For a few precious moments, he lay there, staring at the wooden ceiling beams, wondering if he had only dreamed it all. Perhaps he would open the h window and find the streets of Palandhar waiting below, hear the familiar honking of rickshaws and the distant buzz of city life.
But when he rolled over and peered outside, there it was — Aeseria. Twin suns hung in the sky like gold coins, bathing the village in soft, honeyed light. People moved through the stone-paved streets, their colorful clothing flapping in the cool morning breeze. Strange beasts pulled carts loaded with vegetables and cloth. The smell of baking bread and roasting meat filled the air.
No — this was real. Somehow, impossibly, he was here.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," Ayan called, voice raspier than usual.
The door creaked open, and Velarin entered, carrying a bundle of folded clothes.
"You'll need something more fitting," the blue-haired man said, placing the clothes on a nearby stool. "Your old garments won't serve you well here."
Ayan looked down at himself and grimaced. He was still wearing his school uniform — wrinkled gray trousers, a white shirt smudged with dirt, and a tie that had somehow gotten twisted into a knot during the whole transportation event.
He muttered a thank you and changed quickly after Velarin stepped out, donning a loose cream-colored shirt and dark brown trousers held up by a leather belt. A pair of sturdy boots completed the outfit. The clothes were rough but comfortable, and he felt a little less out of place.
When he emerged from his room, Velarin was waiting, arms crossed and expression unreadable.
"Come," he said simply.
They made their way downstairs and out into the bustling morning. Ayan tried to keep up, dodging villagers and curious children who whispered behind their hands when they saw him. He was painfully aware of how much he stood out, not just in appearance but in the hesitant way he moved, the way he looked at every tiny thing like it might bite him.
Velarin led him to a large open courtyard near the village center, surrounded by low stone walls. A handful of villagers were gathered there, practicing with wooden swords, throwing spears at straw targets, or sitting cross-legged with eyes closed, murmuring strange chants.
"This is the training ground," Velarin said. "It will become familiar to you soon enough."
Ayan stared, heart sinking. "Training for what? I already told you — I'm not some chosen hero."
Velarin didn't answer immediately. He led Ayan to the shade of a tree and sat down on one of the rough stone benches. With a sigh, Ayan followed.
"You misunderstand," Velarin said at last, folding his hands in his lap. "You are not expected to charge into battle tomorrow, or next week, or even next month. But Aeseria is a world of magic — and magic touches all who live here. If you wish to survive, you must learn its ways."
Ayan blinked. "Magic? Like spells and wands and potions?"
Velarin allowed himself a small smile. "Not precisely. Magic here is not simply a tool or a weapon. It is a force — like the wind, or the tide. It exists everywhere, in all things. Some can shape it, bending it to their will. Others are shaped by it, often without realizing."
He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, smooth stone. It shimmered faintly, as if lit from within.
"This," he said, holding the stone between thumb and forefinger, "is called a Veinstone. It allows even the untrained to glimpse the flow of magic."
He held it out.
Ayan hesitated before taking it. The stone was warm against his skin, pulsing gently, almost like a heartbeat.
"Focus," Velarin instructed. "Close your eyes. Feel beyond yourself."
Feeling ridiculous, Ayan did as he was told. He closed his eyes, blocking out the chatter of the courtyard, the clatter of training weapons, the whisper of the wind.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, slowly, he began to sense something — a faint, thrumming current beneath the surface of the world, like the deep hum of a hidden river. It surrounded him, flowed through him. It was both alien and intimately familiar, like a half-forgotten melody from childhood.
He gasped and opened his eyes, nearly dropping the Veinstone.
Velarin chuckled. "Good. You are more attuned than you realize."
Ayan shook his head, dazed. "What... what is that?"
"The Lifeflow," Velarin said. "It is the source of all magic in Aeseria. Every blade of grass, every gust of wind, every living thing is touched by it. Those who learn to listen can eventually learn to command."
Ayan stared at the stone, then back at Velarin. "And you think I can do that?"
"I do," Velarin said simply. "And more."
Before Ayan could protest, Velarin rose smoothly to his feet.
