Chapter 4: Carried Forward

  Movement returned slowly—not walking, but travel. Laurent felt it in the rhythm beneath him, steady and sustained, like long strides taken without urgency. The pull of gravity remained wrong, heavier than it should have been, pressing him into himself. Even lying still took effort.

  He tried to shift his fingers. They responded sluggishly. Standing would be worse.

  I’m awake enough, he thought.

  So why does everything feel like this?

  He opened his eyes again. The world slid past above him—stone arches, tall structures cut from pale rock. Lines too clean to be natural, too irregular to be modern. No glass towers. No steel frames. No vehicles humming in the distance. People moved through the streets, some pausing briefly, others glancing over and moving on. Their clothes were wrong—not costumes, not historical replicas, just… unfamiliar, practical, layered, worn.

  The scholar didn’t speak as they moved. He didn’t need to. People stepped aside without being told.

  Is he… a magician? The thought felt ridiculous. Where was the mechanism? The tool? The explanation? He hadn’t seen anything.

  They stopped. The scholar lowered him carefully onto a raised stone platform inside a wide, open room. The air smelled sharp and clean, layered with something herbal underneath. Light filtered in through tall windows cut high into the walls. People approached—three of them. Their movements were efficient, practiced. One spoke to the scholar briefly, who answered in kind. Laurent understood none of it. The sounds didn’t map onto anything he knew—English, Mandarin, Korean—nothing familiar. The syllables curved where he expected breaks, flattened where emphasis should have been.

  His pulse quickened. Where am I?

  Hands pressed gently against his shoulders, his side, his arm. Something warm flowed through his body—stronger this time—dulling pain but sharpening awareness. It felt invasive. Not unpleasant. Just undeniable.

  He tried to sit up. A firm hand stopped him.

  “Stay,” the scholar said, slower than before.

  Laurent froze. He didn’t understand the word—but the meaning landed anyway. Blood loss caught up with him, tugging his thoughts apart, smearing the edges of the room. Faces blurred. The ceiling tilted. His breathing went shallow.

  No—stay awake. Fire. The village. The slit in the sky.

  His heart hammered as his mind searched for anchors and found none. This wasn’t an island, a quiet part of him realized—but he couldn’t finish the thought. Darkness rolled in again, thick and heavy, dragging him under.

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  The last thing Laurent felt before unconsciousness was the weight of the world pressing down on him—and the certainty that wherever he was, it was far from anything he understood.

  They didn’t go straight into the capital. The scholar turned off the main road before the city’s walls came fully into view, toward a lower cluster of stone buildings set apart from traffic. This place was quieter. Purpose-built. People moved quickly but without panic, carrying tools Laurent didn’t recognize, wearing the same layered clothing he’d seen before. The scholar spoke briefly at the entrance, and Laurent was taken inside.

  The room they laid him in was not a hospital in any way he understood—but it wasn’t crude either. Stone floors, smooth and warm to the touch. Light came through angled openings instead of windows. Tables were arranged with intent, not clutter. The air carried the same sharp-clean scent, stronger here.

  Healing began properly this time. There was no chanting, no ritual display. Hands moved. Gestures were made. Warmth flowed again—deeper than before—spreading through muscle and bone. Pain didn’t vanish all at once; it withdrew in layers, leaving soreness and an unfamiliar heaviness settling into his limbs.

  Laurent drifted in and out. This time, when he woke, the room stayed still. He could breathe without effort. His chest no longer felt crushed. When he moved his fingers, they responded slowly, but correctly. He was conscious. Fully. Panic crept in immediately, but nothing attacked him. No alarms. Just quiet, steady activity beyond the walls.

  Fire moved at a wave of a hand again. He replayed it—sharper now. No trick, no device, no preparation. Where was the source? Where was the mechanism? He searched his memory for wires, lenses, chemicals—anything. There was nothing. And the language. He listened harder to the voices outside the room. Still nothing he could anchor to. No familiar roots. No recognizable structure. It didn’t sound ancient. It didn’t sound modern either. It just… was.

  The scholar returned later. Laurent tensed immediately. The man raised one hand—not in warning, but acknowledgment—and spoke slowly, deliberately.

  “I don’t understand. I don’t… know where I am.”

  The scholar studied him, then nodded, as if that answer fit expectations. He gestured for Laurent to stand. Laurent did—and nearly staggered. His knees dipped under his own weight before he corrected. The weight was still there. Not pain. Not weakness. Just heaviness. Like his body existed under different rules. The scholar noticed and adjusted something with a small motion of his hand. The pressure eased slightly—enough for Laurent to walk without feeling like the ground was pulling him apart.

  They went to the capital after that. Up close, it didn’t feel medieval. No crude walls, no thatched roofs. The city rose in layered stone and structured avenues, tall buildings shaped with purpose rather than ornament. No glowing lights. No vehicles. But also no filth. No decay. A fantasy kingdom—but orderly. Lived-in. Functional. People filled the streets. Merchants. Officials. Travelers. None stared for long, but Laurent felt eyes linger—curious, not hostile.

  The scholar led him to an inn near the inner districts. Solid stone. Wide entrance. Warm light inside. He spoke with the innkeeper at length. Whatever was said, it was deliberate. The scholar had arranged something long-term. He turned to Laurent and said a single word, slower than before. Laurent didn’t understand it—but when the innkeeper gestured upstairs and the scholar nodded, the meaning was clear enough. He would stay here.

  All he knew was that the scholar paused at the doorway, looked at him once more, and spoke again—shorter this time. Not reassurance. A promise of explanation. Then he left.

  Laurent stood alone in the room the innkeeper had shown him, hands resting against rough stone, heart beating too fast. Fire without tools. A city that didn’t fit any era. A language he couldn’t place. A body that felt heavier than it should. Where am I? The question had no answer yet. Only time.