The morning came cold and quiet. A mist hung low over the hills, dampening sound, cloaking the forest in a pale shroud. It was the kind of silence that came before a storm—an unnatural hush that made the villagers of Ashen uneasy.
Ethan stood at the edge of the village, hands tucked in the pockets of his long coat, eyes scanning the treeline. Something gnawed at the edge of his thoughts. Ever since the black letter from the Serpent Court, he hadn't slept well.
He could feel it in his bones.
Something was coming.
It happened fast.
The mist didn't clear—it moved.
From the fog, black-cloaked figures surged forward like wraiths, blades drawn, faces masked. No war drums. No war cry. Just the quiet, sudden whispers of death.
"Raiders!" someone screamed.
But these weren't raiders.
They were trained. Precise. Silent.
Assassins.
Joren grabbed his sword. Lyra pulled her bow from the rooftop where she'd kept watch. Ethan didn't hesitate—he dove behind a cart, snapping the latch off the hidden crate he had buried beneath it.
Inside: the gear he had brought back from Earth.
A 12-gauge shotgun. An old Glock. Three knives. Two flashlights. A solar-powered radio. Duct tape. He grabbed the shotgun, cocked it, and ran into the fray.
The first assassin leapt at him with a hooked blade. Ethan fired.
Boom!!!
The blast echoed like thunder. The man dropped, lifeless.
Others turned.
And for a moment, they hesitated.
They weren't prepared for this kind of war.
Ethan wasn't fighting with steel—he was fighting with fire.
But there were too many.
Even with the villagers fighting beside him, even with Lyra loosing arrows from the rooftops, Ethan knew they wouldn't last long.
He needed time.
He needed supplies.
And he needed to settle unfinished business.
When the battle reached a momentary lull, Ethan ducked into a storage house and focused.
He clutched a small leather pouch of gold coins—currency from Avalon, some marked with royal crests, others hand-stamped by villages long gone.
He closed his eyes.
Lyra.
Ashen.
Avalon.
Then—he pushed the thought away.
New York. Earth. The bank.
The air twisted around him. A strange weightlessness passed through his body.
And suddenly—
He was back.
The cold neon glow of Earth hit him like a punch. Sounds of traffic. Distant music. A siren howling in the night.
His room.
Untouched.
He didn't wait. He moved fast.
The loanshark's office was still at the edge of Queens. Ethan arrived before dawn with a backpack and the gold coins hidden inside socks, wrapped in foil.
The guy behind the desk blinked. "You're dead."
Ethan dropped the pouch onto the counter.
"Now I'm not," he said. "Call it even."
The man opened it—and stared. Real gold. Real weight. "Where the hell did you—"
"Don't ask."
They didn't speak again.
Ethan left lighter. Not just in debt—but in guilt.
He moved quickly. He visited three outdoor stores, two gun shops in the back alleys, and a Korean supermarket.
He bought:
- Grain sacks
- Canned goods
- Spices
- Medical kits
- Antibiotics
- Knives
- Axes
- A compound bow with a carbon-fiber quiver
- A small generator
- Batteries
-A metal ballista with a lot of metal arrows
- Toothpaste, soap, razors, and menstrual products
- And a sword—a real one this time, forged steel, not ornamental.
Everything went into two massive duffel bags. He packed them tightly, zipped them, slung one on each shoulder.
He stood still in the center of his room, surrounded by the sounds of a world that no longer felt like his.
He thought of Lyra.
Of Ashen.
Of the people who trusted him now.
Back, he told himself.
He dropped into the middle of chaos.
The fire was spreading through the grain stores. One of the assassins had lit it on his way out. Bodies lay scattered across the road. The air was thick with smoke and screaming.
Ethan didn't hesitate.
He pulled a hose from the generator, lit it, and sprayed flame at the assassin nearest to Lyra—a homemade flamethrower. The man screamed and vanished into the brush, burning.
He dropped the generator, unzipped the bags, and tossed gear toward anyone able to fight.
The villagers blinked in confusion at the strange weapons, but Ethan shouted instructions as he reloaded.
"Use this to cauterize wounds!" he shouted, handing a villager a blowtorch. "And these are flashbangs—pull the pin and throw!"
By the time the sun rose fully, the assassins had retreated.
Not defeated.
But warned.
Ashen was no longer prey.
They buried seven more that morning. Fewer than they feared.
Joren's arm was broken. Lyra's leg was cut, but she walked anyway.
The supplies were passed out. The food was shared. The medical kits were already saving lives.
Ashen survived again—because Ethan came back.
He sat near the edge of the village that night, staring into the horizon, knowing this was only the beginning.
The Serpent Court had tested them.
Next time—they would strike with armies.
He pulled the sword from its sheath and set it beside his shotgun.
Two worlds.
Two weapons.
And one war coming for both.