"Come. There is someone you must meet."
They left the courtyard, following a narrow path that wound between the buildings. As they walked, Ayan peppered Velarin with questions.
"Are there other people like me? From my world?"
Velarin's expression darkened slightly. "There have been others. Rarely. But not all fared well."
Ayan shivered. "What happened to them?"
"Some found their place here. Others... did not."
That was less than reassuring.
They reached a squat stone building at the far end of the village. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the heavy scent of herbs and oil hung in the air.
Velarin knocked once and pushed open the door.
Inside, the air was dim and thick with the smell of burning incense. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of strange powders and dried plants. A large table dominated the center of the room, covered in scrolls, maps, and tools whose purposes Ayan could only guess at.
Standing behind the table was a woman.
She was tall and broad-shouldered, with short silver hair and skin the color of burnished bronze. Her eyes were sharp and quick, like a hawk's. She wore simple, practical clothing — a sleeveless tunic and heavy boots — and a dagger was strapped to one thigh.
She looked up as they entered and smiled, revealing a row of strong white teeth.
"So," she said, voice rough like gravel. "This is the new one."
Ayan shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.
"Lyra," Velarin said, inclining his head. "This is Ayan. Ayan, this is Lyra — warrior, alchemist, and one of the finest instructors in Kalden's Rest."
Lyra barked a short laugh. "Instructor, eh? That's a fancy way of saying 'I beat sense into fools until they stop being fools.'"
Ayan swallowed nervously.
Velarin only smiled. "I leave him in your capable hands."
With that, the blue-haired man turned and left, leaving Ayan alone with the intimidating woman.
Lyra crossed her arms, studying him.
"You don't look like much," she said bluntly. "Soft hands. Skinny arms. Eyes like a startled rabbit."
Ayan bristled. "I didn't exactly ask to be here, you know."
Lyra grinned. "Good. A little fire. You'll need it."
She walked around the table and clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.
"First lesson," she said. "Forget everything you think you know. This world doesn't care about where you came from. It only cares about what you can do."
She gestured to the table.
"Second lesson. Learn fast."
Ayan stepped closer and saw that the table was covered in small objects — a battered wooden staff, a leather-bound book, a handful of crude iron knives, a tiny pouch of shimmering dust.
Lyra pointed to the book.
"Basic runecraft," she said. "Without it, you won't be able to use even the simplest spells. No, magic doesn't just happen because you wave your hands and shout Latin. It requires focus. Intent. Words that shape the Lifeflow into something useful."
She pointed to the pouch next.
"Essence dust. Harvested from Veinstones. It's what powers most low-level magic items."
Then the staff.
"Focus tools. Some people use staffs, others wands, others their own bodies. Helps channel the Lifeflow more easily."
Finally, the knives.
"And when all else fails, remember: a good blade never runs out of mana."
Ayan tried to take it all in, but his head was spinning.
Lyra saw the confusion and chuckled.
"Don't worry, boy. We'll start slow. You'll spend the next few weeks learning the basics. Reading, running, lifting, fighting, focusing. We'll find out what you're good at — and what you're terrible at."
She picked up one of the knives and tossed it to him.
Ayan barely managed to catch it without stabbing himself.
"First test," Lyra said. "Throw that knife at the target."
She pointed to a worn leather dummy pinned to the far wall.
Ayan shifted the knife uncertainly in his hand, took aim, and threw.
The knife wobbled through the air and fell pathetically to the floor halfway to the target.
Lyra snorted. "Well. At least you didn't stab yourself."
She strode over, retrieved the knife, and handed it back.
"Again."
And so began Ayan's first day of training.
He threw the knife a dozen times, hitting the target exactly zero times. His arm ached. His fingers were sore. His pride was in tatters.
But somewhere deep inside, he felt something else growing — a stubborn determination.
He wasn't good at this.
But he would be.
Because for the first time in his life, failure didn't mean a bad grade, or a disappointed lecture, or another evening spent staring at a cracked ceiling fan.
Here, failure meant something real.
And so did success.
