He pushed forward, the vines fought him with every step, as though the jungle itself had turned against him, he stumbled, cursed under his breath, tore his way through leaves that clung like wet cloth with only one goal in mind.

  At some point, after days of walking, the jungle started changing so he paused. Something… was different, he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, then it clicked, it was the heat...the heat was dropping.

  His first instinct was to look to the sky, but the sun was still there, burning white and high, nowhere near setting, so why the chill?

  He kept moving, more alert now, looking for clues.

  The trees thinned and the vines slackened.

  The air grew dry and sharp, like winter mornings he couldn’t remember but somehow felt. The plants that were green and greedy before were now wilting, browning at the edges, dying as though something deeper in the clearing was pushing them back , like something that didn’t belong in this jungle.

  Whatever it was, the jungle feared it, and that gave him a strange sense of hope.

  He also found himself breathing clearer now, it was strange, but also a relief.

  Still… he didn’t slow down, he couldn’t, there was no turning back now, and the closer he got, the colder it became.

  When he finally reached the tree line, he stopped, not because he meant to, but because his brain hit a wall and just froze, his legs kept twitching like they still wanted to run, but the rest of him just stood there staring at what lay ahead . His breath misted in front of him.

  Another tower...

  Not white, like the one he’d awoken beside, but black.

  Jet-black stone, shattered and scattered, just like the case of the white tower, only larger, with more of its mass dragged through whatever magic had ripped it from the world.

  And the ground…

  Everywhere the black stone touched was frozen and ice spread outward from the ruin like cracks on glass. That was what he’d seen shining from the distance, not water, but light dancing off frost.

  Patches of ice covered the clearing, glinting beneath the dying light of the jungle canopy, no wind just cold, still and wrong.

  The tower seemed to watch him too.

  He didn’t know if he should get any closer, every instinct screamed at him that he was being watched. Near the treeline he still had some cover, but as soon as he would enter the clearing he would be exposed.

  Unfortunately for him there was nowhere else left to run.

  No food, no path, no hope, so he started to circled the clearing slowly, keeping to the trees.

  He made one full circle, looking for signs, tracks, for anything...but finding nothing.

  Whatever had been here… was long gone now, he would have to go inside the ruined place for more answers.

  He swallowed hard, his mouth was dry again, but not from thirst.

  He took a breath, then another.

  Then stepped from the trees, onto the ice-kissed earth, into the shadow cast by the black tower, he figured that this was the right place to approach, because he would still have some small degree of cover.

  He moved slowly, deliberately, like a shadow creeping across a wall, each step toward the tower felt heavier, more reluctant. The ground beneath him was fragile, thin patches of ice stretching like silver skin over black soil, one crack and sound would echo across the clearing, so he stepped between them, cautious as a hunter.

  The tower loomed, broken, slouching under its own weight yet still holding something behind its skeletal frame. A single door, darkened with age, leaned askew in its hinges but stood closed.

  He reached out.

  Just a touch, his fingers brushing old splintered wood and that was when it hit him.

  Agony...

  A spear of pain lanced through his skull, as if something behind the door had stabbed into his mind, he staggered, nearly fell, eyes wide with the shock of it and then he saw…

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  Not the jungle.

  Not the cold.

  But a room lit by silver moonlight.

  He stood before an open window, hands resting on the stone sill worn smooth by time and wind, eyes drawn to the vastness beyond. Mountains loomed ahead, black shapes against a sky of stars, and nestled within their embrace, a stronghold rose like a carved jewel set into the bone of the world, a memory stirred, faint and fleeting but real.

  He had known he was once a soldier, a blade bound to a cause, but now he saw more, not just any army, this army, the one that guarded this keep that watched over the villages scattered like seeds in the valleys below. He did not know its name, but the shape of it settled into him like a sword returning to its scabbard.

  The city beyond the stronghold pulsed with quiet life, lanterns winking in the dark, windows aglow with warmth and movement. Even beneath the soft veil of moonlight, it seemed alive, not sleeping but simply at rest, breathing gently through the night.

