Aren lay beneath a thick, woolen blanket, its coarse fibers surprisingly comforting against his skin. The room around him was small yet inviting, bathed in the soft golden hues of morning sunlight that filtered gently through a window left ajar. A cool, fresh breeze slipped in, nudging the thin curtains into slow, graceful waves that cast shifting shadows across the worn wooden floor and the neatly made bed. The air carried a faint, soothing scent—a mingling of dried herbs, polished wood, and the faint hint of freshly washed linens—an aroma that spoke quietly of a humble, well-loved home.
His eyelids fluttered open, adjusting to the gentle light. He blinked away the haze of unconsciousness and slowly sat up, muscles still recovering but noticeably stronger than before. The furniture was simple and practical—an old wooden chest, scarred with age but clearly cared for, stood against one wall. Nearby, a sturdy chair was positioned just beside the bed, as if waiting for a visitor to rest upon it. This was no sterile clinic or impersonal infirmary; this was a private room, a sanctuary of comfort and familiarity.
Aren flexed his fingers, rolling his wrists beneath the blanket. There was no sharp pain, no throbbing wounds; even the dull ache that had nestled stubbornly in his chest was now gone, replaced by a subtle strength that hummed beneath his skin. He glanced down at the soft cotton pajamas he wore—clean, well-fitted, and far more comfortable than the coarse tunic he'd borrowed from the lumberjack days ago. His gaze settled on his left wrist, where the SENTINEL device remained, its smooth, black surface catching the light and reflecting a faint shimmer.
"Val? Can you hear me?" he murmured, voice still hoarse but steady.
A soft pulse of blue light illuminated the device as it responded instantly.
[Your Majesty! It's a relief to hear your voice.]
Aren exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. The tension in his chest eased.
"How long have I been out? And where am I exactly?"
[You've been unconscious for one full day. This is the home of Mrs. Clara.]
His brow furrowed. "Who's Mrs. Clara?"
[She is the kind woman who brought us safely to the city after the battle. This is her home. While you rested, I remained active in standby, monitoring your vital signs and scanning our environment to gather any relevant data.]
Memories from the chaotic battle began to surface—each painful moment slowly knitting itself back together in his mind. He sat upright, determination settling in his chest.
"Tell me everything that happened after I passed out. I need to get back on my feet and continue my mission."
[Of course. Your body was severely taxed—poisoned and exhausted from the fight. The surge of Alma energy put additional strain on your internal systems, leaving you vulnerable.]
He nodded slowly, then hesitated. "Alma—the energy. I have something important to share with you about it."
And so he recounted his latest encounter with the Dark Dragon: the strange, luminous chamber filled with the emblem canvases, the new powers he had been granted, and the profound connection he felt with the Alma itself. Val pulsed steadily in response, her glow brightening and dimming in rhythm with his speech, as if absorbing every word.
[The Dark Dragon's trust in you appears to be growing, Your Majesty. Acquiring the ability to harness multiple emblems is an extraordinary feat. Your genetic makeup must be exceptional to sustain this. My scans indicate remarkable improvements—your vitals are stable, the poison has been purged, and there is evidence of accelerated muscle regeneration.]
Aren glanced down at his arms and chest. The contours of muscle beneath his pajamas were more defined than before, not swollen with injury, but lean and taut, like a blade freshly sharpened. He felt it deep within himself—a burgeoning strength, not just recovering but evolving.
His eyes caught sight of a neatly folded set of clothes resting on the chair—simple, clean, and clearly laid out for him. His boots sat patiently beneath the chair, polished and ready.
"I suppose I can wear those," he muttered, stretching to loosen his limbs before slipping into the fresh garments. They fit better than the rough, ill-fitting tunic he'd been wearing before. Moving cautiously, he noticed a familiar bag tucked in the corner.
[Mrs. Clara brought your belongings here. She did not open your bag. Your knife is wrapped carefully in cloth nearby.]
He reached in and carefully unwrapped the knife. Its blade gleamed, spotless and oiled, the faint scent of rubbing alcohol lingering faintly.
"She even cleaned this…" Aren said softly, a mixture of gratitude and disbelief in his tone.
He held the knife a moment longer, appreciating the craftsmanship, before gently setting it aside. There was no need to carry a weapon in this place, not yet.
The door to the room was unlocked. As he stepped outside, the hallway stretched out before him, leading to a wooden stairwell. From below, soft humming floated upward—a gentle, familiar melody sung by a woman's clear, light voice.
