Act 1 – A Stranger in Aurelia
Chapter 1: Awakening in Ash and Shadow
Scorching heat pressed in waves, carrying the bitter tang of smoke and charred eucalyptus. An infernal roar drowned out every thought – flames devouring dry scrub with a crackling fury that shook the ground. Through the blinding haze of ash, a sky glowed apocalyptic orange, and embers swirled upward like vengeful fireflies. The world was burning.
Connor staggered backward, arm raised to shield his face from the searing heat. He could taste metal in the back of his throat, acrid as the smoke clawing at his lungs. All around, the Australian outback roared with bushfire. Distant gum trees shrieked as they split and ignited, sap exploding in sharp cracks. Amid the chaos came a panicked cry – a girl's voice, desperate and close by.
No special training, no gear – just an ordinary young man caught in a nightmare. But Connor didn't hesitate. Heart hammering, he plunged toward the cry. Each step across the scorched earth seared his soles; sparks whipped past, kissing his cheeks with burning pinpricks. His eyes stung, vision blurred by smoke, but he found her: a teenager cornered against a fallen branch, wide-eyed with terror, flames closing in.
With a guttural shout, Connor heaved against the smoldering branch pinning her. The bark scorched his palms – pain blazed white-hot up his shoulder – but he pushed until it budged. "Go!" he bellowed over the inferno's roar. The girl scrambled free, sobbing. Connor grasped her trembling hand, and together they ran through a gap in the flames as tongues of fire lashed hungrily at their heels.
Hot smoke scoured his throat; he could barely breathe. Just a few more meters… Cool night air beckoned beyond the fire line. With a final surge, Connor shoved the girl ahead, out of the furnace and into waiting arms – faint shapes shouting in relief. But at that instant, a flaming beam above let out a groan like a dying beast and collapsed.
He didn't even have time to cry out. A crushing weight slammed across his back, and agony ripped through him. Fire filled his vision; he tasted blood and ash. Sound and light folded inward until there was… nothing.
Silence. Darkness.
Is this it? floated a thought at the edge of oblivion. Connor hung suspended in a void as the world he knew burned away. Distantly, beyond the darkness, sirens wailed and voices cried – life continuing without him. I saved her… he thought weakly. Then even that flicker faded.
A cold wetness seeping through his shirt shocked him awake. Connor's eyes flew open to pitch-black. Gone was the hellish heat – now damp chill bit his skin. He lay on hard ground; gritty dirt and something slimy met his fingers as he flexed them. An overpowering stench of rot and urine made him gag, and he rolled to his side, coughing up the ghost of smoke.
Where…? Where am I?
A dim amber light trickled from somewhere above, just enough to reveal towering brick walls slick with grime. He was sprawled in a narrow alley, its confines pressing like a tomb. Far overhead, a sliver of midnight sky peeked between rooftops – not the smoke-choked sky of the fire, but clear and studded with unfamiliar stars. The air was cold, fetid with garbage and mildew. Connor's heartbeat jackhammered as he pushed onto hands and knees, pain lancing his muscles. By all rights, he should be dead or dying… yet he felt intact. Trembling, he ran shaking hands over his torso and limbs. No burns, no beam crushing him. Just his own body, alive and unbroken, save for some soreness and soot.
A wave of confusion rolled over him. He pressed a hand to his head, fingers tangling in hair stiff with ash. The last thing he remembered – the firestorm, dying. And now this alley, as cold and wet as a grave but undeniably real. Each exhalation puffed white in the frigid air. He winced at the ache in his chest, mind racing in disbelief. I was dead. I'm sure of it.
Connor staggered to his feet, boots scraping against damp stone. The alley's brick walls soared three or four stories high, dripping murk. Overhead, a rusted iron fire escape clung to one side. This wasn't anywhere he recognized – certainly not the one-street rural town he grew up in. The claustrophobic architecture and smell of city filth were utterly foreign. He swiped a sleeve across his face, smudging soot on clammy skin, and squinted through the gloom for any clue.
The faint light came from the alley's mouth a dozen yards ahead – an amber glow that pulsed softly, as if cast by passing headlights or neon. Connor's ears picked up new sounds layered beneath his own ragged breathing: a distant hum like machinery, the far-off whirr of something cutting the air, and beyond those, a muffled chorus of city life – a low thrum of voices and engines. A city. But larger, busier-sounding than any he'd known in Western Australia.
His pulse thundered with uncertainty. Am I dead? Is this… some afterlife? If so, it was a bleak one. He pressed his hand to the slimy wall – the cold muck against his palm felt real, grounding him. A hysterical laugh bubbled in his chest and escaped as a shaky exhale. "This is impossible," he whispered to the darkness, voice echoing off the bricks.