As the twin suns dipped lower in the sky and the training dummy grew ragged with failed throws, Ayan kept at it.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Ayan Mishra lived an entirely forgettable life.
In the dusty city of Palandhar, where people hurried through broken streets and electricity flickered like a dying flame, Ayan was just another speck in the crowd. His mornings were filled with the drone of school lectures, his afternoons spent lost in the maze of local streets, and his nights hunched over a battered second-hand laptop that ran slower than molasses.
He was seventeen, barely scraping through the final year of school, with no real plan for what came next. His parents, both exhausted schoolteachers, had stopped pushing him for top grades a long time ago. Instead, they settled for mild disappointment, served cold over dinner conversations that neither side enjoyed.
It wasn't that Ayan was unintelligent. In fact, his mind buzzed with ideas most of the time—fantasies of leaving Palandhar behind, of stepping into a world where something actually happened to people like him. But reality, with its dull ache of sameness, had other plans.
On the day everything changed, the sky over Palandhar was a colorless sheet of cloud. Rain loomed on the horizon, but refused to fall. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to Ayan's skin as he trudged to the bus stop after yet another uneventful school day.
The buses in Palandhar were old and battered, their paint peeling like sunburned skin. Ayan climbed aboard the 6:40 PM bus, the one that rattled its way from the old city to the industrial outskirts where he lived. He flashed his worn-out student pass at the disinterested conductor and sank into a cracked plastic seat near the back.
The bus smelled of damp fabric and diesel fumes. A broken fan squeaked overhead, spinning just fast enough to stir the heavy air but not fast enough to make a difference. There were only a handful of passengers—an old woman knitting something out of thin blue yarn, a man in a dusty suit nodding off against the window, and a young boy hunched over a thick book.
Ayan pulled out his phone. No messages. No notifications. No one waiting for him.
He leaned his head against the window, watching the city blur past in a smear of gray and brown. The bus lurched and groaned as it wound its way through the familiar streets. He could have traced the route with his eyes closed.
And then, somewhere between Gokul Market and the abandoned cinema, the world snapped.
It was not a sound, exactly—not the crash of thunder or the screech of metal—but a sudden silence so complete it deafened him. For one heartbeat, the entire world froze. The humming of the bus, the murmurs of passengers, the rumble of traffic outside—all of it vanished.
Ayan blinked.
The bus seat beneath him melted away like smoke. The window at his side dissolved into light. He felt a strange sensation, as if gravity itself had been switched off, leaving him suspended in an endless, weightless void.
Panic surged through him, but before he could even move, the darkness cracked open.
A new world spilled into existence around him.
He was standing—not sitting—on a hilltop covered in thick, springy grass. The sky overhead was a brilliant canvas of violet and gold, unlike any sky he had ever seen. Strange, towering trees with silver bark and leaves like glass dotted the landscape. In the distance, a river gleamed under the twin suns that hung side by side in the sky.
Ayan staggered backward, almost tripping over his own feet.
"What... what the hell?" he breathed.
There was no sign of the bus, no other passengers, no familiar landmarks. Just him, and this impossible, alien world.
He spun in a slow circle, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. It was beautiful, but it was wrong. Every instinct inside him screamed that this was not where he was supposed to be.
A voice broke the silence.
"Welcome, traveler."
Ayan whirled around.
Standing a few feet away was a man—or something close to a man. He wore flowing robes that shimmered like the surface of a pond, and his hair was a deep blue, falling to his shoulders in silky strands. His eyes, however, were the strangest thing—pure white, without pupils, glowing faintly.
Ayan took an involuntary step back. "Who... who are you?"
The man smiled gently, though it didn't reach his eerie eyes.
"I am called Velarin," he said. "You have been summoned, as was foretold."
"Summoned?" Ayan echoed, heart hammering in his chest. "By who? For what?"
Velarin tilted his head slightly, studying him with an unreadable expression. "By this world itself. By Aeseria. You are needed."
Ayan stared at him. "There must be some mistake. I'm just... I'm nobody! I'm not a hero, or a warrior, or whatever you think I am. I was just riding the bus home!"