  The stronghold itself was a thing of purpose and pride, its foundations carved into the very mountain, the stone rough-hewn and ancient, yet half of it soared upward in white stone polished to brilliance, with towers of gold that caught even the moonlight and turned it to fire, not simply a place of defense...this had been made with reverence and vision.

  And there on its walls, he saw them: flags, dozens of them, each fluttering in the windless dark, as if stirred by memory itself. Green serpents, coiled and vigilant, twined about red trees, that emblem tugged at something deep within him, a truth buried in the ruins of his thoughts.

  The serpent again, the same symbol etched upon the battered armor he had awoken in, no longer a coincidence, no longer a guess.

  This was home, his home...

  A hand touched his arm, light, gentle.

  He turned, breath catching as if a thread had pulled him from some far place, and found himself face to face with a woman. She kissed him before he could speak, soft lips, and something older than memory passed between them.

  She was young, her face fair, though he could not place her name...her eyes were deep brown, so rich and steady they held him fast, and her hair, dark as midnight, fell in a braid to her waist, a simple elegance that whispered of strength and care.

  He did not remember her, but he felt her...and that, in the silence of the silver-lit room, was enough.

  They stood together in the embrasure, framed by the arched stone of the window, the moonlight soft on their faces, casting long silver shadows across the floor. Beyond, the night stretched quiet and still, peaceful in the way a deep breath is peaceful before the scream. The mountains slept, cloaked in mist, and the valley below held its breath beneath a sky too calm for comfort. She leaned into him slightly, her arm brushing his, her gaze distant, yet focused, a wind stirred, not strong, but sharp enough to carry the scent of rain, though the clouds had not yet gathered.

  “I don’t like it,” she said at last, her voice low. “This campaign, this timing, it feels wrong.”

  He said nothing for a time...the words hung between them like the stillness before thunder.

  “You could stay,” she continued, more softly. “Call in a favor, a wound not fully healed, they’d understand you’ve done enough.”

  A woman’s intuition, they called it, she always had a sense for storms long before the sky turned dark, it had the habit of becoming annoying sometimes, but not now. His eyes remained fixed on the distance, and when he spoke, there was no uncertainty in his voice.

  “No,” he said. “Not this time. They will need me.”

  He did not say why, not truly, he could not name the feeling that gripped his chest and whispered of cracks in the line, of something waiting just beyond the hills, something that would slip through if no one stood to meet it. He only knew that if he was not there something would go wrong.

  She turned her eyes to him then, searching his face for the boy she had known beneath the man he had become. “And what if it’s the other way around?” she asked. “What if something goes wrong because you are there?”

  He smiled faintly, but there was no joy in it.

  “Then I would rather be there to face it.”

  They stood in silence after that, shoulder to shoulder, watching the night unfold. The storm had not come, not yet, but the wind carried its scent more clearly now. Somewhere beyond the reach of the lanterns and towers, the world was turning, and neither peace nor moonlight would hold it back for long. She reached for his hand, fingers sliding into his with quiet urgency, and gripped his palm tight, as though she might hold him in place by will alone, no trembling only warmth, and strength, and the unbearable ache of what could not be stopped.

  Her voice was low, but steady, a prayer spoken without the trappings of ritual.

  “May the gods favor you…Brann.”

  The name struck like a hammer against stone… Brann, his name, the sound of it echoed, folding inward, spiraling deeper through his mind.

  The memory shattered.

  He gasped, choking on breath, and found himself on his knees before the wooden door, holding the handle, sweat poured down his face despite the cold. His sword arm trembled.

  Brann.

  The name echoed in his skull like a whisper, unfamiliar yet right.

  Why now? Why here...in front of a black tower wreathed in frost?

  He stared at the door, as if expecting another vision, another surge of pain but none came.

  His hands were shaking, but he forced himself to rise.

  Whatever had happened, whatever he’d seen was real, at least to him.

  He placed his palm against the door again, this time there was no memory, only silence.

  The door gave way under his push, and Brann stepped into the darkness of the tower.