Mrs. Petrov tugged Elias gently away from the porch. "Come on, dear. Let the nice officer do his work. We'll be much better off inside."
Elias cast one final, long look at the dark, silent house. The blue glow of the massive moon cast deep shadows, making the empty windows look like hollow, watchful eyes. A cold certainty settled in his bones: he hadn't escaped one nightmare only to be greeted by safety. He had walked right into another, larger ONE.
As Mrs. Petrov guided him towards her home.
---
Inside Mrs. Petrov's house, he sat at the table while she prepared tea. He glanced at the clock on the wall.
11:08 p.m.
He did a quick count. He had spent three to four hours at the station. That placed his arrival in this world at around 8 p.m.
Mrs. Petrov had said she saw a white flash in his house at 8 p.m.
He stared at the clock again, a cold thought forming in his mind.
Was that a coincidence?
That light happened at the same time he took over Reinliar's dying—or already dead—body.
He stared at the clock again. His thoughts lined up fast and clean.
Was I always this quick?
Back on Earth, he was smart, but not like this. Now his mind felt clear,
No panic. No noise. Every clue connected without effort.
He looked at his thumb where the shard had cut him.
Did it make me like this?
He didn't feel stronger or powerful. Just more focused, like someone tightened all the loose parts in his head.
Mrs. Petrov set a cup of tea in front of him.
He nodded a silent thank you to Mrs. Petrov and picked up the cup. The heat warmed his palms.
Mrs. Petrov settling into the chair across from him. "Drink up."
Elias took a slow sip. The tea was strong, earthy, and familiar, the kind of simple comfort that felt alien in his current situation. He forced himself to hold the cup steady.
...
At that same moment, the front door of Reinliar's home flew inward with a deafening CRACK.
Victor Hensley stood on the porch, his shadow stretching long and jagged. He didn't wait for a greeting; he signaled his men to enter. Merrow and the third officer rushed in, revolvers leveled at the shadows.
The house was a tomb of pitch-black air and the smell of copper.
Victor ignited a brass-bound lantern. Instead of a warm glow, a brilliant, ghostly blue light hissed into existence. He knelt in the foyer, tracing a finger along the wood. The floor was bone-dry, but the grain looked slightly charred, scorched by an invisible force.
"There are traces of 'Unknown' here," Victor whispered, his voice flat.
...
A week had passed.
Elias—now Reinliar—sat by the window in Mrs. Petrov's house. The glass was cold under his fingertips. Outside, the street was washed in the faint blue glow of the moon, the same moon he'd stared at the night he arrived.
In seven days, he'd absorbed a new world. This city was Braston, a provincial hub of the Reova Empire. The newspapers offered no solace—just dry reports on border skirmishes, harvest yields, and distant celestial disturbances. His case, the "white light," his family's disappearance—nonexistent in print.
The police had sealed his home, he learned. "Ongoing investigation," was the official line. Yet, Mrs. Petrov's gentle inquiries met only vague, persistent stonewalling:
classified details, ma'am, please be patient.
He tapped his finger against the glass, his reflection faint and pale in the moonlight.
What are they hiding? Why seal the house? Where is the family of the boy whose body I now wear?
A soft knock came at the door.
"Reinliar, dear," Mrs. Petrov's voice floated through. "You have a visitor."
Elias set the paper aside. "A visitor?"
"Yes, your uncle," she said, opening the door slightly. "He said he came from the capital. Been looking for you for days. Poor man looks worried sick."
"Uncle?" The word scraped against his mind. Reinliar's fragmented memories offered only one fit: Aren, his mother's, brother from the capital.
A man who visited yearly with sweets.
Elias looked up, his tone flat. "Did he give his name?"
Mrs. Petrov smiled, wringing her apron. "He said he's your Uncle name aren valdas. Seemed nice enough. Polite fellow. Said he came as soon as he heard you were found."
"Where is he?" Elias asked quietly.
"In the sitting room," she said. "He's waiting for you. Poor man looks exhausted. He is currently having a tea."
Elias, halfway out of his chair, froze.
