Nightfall came faster than expected.

  The sun dipped below the trees without warning, and the forest turned cold in seconds. Shadows stretched like fingers. The air thickened with the scent of damp leaves and unseen growth.

  Caleb crouched beneath the low branches of a pine-like tree, gathering what little dry moss and bark he could find. He had no flint, no tinderbox, and only a dull knife. He tried striking the blade against a rock — nothing. Again. Sparks, but no flame.

  By the time darkness took full hold, he was left with a sad pile of kindling and no fire.

  So he huddled into himself, arms wrapped tight, his back pressed to the tree. Every sound in the dark made him twitch. Leaves shifting. Insects buzzing. Once, the distant snap of a branch.

  He didn’t sleep. He drifted — in and out, in shallow cycles of fear and exhaustion. When the morning light finally returned, it felt less like a rescue and more like a delay.

  But he was still alive.

  And that meant something.

  He stood, body stiff and cold, and forced himself to move. The stream was still nearby — he followed it east, if his gut was right. Hunger scratched at his belly again. The berries he’d eaten yesterday weren’t enough. He needed real food.

  The terrain changed as he walked. Trees gave way to stone — crumbling cliffs and twisted roots clinging to narrow ledges. And then, as he crested a low ridge, he saw it:

  A road.

  Dirt, mostly. Rutted with cart tracks. Old, but traveled.

  Civilization.

  He didn’t even hesitate. He climbed down and followed the path, heart pounding. This was what he needed. People. Answers. Context. A village, a town, anything.

  He walked for nearly an hour before he heard it — hooves. A single rider, slow. The sound of a wooden cart creaking behind.

  Caleb stepped off the road and hid behind a thicket, heart racing. He peeked out.

  The rider came into view.

  Not a soldier. Not a cop. Not anyone he recognized.

  A man in rough leathers, patched and stained. A brown cloak over his shoulders. Behind him, a two-wheeled cart loaded with barrels. A donkey pulled it at a lazy pace.

  The man held no reins. He was reading something — a piece of parchment, rolled and unrolled with care.

  Caleb’s breath caught.

  There were no phones. No GPS. No engine. No roadsigns.This wasn’t just the countryside.This was a different century.

  He stepped out onto the path.

  “Hey!” he called.

  The rider jerked upright, startled. The donkey stopped.

  The man stared at him. Then, after a moment, he narrowed his eyes and reached slowly for something at his side — a short blade.

  Caleb raised both hands. “I don’t want trouble! I just— I just need to know where I am.”

  The man didn’t answer. His gaze traveled over Caleb’s clothes, his boots, his belt. He looked confused. Suspicious.

  Finally, he spoke — but the words meant nothing.

  Not English. Not French. Not Spanish.Not anything Caleb had ever heard.

  A low, harsh tongue. Structured. Rhythmic. Almost musical. But completely foreign.

  Caleb blinked.

  “What...?”

  The man repeated the phrase, louder now, and more forcefully.

  And in that moment, something inside Caleb broke.

  He wasn’t in another city.He wasn’t in another country.He wasn’t even on the same Earth.

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  This was another world.

  And he was completely, utterly alone.

  The man didn’t move. Neither did Caleb.

  For a few long seconds, the two of them stood frozen on the dirt road — one with a blade half-drawn, the other with empty hands raised, heart pounding in his throat.

  Caleb tried again.

  “Please,” he said. “I don’t understand you. I’m not here to fight. I don’t have anything. Just—just tell me where I am.”

  The man didn’t react to the words. Only to the tone. His eyes narrowed, scanning Caleb’s posture, his clothes, his expression. Slowly, he eased the blade back into its sheath.

  Then he said something else. Slower. Softer. But no more comprehensible.

  Caleb lowered his arms a little, just enough to show he wasn’t hostile. The man glanced at the road ahead, then at Caleb again. With a click of his tongue, he urged the donkey forward.

  As the cart passed, the man pointed toward the horizon and spoke again — a single word this time, firm and clipped. Then he moved on, the cart creaking behind him.

  Caleb stood alone in the dust.

  He replayed the moment in his mind, searching for meaning in the gestures. The man hadn’t attacked. That was something. And he had pointed, maybe offering a direction. But beyond that — nothing.

  Still, it was the first kindness he’d received, even if it was cautious and limited.

  Caleb started walking again, now following the road. Every step forward felt heavier. His mind spun.

  Another world. Another language. No way to communicate. No way to survive.

  And yet — he had survived. Two days now, maybe. Or more. He’d eaten. Drunk. Found shelter, even if only under trees. And now, a road. A person. A direction.

  There was still hope.

  The sun rose higher as the hours passed. Caleb’s legs ached, but the road made walking easier. He passed fields — wild and unplanted. Then fences, simple ones of rope and wood, bordering pastures where strange, long-legged animals grazed. They watched him with curious eyes, twitching their ears but not fleeing.