He descended slowly, careful to keep his footsteps quiet. The house revealed itself further with each step—warm and welcoming, full of small personal touches that spoke of a life well lived. The aroma of simmering soup curled invitingly through the air.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Clara stood at the stove, stirring a large pot. Steam rose in delicate tendrils, catching the morning light that pooled over her hair, making it gleam like spun gold. She hummed quietly, absorbed in her cooking.
"Ahem…" Aren cleared his throat softly.
She turned, surprise and joy flooding her features. "Ohhhhh! You're finally awake!" she exclaimed, her face breaking into a radiant smile. Before he could reply, she crossed the room and enveloped him in a warm, firm hug.
Aren stiffened at first, but slowly relaxed into the embrace. Perhaps, in her eyes, he was still just a boy in need of care.
"I need a few more minutes before the food's ready," she said warmly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Feel free to look around. There's a garden outside if you want some fresh air."
He nodded quietly, then wandered into the adjacent room. It was spacious and comfortable, anchored by a large stone fireplace. The faint scent of burning wood lingered—proof that the hearth had been recently tended. The mantel was decorated with framed photographs—portraits capturing moments frozen in time.
One photo caught his attention: a young Clara, smiling beside a man and a boy, both dressed formally. The boy, slightly older, wore a military uniform, his expression a mixture of pride and nervous anticipation, perhaps freshly graduated. The resemblance to Clara was unmistakable—a family preserved in images.
Aren's gaze lingered for a moment, but he quickly looked away, not wanting to pry into memories that weren't his.
Outside, the garden was a splash of life and color, thriving in the morning sun despite its modest size. Neatly tended rows of herbs, leafy greens, and root vegetables grew in orderly beds, the same produce he had seen at the village market. Every plant was vibrant, a testament to daily care and patience.
He sat down on the soft grass, cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
"Val, before we head back inside, I want to try something new. Can you show me a transcription of my speech as I talk? It'll help me learn the language faster."
[Excellent idea, Your Majesty. I will display a real-time transcription, with my translation rendered in your voice for clarity.]
"Thanks, Val. I want to explain things clearly to her—don't want to overwhelm her."
As he meditated on the recent battles—the bear's ferocity, the bandits' cruelty, the surge of Alma—his mind replayed every movement. He dissected each step, each parry, imagining alternative outcomes: a different footwork, a sharper strike, a quicker dodge. He acknowledged his mistakes, too—the missed opportunities, the faltered reflexes. Every lesson was a thread weaving into his growth.
By the time Clara called him to eat, a sheen of sweat dotted his brow. Though it had been only a short while, to Aren it felt like hours of rigorous training, a quiet evolution beginning within.
They sat together at a small wooden table in the cozy kitchen, the air thick with the comforting aroma of the simmering soup that steamed gently between them. The warmth from the bowl seeped into the room, mingling with the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through the lace curtains. Outside, faint birdsong drifted through the open window, adding a tranquil soundtrack to the quiet moment.
"So you're telling me this bracelet is actually translating everything you say, right now?" Clara asked, her voice a curious mix of disbelief and fascination. Her eyes sparkled as she reached out to glance at the sleek device on Aren's wrist, her fingers hovering above it as if it might somehow reveal more secrets if touched.
"Yes," Aren replied softly, his voice smooth but carrying a distant edge—as if the words belonged partly to him, partly to Val, the AI inside the device. "It sounds like me, but it's Val speaking. I'm still learning your language, so please forgive me if I sound a little… strange."
Clara chuckled warmly, shaking her head. "Not a problem at all, Aren. Honestly, it's admirable. Most people wouldn't bother to learn when they have a perfect translator at their fingertips." Her tone was light, but there was genuine respect there.
Aren smiled faintly, breaking off a piece of the warm, freshly baked bread on the table. The crust crackled crisply beneath his fingers, releasing a faint scent of yeast and wood smoke. "I believe that understanding a language is more than just speaking it. It's about understanding people—how they think, how they feel." He tore off a chunk, savoring the soft crumb beneath the crust.
He hadn't told Clara everything—not the truth about his mission or the danger shadowing his every move. It didn't feel right to drag her into that darkness. Instead, he had told her he was a traveler from a faraway place, unfamiliar with this land and its customs. Clara hadn't entirely believed him—he could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes—but she hadn't pressed him further, letting the mystery be.
Clara's expression softened as she studied him thoughtfully. "So… how do you feel now?"
"All good," he answered sincerely, a hint of gratitude warming his voice. "Thank you, Mrs. Clara. My body's healed, and the food is… really good. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say."
She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You have such nice manners for someone your age. Your family must have raised you well."
Aren's lips curved into a faint, wistful smile. "I grew up with my grandfather. I guess I speak like him."