The man's smile didn't falter. "Yet you are here."
A gust of warm wind stirred the grass around them, carrying a faint scent of something sweet and unfamiliar.
Ayan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to force himself awake. This had to be a dream. Or a hallucination. Maybe he'd finally cracked under the weight of boredom and monotony.
But when he opened his eyes, the landscape was still there, vivid and impossible.
Velarin extended a hand.
"Come. There is much you must learn."
Ayan hesitated. Every rational thought screamed at him to run in the opposite direction. But where would he run? There was no bus to catch, no street to follow, no familiar city to retreat into.
And deep down, in a corner of his mind he barely acknowledged, there was a flicker of something else.
Hope.
Hope that maybe, just maybe, this was what he had been waiting for all along.
He swallowed hard and stepped forward.
Velarin nodded approvingly and turned, leading the way down the hill. Ayan followed, his heart thudding in his ears.
As they walked, Velarin spoke in a low, melodic voice.
"Aeseria is a world of balance. But the balance has been broken. Shadows stir in the east, and the ancient seals grow weak. The old magic that once protected us is fading."
Ayan struggled to keep up, both physically and mentally. "But why me? Why not someone... stronger? Smarter? Braver?"
Velarin gave a small chuckle. "Power alone cannot mend what has been broken. Sometimes, it is those who believe themselves insignificant who are capable of the greatest change."
Ayan wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or insulted by that.
They crested another hill, and Ayan caught his first glimpse of civilization—or what passed for it in this strange world. Below them lay a sprawling village, its houses built from stone and wood, with high, sloping roofs and colorful banners fluttering from tall poles. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the distant sound of bells floated through the air.
It looked like something out of a medieval fantasy novel.
Velarin paused at the top of the hill, surveying the village with a solemn expression.
"This is Kalden's Rest," he said. "It will be your home, for now."
Ayan nodded slowly, though he still felt like he was dreaming.
They made their way down the hill and into the village. People bustled through the narrow streets, carrying baskets of produce, leading strange beasts that resembled a cross between oxen and lizards, and chatting in a language Ayan didn't recognize—but somehow, through some trick of magic, he understood.
Children darted between the buildings, laughing and chasing each other. A group of armored guards marched past, their polished breastplates gleaming in the twin sunlight.
Despite everything, a small part of Ayan relaxed. It wasn't home, but it was...alive.
They reached a large building near the village center, its walls draped in vines heavy with purple flowers. Velarin pushed open the heavy wooden door and gestured for Ayan to enter.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old paper and herbs. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, scrolls, and curious objects. A fireplace crackled in one corner, and a large table stood in the center of the room, covered in maps and charts.
Velarin closed the door behind them and turned to face Ayan.
"You must understand," he said, his voice serious now. "Your arrival here was no accident. The forces that brought you to Aeseria did so with purpose. You are tied to the fate of this world in ways you do not yet comprehend."
Ayan sank onto a nearby bench, head spinning.
"This is insane," he muttered. "I don't even know how to fight. I don't know magic. I'm just a kid who barely passed algebra."
Velarin smiled slightly. "You will learn. In time."
He moved to one of the shelves and pulled down a slim, leather-bound book. He handed it to Ayan.
"This is your beginning."
Ayan took the book, feeling its weight in his hands. The cover was embossed with a symbol he didn't recognize—an intricate pattern of circles and lines, like a map of constellations.
He opened it to the first page.
And there, written in neat, flowing script, was a single sentence:
"All journeys begin with a single step, even when the path ahead is shrouded in shadow."
Ayan closed the book slowly.
Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe he would fail.
But for the first time in his life, he wasn't being dragged along by circumstances beyond his control. He had a choice.
He looked up at Velarin, who watched him with those strange, patient eyes.
"What do I have to do?" Ayan asked.
Velarin's smile widened, just a fraction.
"Live. Learn. And when the time comes... fight."
Ayan nodded.
Whatever this place was, whatever madness had brought him here, he would face it.
Because deep down, under the fear and confusion, a small spark had been lit.
A spark of purpose.
And he would not let it die.