  Eventually, he saw rooftops in the distance.

  A village. Small. Smoke rising from a few chimneys. Wooden homes clustered together. A windmill turning lazily in the breeze.

  He stopped at the crest of a hill and stared, breath shallow.

  It wasn’t much.

  But it was civilization.

  Now came the hard part.

  Caleb descended the slope slowly, each step heavier than the last. The village below didn’t seem hostile — there were no walls, no guards at the gate, no weapons on display. But that didn’t mean he’d be welcomed.

  He stopped a few dozen meters from the outermost homes. The buildings were made of timber and stone, with thick thatched roofs. Some looked recently repaired, others weathered by time. Smoke curled from chimneys. Chickens clucked somewhere nearby. A dog barked once, then quieted.

  He felt like a ghost standing at the edge of it all.

  What was the protocol for showing up in a village that didn’t belong to your world?

  He adjusted his tunic, brushed off some dirt from his sleeves, and made sure the borrowed knife at his belt was visible but sheathed. The message was clear: not armed, not helpless.

  Then, he stepped forward.

  The first person he saw was an old woman kneeling in front of a trough, washing vegetables. She looked up at him with surprise but didn’t cry out. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t move.

  He raised one hand — a slow, open gesture — and said, “Hello.”

  She blinked. Her mouth opened, but what came out wasn’t English. Or anything like it. A string of soft consonants and rounded vowels, spoken with caution but not anger.

  Caleb shook his head gently. “I don’t understand.”

  The woman watched him for a second longer, then called out — not loudly, but clearly. A moment later, two more villagers appeared. A man and a boy, both carrying bundles of firewood. They stopped when they saw Caleb.

  The man said something quickly to the woman. She replied. Then the boy dropped his firewood and ran off into the village.

  Not good.

  Caleb raised both hands again, trying to show peace. “I’m not a threat,” he said. “I’m lost. I don’t know where I am.”

  The man stepped forward, not drawing a weapon, but his posture was guarded. He gestured toward the ground, said something firm. It wasn’t hard to guess what he meant.

  Stay where you are.

  Caleb obeyed.

  More people were starting to appear — curious, cautious. He counted at least ten now, standing in doorways, peeking around corners. No weapons yet, but plenty of suspicion.

  And then came the sound of boots on stone. He turned and saw the boy return — this time with someone new.

  A woman. Tall. Dark cloak. Leather armor worn under it, with a crest stitched at the chest. A blade at her side, and a quiet authority in her step. Not a soldier, but not a villager either.

  She stopped a few feet away from him, arms crossed.

  And spoke.

  She spoke first. Her voice was firm but not aggressive — measured, controlled, like someone used to command but wary of escalation.

  Caleb didn’t understand a word.

  She paused after a few phrases, waiting for a response.

  “I don’t understand,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I don’t speak your language.”

  Her expression didn’t change. She studied him in silence for a moment, then gestured to the villagers. A few of them stepped back. The man with the firewood lowered his stance. The tension around Caleb eased, if only slightly.

  She took a slow step forward, then another. Up close, he could see the fine detailing in her cloak — not noble, but custom. Practical. Worn. She moved like someone who knew how to fight, but didn’t flaunt it.

  He pointed to himself. “Caleb,” he said. Then tapped his chest again. “Ca-leb.”

  She raised an eyebrow, then nodded slowly.

  “Caleb,” she repeated — the pronunciation slightly off, but close enough.

  She pointed to herself, then spoke a name: something like “Rael,” though the accent twisted the syllables. It might’ve been “Ra?lle.” Or “Rhael.” Hard to tell.

  He repeated it as best he could. She nodded again.

  Progress.

  She gestured toward the village, then looked at him. Questioning.

  “You want me to come?” he asked, already stepping forward.

  She didn’t stop him.

  As they walked side by side through the small street, people parted to make room. Eyes followed them, whispers trailing behind. Caleb kept his hands visible. The knife stayed at his side, untouched.

  They reached a low building near the village center — a long hall made of dark timber and stone, with shutters open to let in the light. Rael opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

  Inside, the air was warmer. A hearth glowed softly in the center. A table. Benches. Storage shelves along the walls. It smelled of herbs, leather, and smoke.

  She motioned for him to sit. He did.

  She sat across from him and spoke again. Slowly. Clearly. Repeating certain words, gesturing toward items in the room. A chair. A cup. The fire.

  She was teaching him.

  Caleb watched her carefully, trying to remember the sounds, the gestures. He didn’t know what she saw in him — desperation, maybe. Helplessness. Or something else. But for now, she wasn’t treating him like a threat.

  She was treating him like a question.

  And for the first time since he’d woken in the forest, Caleb didn’t feel completely alone.