Elias opened his eyes to the scent of old wood and dust.
Above him, a ceiling of uneven planks stretched out, stitched together by crooked nails and sagging beams. The wood was aged and darkened, some parts nearly black with time, others stained by faint watermarks. He blinked against the dim light trickling in through a narrow window to his left.
No hum of electricity. No painted drywall. No phone buzz.
Just silence—and the low creak of a home breathing under its own weight.
He blinked again, slower this time, as the fog in his skull throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered aloud. His voice cracked, too dry. Too... different.
The sound of it startled him.
It wasn't his voice. Not exactly. It was a little younger. Softer around the edges. Lacking that gravel he'd grown used to.
He groaned, dragging a palm across his forehead. God, what happened? The pain was blooming now—sharp behind the eyes, crawling across the back of his head like fire ants.
He forced himself upright. The blanket that slipped off his shoulders was rough, hand-stitched, and worn. The room smelled faintly of smoke and dried herbs, and the floor creaked as he stood on it—barefoot, unsteady.
There were no familiar walls. No buzzing city. Just this… old world.
In the corner, an old mirror leaned crookedly against the wall. The frame was cracked. The glass spiderwebbed through the top right corner. But the center was still clear enough.
And that was when the panic set in.
The reflection looking back at him wasn't his.
Light green eyes. Paler skin. A softer jawline. His hair was longer, wilder. A faint scar sat just under the left eye, like an afterthought burned into skin. The figure blinked in perfect sync with him, mirrored every breath—but this wasn't him.
It wasn't Elias.
What the hell… what the actual hell is going on?
He leaned in closer, heart pounding in his chest. He pressed his fingers against the glass—just to feel something.
And then came the voice.
"You're up?"
Elias spun around. He hadn't even heard the door open.
A girl stood in the doorway—maybe thirteen, maybe younger. Long black hair fell to her back, tied with a green ribbon. Her eyes were a shock of bright green, soft and wide. Familiar to this world, maybe. But not to him.
She hesitated at the sight of his expression.
"You hit your head pretty bad," she said gently, almost apologetic. "We thought you weren't gonna wake up."
Elias opened his mouth. Closed it. Then forced out a shaky, "Who… who are you?"
The girl blinked. "I'm your sister," she said. "Irena."
She stared, confused by his question. "Don't tell me you forgot that too?"
He swallowed hard. She waited for him to laugh. To admit he was joking. But when the silence dragged, she stepped further into the room, suddenly uncertain.
"Do you remember Mum?" she asked. "Or Dad? Or even Stark?"
Her voice cracked a little.
Elias looked at her. Looked at the hope desperately clinging to her eyes. And with a weight in his chest, he said the truth.
"I'm sorry. I don't remember anything."
She didn't say anything.
She just stood there for a second too long. Then she turned and ran. Her footsteps echoed down the hall—quick and uneven—until a door slammed shut somewhere deeper in the house.
Elias sat back down on the bed.
"Shit," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. "I messed up. Bad."
He lay there a while, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last thing he could remember.
He was in a ruined church. On Earth. An explorer by hobby. He'd gone in to look around—decay, carvings, ghost stories. Nothing serious.
Until he found that stone slab.
Golden lettering, carved deep into black stone, half-buried in rubble and ivy.
"Through starless sky and silent flame..."
He had read the words aloud. Not thinking. Not understanding.
Then the world had gone black.
He didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until someone nudged him.
"Just gonna stay in bed all day, Auren?" came the voice.
He blinked awake to see Irena standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, pretending like nothing had happened earlier. Her eyes were puffy, but her voice was light.
"Auren." The name hung in the air. Not Elias. Auren.
That must've been the name of the boy whose body this was.
"…Yeah," he said groggily, voice flatter than he meant. "Guess so."
Irena rolled her eyes. "Can you go out and get some bread for dinner? I'd go, but I already chopped the firewood, and Mum would kill me if the stew boils dry."
She reached into her coat pocket and dropped a small handful of coins into his hand.
"Ten Shades should be enough," she added.
Elias stared down at the coins.
They were light—cool to the touch—like they were made of something between silver and stone. Each one was stamped with tiny symbols: swirls, stars, partial constellations that didn't look familiar.
Shades, he repeated silently. So this world even runs on starlight.
He slipped them into a pouch on the cloak hanging near the bed, then followed Irena out.
The front door creaked open, and he stepped outside for the first time.
The village was quiet.
The road was packed dirt, uneven and damp. Wooden fences boxed in small gardens or lined paths that wound like rivers between mismatched homes. Stone chimneys smoked faintly against the gray sky.
Children ran barefoot between carts. A vendor shouted about eggs. Somewhere, wind chimes clinked—not made of glass, but bone.
A chill rode the air. Not cold enough to see his breath, but sharp enough to bite.
No paved roads. No power lines. No towers. No phones.
Just the soft sound of wind. And the creak of wooden carts being pushed over muddy trails.
This isn't Earth, he thought. This isn't even close.
He wandered the market a while, eventually finding a small bakery pressed between two homes.
Smoke curled from a brick oven behind the stall. The woman behind the counter had flour in her hair and a scar along her chin. Her eyes crinkled with a warm smile.
"Auren. Was wondering when you'd come out again," she said, already reaching for bread. "Feeling better?"
He nodded slowly. "Somewhat. My head's still... a mess."
"Well, don't fall on it again. Here—" she passed him two fresh loaves wrapped in cloth. "That'll be ten."
He handed her the coins. She slid them off the counter one by one, then paused.
"You've got strange eyes today," she said casually.
He froze.
She smiled. "Don't worry. Might be the light."
He said nothing. Took the bread. Left in silence.
On the walk home, he passed two men standing by the well.
They were speaking in hushed tones—but one word caught his ear and twisted his gut:
"Marked."
"…same light in the sky last night," one said. "Same way it started before. Stars moved wrong. I swear it."
The other scoffed. "And? People see stars shift all the time."
"Not like that. This was like… the world was lookin' back."
Elias picked up his pace.
Back inside, Irena was chopping vegetables.
He dropped the bread on the table, mumbled something about needing rest, and slipped into the bedroom again.
Closed the door.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
He took a breath and pulled off the glove he hadn't noticed he'd been wearing.
His palm was unmarked. But for a second—just a moment—he thought he saw something pulse beneath the skin.
A symbol. An eye.
Closed.
Waiting.
And then, in the silence of the room, the words came back to him.
Not like memory. Not like thought.
More like breath. Involuntary.
"Through starless sky… and silent flame…"
The world cracked open.
And he fell.