Light bled through the dark like dawn through curtains. A quiet and golden street emerged, where stalls lined both sides like open hands. Woven canopies danced in the wind. Baskets overflowed with fruit, cloth, tools, and travel goods. Swords gleamed beside polished armour, everything bathed in warm morning light.
Footsteps moved beneath him—not his, but steady and familiar. He tried to turn his head, to look down, to stop—but his body walked on, beyond his will.
Then came the tug.
"Come on, Dad! You said I'd get my present when we got home!"
The voice, high and eager, latched onto something deep in Riley's chest.
Laughter escaped his mouth—not his voice, but rich, unguarded. It bubbled up like sunlight catching breath. A warmth spread through his ribs, full and painful in its suddenness. For a second, he forgot he couldn't move. It didn't matter.
The small hand never let go.
They jogged together past the stalls, weaving through waves of smiling strangers. Heads nodded in greeting. A merchant raised a hand and shouted a welcome that blurred into sound. Everything smelled like bread, spice, and earth.
The path curved left. A house sat quietly on the bend, crooked porch slouched with age. On it, an old man leaned over a board, charcoal in hand. He sketched in harsh strokes—fast, frantic. His eyes never left the parchment.
The child stopped first, bouncing on his heels and staring intently at Riley.
Riley felt as his hand slipped into a coat pocket and pulled something small and perfect into the light.
A bird, carved from soft wood. No bigger than a child's palm. Its wings stretched wide, mid-flight, each feather etched with care so precise it looked alive.
"This is my promise to you," a voice said gently from Riley's mouth, "that we'll fly far away from here one day."
The boy took it without a word, spinning away with a grin, arms outstretched like wings. His laughter trailed behind him like a kite string.
For a long second, Riley watched. He could feel it—his chest tightening as the boy disappeared up the porch and into the house, holding something more than just a toy.
As the door was about to close, a woman walked out. She wore a modest outfit, her brown hair tied up in a bun. Her smile was awesome, one that Riley was happy to look at. She walked up to Riley and gave him a hug. "Elias, that gift is lovely. When did you find the time to carve it?"
"Well, I have spent much time in the outpost and on hunts. So I just carved while I waited." She looked at him briefly before asking, "Are you going to the service?"
"Of course, I have one job outside the settlement first. How about you?"
She nodded at him with pursed lips. Before looking back at the old man on the porch, "Grandpa, are you coming? It should be a lovely service tonight?"
The old man looked at them with sunken eyes and a toothless mouth that curved up before he spat in front of them.
Riley wanted to frown at the gesture, but Elias' body and the lady beside him didn't seem to react; instead, they just looked at each other.
Elias' body gave the woman one last hug and said, "I'll be back later, Thalia. I'll meet you here before the service." With that, Elias turned.
The old man on the porch stood now, hammering charcoal sketches to the wall. Riley caught a glimpse of the drawing; eyes, hollow and wide, faces twisted into smiles that didn't quite sit right.
The old man made eye contact with Riley, his lips curled in silent contempt.
Elias continued to walk away, seemingly unaffected by the rude behaviour. It baffled Riley until something pressed in from the throat—a breath held back. A mutter scraped past his teeth.
"I don't like you either, old man."
It was after that exchange that Riley realised what was happening. He was stuck watching and experiencing the life of a man named Elias. He didn't know how to get out of this situation, but he thought that perhaps he'd just do the only thing he could do for now: observe.
They passed the stalls again. This time, Riley noticed the weight behind every step. He'd only felt this feeling a few times in his life. The world felt duller, and the air felt heavier here, as if the sun couldn't reach beyond the rooftops.
Near the edge of the town, a low, fortified structure came into view. Soldiers stood at its entrance, armoured in something not quite metal—stone-smooth, matte-finished, and gleaming unevenly where the light struck it. The material felt more ancient than forged, like it had been pulled from the land rather than shaped by fire.
One of the guards gave a wave.
Another stepped forward.
He wore a mask carved from black wood, cut with narrow slits for eyes and a mouth. It hid everything, yet presence poured off him like heat.
He extended a hand.
"Elias. What took you so long? We're ready to move out."
Elias gripped the handshake. Solid, Measured and Confident.
"Had something to handle at home," he said. "Give me the latest."
"The Titan-Class is still near the ridge. Scouts have tracked it all day. No movement. It's alone."
"Confirmed to be a Juggernaut?"
"Yes."
Elias thought for a moment before giving his orders.
"We'll handle it ourselves," He said. "No need to involve the other settlements."
"Yes, Commander."
Inside, the outpost was still—like a breath held too long. Tables and chairs stood in neat disorder. Weapons lined the walls. Armour sets rested against racks, all forged from that same strange blend of polished mineral and dark alloy.
Elias walked over to the racks of armour, moving with purpose. Each strap locked into place with the efficiency of routine. The armour didn't just fit—it belonged.
He crossed to the far wall and reached for the final piece.
A black wooden mask.
Unmarked, Silent and Familiar.
As it lifted, Riley felt the warmth from before, the boy's laughter, the gentle smile, the glow of a morning street—drain from his chest, slipping away like water through cupped hands.
The mask touched skin.
And the world dulled.
Outside, the soldiers were assembled, fifty strong. Elias walked among them, exchanging brief words—quiet affirmations, nods, hands on shoulders. They looked to him, not with awe but with expectation. This was routine, measured, the kind of command built over years.
He reached the front.
Ahead, the Lunareth Forest stretched wide beneath the sun, its blue-lit trees shimmering faintly even in daylight. A quiet glow pulsed beneath the canopy like something alive, waiting.
Elias turned.
"We've been assigned a Juggernaut," he said, his voice level but firm. "Titan-Class. That means no rushing in, no recklessness. The scouts have marked its location— it's alone, and there are no signs of other threats nearby."
His gaze swept the formation.
"But just in case… Damien, you and your squad of ten will stay back. If anything else enters the fight, your job is to intercept it. Slow it down, and stop it from interfering with the main attack force; we can't have a single surprise."
He gestured toward the soldier who gave the update earlier—Riley assumed this must be Damien.
"If nothing interferes, the rest of us take it down. No delays. No casualties. Let's help this beast leave this cursed land."
Then Elias turned, and with the forest before him and the sun rising higher behind, he led the march forward—fifty soldiers falling into step at his back.