Reinliar's memory flashed: Uncle Aren, wincing and waving away all offers of tea at family gatherings. The man was severely allergic to tea, always requesting plain, clear water.
Tea.
He looked back at Mrs. Petrov, forcing a weak, uneasy smile that perfectly mimicked a fragile victim.
"Alright," Elias said slowly, pushing a deep weariness into his voice. "But I think I should get myself cleaned up first, before… right? I can't meet family looking like this."
Mrs. Petrov's face softened with maternal sympathy. "Oh, bless your heart, dear. Of course. Don't you worry about your appearance—he's just happy you're safe".
"Thank you, Ma'am," Elias murmured. He kept his steps measured and outwardly slow, forcing himself not to glance at the closed sitting room door as he passed. He moved straight into the kitchen and slipped into the washroom to the left, turning the lock with a soft, final click.
Inside, it was a dead end. He stood still, eyes scanning the basin and narrow cabinet. A quick search revealed only towels, soap, and a dull razor—nothing that could serve as a weapon, or even as a tool. He looked into the mirror at the face of a boy who shouldn't be alive, then turned back to the door.
When he stepped back into the hallway, the kitchen was empty. The kettle clicked in the corner, cooling in the silence. From the front of the house, he could hear the muffled rise and fall of Mrs. Petrov's voice as she spoke to someone at the door.
She wasn't watching.
He glided through the kitchen as if he were a shadow. The door to the sitting room remained closed, but the air felt weighted, like the man on the other side had leaned up against the wood and was listening for him. Elias snatched a cloth from the counter and gave his face a quick, performative wipe before turning toward the small window above the sink.
The latch was loose. He eased the window open, the hinges letting out a faint metallic scrape that seemed to scream in the quiet room. He froze holding his breath. No one called out. No footsteps approached.
He went out feet first, lowering himself until his shoes touched the dirt with a dull tap. Hunkering low, he waited. Still nothing. He kept tight against the walls as he moved down the walkway and out toward the street. Once clear, he looked back—the living room was warm with light, but the sitting room was an impenetrable block of darkness.
His mind flickered briefly toward the police station, but the thought was bitter. They'd already treated him as a problem to be managed, rather than a person to be protected. They'd hidden the reality of Reinliar's kidnapping and buried the truth in procedure; if someone was impersonating his family, the authorities were just as likely to hand him over as they were to help him. He couldn't afford to trust the law, and he couldn't afford to stay.
Elias kept walking until the houses thinned and the road widened. The night air was cool, but the real chill came from above—the massive, bruised-blue moon hanging in the sky like a lidless eye that never shifted.
He stopped under the weak glow of a lantern, a man with no home, no documents, and a target on his back, and began to plan.
He looked around and noticed a caravan rest stop on the side of the road—a long shed with wooden benches and a few wagons parked beneath it. Drivers dozed on crates, horses chewed hay, and a few workers cleaned lanterns. He stepped behind a stack of supply barrels and watched.
Caravans traveled between cities every day on fixed routes across the Reova Empire. Reinliar's fragmented memory provided the vital details: the capital lay northeast, about two or three days away on foot. It was the heart of the Empire, a city of millions. Finding him there would be like trying to find a single dust particle in a haystack.
He didn't have money for a seat, and sneaking inside a wagon was too risky; if he were caught, it would bring the very attention he was trying to avoid. He wanted to put space between himself and Braston, not end up in a roadside cell.
He looked toward the dark highway stretching from the city gates. The lantern posts glowed faintly in a straight line toward the horizon.
Walking was slow, but it was silent. It left no paper trail and no manifest.
He tightened his jaw. "Walking it is."
If he left now, he would reach the halfway outpost by midday tomorrow. He could rest in the fields or near the patrol sheds along the way. If someone was hunting him, staying in the city was the worst possible option.
He stepped out from behind the barrels. No one paid him any attention. The wagon drivers were tired and half-asleep, uninterested in a thin young man passing into the night.
He turned away from the settlement and started toward the east road. The gravel crunched under his shoes with each step, a steady rhythm that felt like a countdown. He walked past the last lantern, reached the edge of the city, and crossed into the open plains.
He kept on walking without looking back.