Clara nodded knowingly, her voice dropping to a gentle murmur. "I see." Then, after a brief pause, she added softly, "By the way, the people in the village send their regards. Thanks to you, they got the remedies for the poison in time."
A flash of pride stirred in Aren's chest. "I'm glad I could help. Did your grandfather teach you how to deal with bandits, too?" he asked playfully, hoping to lighten the mood.
She laughed, a sound like soft bells. "He was a man with a lot of experience. Used to say, 'Who carries poison must also carry the cure.'"
Her smile faded slightly, shadows crossing her face. "Those bandits—they call themselves the Sand Reapers. They prey on the weak now that the knights are gone." Her voice was low, almost haunted.
Aren leaned forward, intrigued. "Can you tell me more about this place? Where exactly are we? Who rules here?"
She regarded him with a flicker of surprise. It was strange, she thought, for someone not to know the basics of their own world. But the gravity in his eyes—the quiet weight of someone carrying secrets—made her speak without hesitation.
"We're in the south of Verdantia," she said simply. "This region is under the rule of House Sylvaris."
The name meant nothing to Aren, so he stored it away carefully, a piece in a puzzle he didn't yet understand.
"And the knights?" he asked, curiosity lacing his voice.
Her expression grew wistful, her gaze drifting toward the family photos hanging on the wall—a gallery of memories captured in stillness.
"The knights… they were protectors of this land. Trained, sworn, dedicated to the safety of Verdantia. It was an honorable path… and it still is." Her voice trembled slightly, as if honoring something precious and painful.
Aren followed her gaze. "Was your husband one of them?" he asked gently.
"No," she answered with a soft shake of her head. "Dave wanted to be, but he wasn't chosen. That's why we started this farm. But our son, Mike… he was chosen. He had everything—the brain, the body, the heart. When he got the letter, we weren't surprised."
A bittersweet smile flickered on her lips.
"And the sword…" Aren prompted carefully.
"Yes," she replied, voice barely above a whisper. "That was Mike's. He cared for it like a sacred thing. After… after what happened, I decided to keep it sharp. Ready. Just in case."
A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken grief.
"What happened?" Aren asked, voice gentle, careful not to press too hard.
Clara closed her eyes, her hand trembling slightly as she set down her spoon. "When King Jarvis Sylvaris took the throne, he drained funds from the outer regions to feed the capital. Then, fearing an attack, he called all knights back to him. Mike… he delayed his return. Wanted to stay a little longer with us."
Her voice cracked, the pain raw and fresh despite the passage of time.
"They were on their way to the market—Dave and Mike. They stopped to help someone on the road. It was a trap. Not even real bandits… just desperate people, driven mad by taxes and hunger. It happened so fast…" Tears traced slow paths down her cheeks. Aren reached across the table and took her hand in his, offering silent comfort.
"He didn't fight back," she whispered. "I know him. He believed in people… and they took advantage of that."
A long, heavy silence followed. Aren, shifting back into the mindset of a king, spoke with quiet conviction.
"Your family died holding onto their principles. I believe a king must be held accountable for the consequences of his choices. He lit the fire that burned your home."
Clara looked at him, a flicker of peace shining in her eyes for the first time. A fragile hope that maybe justice could still be found.
Later, as their meal wound down and the sun climbed higher, Aren suddenly remembered something. "Oh—one last thing. Can you tell me the date?"
She laughed softly. "Not much sense of time, huh? Today's Geoday, the tenth of Volthera."
That made sense—at least, somewhat.
"And the year?" he asked cautiously.
She blinked, surprised. "Why, it's the year three thousand eighty-seven."
The words hit him like a hammer to the chest. He set down his bread and took a long, steadying sip of water, struggling to keep his composure.
"Are you alright, darling?" Clara asked, concern knitting her brow.
"Yes… I just need to ask you for more general information tomorrow, if that's okay."
Back in the quiet solitude of his room, Aren sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. Nearly two thousand years had passed. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
"Val, show me the map again."
The floating projection shimmered to life before him.
"We're here… this used to be the Emerald Wilds." His fingers traced the familiar contours on the holographic display.
"And this… this should be the Gilded Expanse." But the map was mostly empty—vast stretches of nothingness, as if the land itself had been wiped away.
"Val… what happened to my kingdom?"
[No direct data available. Land changes, especially after cataclysmic events, are not uncommon.]
Aren closed his eyes again, the memory of meteor showers and earth-shaking tremors still vivid in his mind.
"There has to be a reason I was kept asleep all this time."
[So… what is our next step?]
A faint smile touched his lips.
"We need information. And royal palaces tend to keep plenty of it. So we'll pay the Sylvaris a visit. One way or another."