, invisible gears began to turn.
And something ancient awakened along with him.