Memory flashed: blinding fire, the girl's terrified face, the certainty of death. Now here he stood, far from home in what felt like an entirely different world. Either someone had dragged him miraculously from the blaze and spirited him halfway across the globe… or something truly beyond reason had occurred.
Connor's hands began to shake. A prickle crawled up the back of his neck – the uncanny sense of unseen eyes watching from the alley's black corners. He spun, searching the shadows. Nothing moved among the vague hulks of overflowing rubbish bins and soggy cardboard piles. Only darkness and the distant drip of water from a leaky gutter. Yet the feeling persisted, raising gooseflesh on his arms. He realized he still clutched something in his left fist – the melted remnant of his phone, fused by fire into a blackened lump. Absurdly, he'd carried it through death and across… wherever this was. Slowly he uncurled his fingers and let the ruined device drop. It landed with a dull thud on a heap of sodden trash. A piece of his former life discarded, lost.
A gust of night air slithered down the alley, carrying acrid scents – ozone and fuel and something floral-yet-decayed. Connor shivered and pulled his scorched flannel shirt tighter. He needed to get out of this alley, find out where "here" even was. One step at a time.
He crept toward the faint glow at the alley's end, boots crunching on broken glass. Every footfall echoed, too loud. As he neared the opening, the light grew stronger – a strange honeyed luminescence that flickered like fire but was steady like streetlamps. He pressed himself to the wall at the alley's mouth and peered around the corner, braced for the unknown.
A broad street unfurled before him, wider than any road back home and paved not with asphalt but interlocking tiles of metal and stone that gave off a faint inner glow. On either side rose buildings that defied understanding – a patchwork cityscape of sleek, mirrored high-rises interspersed with older, gothic structures adorned with gargoyle spouts and intricate carvings. Wires and pipes snaked along some facades, and on others Connor saw symbols – glowing, softly pulsing runes – embedded above doorways or along rooftops.
Far overhead, suspended in the hazy night air, ribbon-like bridges arced between towers, lit by hovering orbs of neon-blue light. And along those sky-bridges and open avenues drifted vehicles unlike anything on Earth: pod-like carriages gliding several meters above the ground, humming softly, leaving trails of shimmering blue in their wake. One such pod slid past now, floating at the height of a second-story window, entirely untethered by wheels or rails.
Connor's breath caught. It was as though he'd stepped through a portal into the future – or a dream. The gentle hum of the passing vehicle vibrated through the soles of his boots. Above it, the sky revealed two pale moons hanging low – two moons, one full and silver, the other a waxing crescent. The sight made his head spin. Not Earth. Couldn't be.
He gripped the corner of the wall, steadying himself as dizziness threatened. I died… and then woke up under twin moons in a city of magic and machines. No textbook could explain this. Fear and wonder warred in his chest, each breath shallow and quick.
Across the street, under the warm glow of an ornate lamppost, a lone figure walked – the click of her boots echoing on the tile. She wore a long coat with tiny lights flickering along its hem, and in her hand she held a slender rod that projected a ghostly screen of text in mid-air. Her features were obscured by the lamplight haloing her, but Connor glimpsed pointed arches of metal on her ears and a calm, focused expression as she read her hovering display. The device looked both technological and fantastical, a melding he couldn't fathom.
He instinctively shrank back into the shadows, not ready to confront anyone. But in doing so he stepped fully under the streetlamp at the alley's mouth. The amber light fell upon him, revealing his soot-streaked form.
The woman across the way halted mid-step. Her ghostly screen winked out as she lowered the rod, turning her face toward him. Even at a distance, Connor saw her eyes widen in shock. She executed a slight bow – a dip of her head and shoulders – one hand crossing over her heart in a gesture of respect or greeting.
Connor blinked, unsure how to react. Was she bowing to him? He looked over his shoulder, but he remained alone. Hesitantly, he raised a grimy hand in a half-wave of acknowledgment, more reflex than thought.
The woman straightened, staring openly now. He could feel her gaze sweeping over him – astonishment plain in the slack of her posture. After a hesitant pause, she called across the quiet street, voice echoing off stone, "Sir… are you in need of assistance?"
Sir. She delivered the word with such earnest deference that Connor nearly glanced around again for the important person she must be addressing. But her eyes remained on him, her voice tremulous with a mix of awe and concern.
"I…" His throat was raw, barely recovered from smoke; the word came out cracked. He cleared his throat, stepping one pace out from the alley's mouth onto the sidewalk. The woman tensed slightly, as if resisting an urge to rush forward. She remained still, clearly wary of spooking him.
Now illuminated by the lamplight, Connor was certain she was unlike anyone he'd seen – subtle details shouted this was no Earth city. Her ears had a slight point, adorned with dangling technological charms that glowed faintly. Her eyes, adjusting to the low light, gleamed with a faint luminescent ring around the iris. And her coat's embedded lights – runes, he realized now – shifted pattern gently. Some kind of fashion blending with tech.
