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.
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.