He swallowed hard and tried again. "I… I'm a bit lost," he managed, voice soft and rough. It was an absurd understatement for his situation. His accent – broad Australian, vowels drawn in uncertainty – sounded alien even to his own ears in this strange hush.
The woman's brow furrowed, processing his words, then smoothed into an expression of worry. She took a tentative step off the curb, crossing the empty street with slow, deliberate movements. As she approached, the lamplight revealed more: she was perhaps in her thirties, hair pulled into a high ponytail, clad in a fitted uniform of midnight-blue with a silver insignia at the collar. Some kind of official? Connor saw a badge glinting on her chest and the outline of a holstered object – a weapon? – at her hip.
She halted a respectful two meters away, her hands visible and non-threatening. Up close, she stood a half-head taller than him and carried herself with confidence tempered by careful gentleness. There was curiosity in her grey eyes, but also a firm composure.
"I'm Officer Dara Len of the City Watch," she said softly, inclining her head in a polite nod that was almost another bow. Her tone was professional yet warm. "Please forgive me if I startled you, sir. Are you hurt? We so rarely see—" She stopped herself, biting off the words. A faint blush rose on her cheeks.
Connor realized he must look a fright – clothing singed and filthy, face smudged, eyes wild. He opened his mouth to answer, but no coherent explanation came. I died and woke up here felt insane to say. His silence made Officer Len bite her lip, concern deepening.
She quickly tapped a device on her wrist – a bracelet of entwined metal that sprang to life with turquoise light. A translucent display hovered above it, casting a faint glow on both of them. Connor couldn't decipher the flowing script on it, but Len frowned at the readout and swiped her fingers through the air, likely sending a message.
His head swam; adrenaline that had carried him this far ebbed, leaving exhaustion and shock. The world tilted a little, and he swayed on his feet. Immediately, the officer stepped forward with a hand half-raised as if to steady him, then she stopped herself, respectful of his space. Her voice dropped to a soothing murmur. "May I approach, sir? I have basic medical training."
There was that sir again, spoken with such deference it felt surreal directed at him. Connor managed a faint nod, too weary to refuse.
Officer Len closed the remaining distance and carefully produced a slender rod from her belt – the same she'd held earlier. With a press of her thumb, it glowed a soft blue at the tip. "It's just a scanner," she assured gently. "Checking for injuries or smoke inhalation effects, alright?"
Connor found himself nodding again, numb. The courtesy in his compliance made her eyebrows lift slightly in surprise – perhaps she expected fear or confusion. Regardless, she began to wave the glowing rod around him in slow arcs. Soft chimes sounded as it passed over different areas. Wherever the blue light grazed his skin, he felt a light tingle, like static dancing over him.
After a minute, the device chimed in a pleasant tone and Len exhaled in relief. "All vitals stable, no critical burns or trauma. That's… remarkable," she remarked, giving him an apologetic smile as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Forgive me, I've alerted the ward office that I've encountered an unaccompanied gentleman. They'll want to ensure your safety immediately."
Unaccompanied gentleman. The phrasing struck Connor's ears strangely. His sluggish brain churned: evidently men were rarely alone here, given her astonishment and hyper-care. This society – whatever it was – clearly had rules about that.
He swallowed, finding his voice a bit steadier now. "Thank you, Officer," he said quietly, the politeness ingrained from his upbringing surfacing automatically. "I'm… my name is Connor." He fumbled briefly, then added, "Connor James," borrowing his middle name as a makeshift surname. It felt oddly formal to introduce himself so, but she had given hers.
At his introduction, Len's tense posture eased into a soft, almost awed smile. "Mr. Connor… It's a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances." Her eyes flickered with a dozen unasked questions, but she refrained from pressing him. Training, perhaps.
The street around them remained eerily calm. Connor noticed a few figures far down the boulevard had halted – pedestrians who'd spotted a man and a Watch officer. They whispered among themselves, but none approached. It was as if an invisible bubble had formed around this encounter, isolating it in a moment of suspended time.
A sudden pang cut through Connor's fog: the face of the girl he'd saved flashed in his mind. Did she survive fully? Was she okay? That thought, more than anything, affirmed that whatever miracle had him standing here, he hadn't imagined the fire. He had died saving someone. And now… now he was here. Grief for his old life – his mother, friends, everything left behind – threatened to swamp him. His eyes stung, tears born of exhaustion and heartbreak welling.
Officer Len misread his emotion as physical pain. Concerned, she hovered closer, voice gentle. "We have a medical unit and transport on the way to take you somewhere safe," she explained as if soothing a skittish animal. "I promise, you'll be well cared for. Just hold on a little longer, alright?"
Connor wasn't sure he shared her definition of "safe," but he lacked better options. She clearly believed he'd been through trauma (true) and likely assumed he was local but in shock or injured.
Before he could respond, a distant wail drifted through the night – not a siren he recognized, but a melodic ululation that rose and fell. Officer Len stiffened, stepping forward to shield him instinctively, one hand on the baton at her belt.
Two shapes emerged around a corner down the boulevard: a sleek, wheel-less vehicle gliding just above ground, marked with a glowing white lotus emblem, and alongside it, three women riding hovering discs that skimmed the pavement, City Watch insignia gleaming on their uniform pauldrons.
Connor's adrenaline spiked anew. He fought the urge to bolt back into the alley. Len glanced back at him with a calm, steady look and murmured, "It's alright, Mr. Connor. They're here to help." Perhaps she sensed his panic. Her certainty in those words grounded him – he forced himself to breathe slowly as the responders arrived.
The hovering med-vehicle settled gently on the street with a hiss. Two uniformed women dismounted their levitating boards beside it. One wore a healer's white coat with blue trim and carried a floating medical kit; the other was a gruff older Watch officer with a scar down one cheek and eyes that swept the scene sharply.
Officer Len stepped forward to meet them, her tone respectful but authoritative as she briefed in low tones. Connor caught snippets: "Found him… Alley just now… no injuries apparent but in shock… unregistered." The scarred officer's gaze flicked to him momentarily – assessing, inscrutable.
The medic approached Connor with a warm smile, golden braids peeking from under her cap. "Sir, my name is Ila. I'm a physician. May I examine you?" she asked in the same gentle singsong one might use with a nervous animal.
Connor managed a nod, words still tangled under so many layers of fatigue and disbelief. Dr. Ila's examination was swift and efficient – a light shone in his eyes, a cool wand passed over his chest as he breathed, a sample of air he exhaled captured in a crystal vial that glowed green (she pronounced oxygen levels good). All the while she murmured reassurance: "Heartbeat steady… some stress indicators, understandable… blood pressure a touch high but nothing critical…"
The older officer hung back, vigilant eyes scanning their surroundings rather than him, hand resting near a sheathed weapon that looked like a short, rune-engraved rifle. Protecting him, he realized. Not guarding against him, but against threats to him. The reversal was dizzying.
Within minutes, Dr. Ila declared him physically fine aside from mild dehydration and likely shock. She produced a small glass bottle of swirling emerald liquid. "Please drink this, Sir Connor. It's a restorative tonic – herbal extracts to help with stress and any smoke inhalation aftereffects."
Connor accepted it hesitantly. The liquid inside caught lamplight, shimmering like liquified jade. A potion? Some part of him balked at ingesting unknown magic, but exhaustion and the earnest faces around him left little room for argument. He unstoppered the vial and took a cautious sip.
The taste hit like a blow – overwhelmingly bitter and metallic, like chewing aspirin and copper. Connor gagged, nearly dropping the bottle as he fought the reflex to spit. It took all his will to swallow the mouthful. Tears sprang to his eyes from the vile flavor. "Gah!" he coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's… foul."
All three women looked at him in surprise. Dr. Ila's brow knit. "Truly? Most find it rather pleasant – mint and chamomile," she said, perplexed.
Connor's tongue felt numb, his face twisted in involuntary disgust. "To me it tasted like… ten-day-old stew laced with poison," he managed hoarsely.
Officer Len's eyes widened a fraction; Dr. Ila's mouth formed a small oh. The scarred officer outright raised an eyebrow. Ila took back the bottle, sniffing it, then exchanged a glance with Len. "I've heard of this phenomenon," Len murmured. "Some men find potions extremely bitter, even benign ones. Academy notes mention it."
The medic gave a contrite smile and bowed her head. "My apologies, sir. I should have warned you – occasionally gentle tonics taste awful to male palates. But it will help, I promise, even if the flavor offends."
Already, Connor had to admit, the pounding in his head eased and the tightness in his chest loosened. The potion was working, vile or not. He managed a wry, half-smile. "No worries," he rasped automatically – a quintessential Aussie reply, incongruous here but it slipped out before he thought.
The scarred officer actually let out a brief chuckle, and Len's lips twitched in a tiny relieved grin. Perhaps his simple, casual acceptance charmed them; he wasn't acting hysterical or arrogant, just… normal. The tension in the air lessened.
The medic packed her kit and announced he was clear to travel. Immediately, the older officer stepped forward, gentle but formal. "Sir, we'll be escorting you now to a secure location where you can rest and be cared for." Her tone brokered little argument, though she tried to make it sound like a request. "Does that sound alright?"
Connor's stomach clenched. A secure location likely meant back under lock and key – a gilded cage reasserting itself. Yet what could he do? He was outnumbered, and they had treated him kindly thus far. Perhaps he could learn more once there, get his bearings.
He must have hesitated too long. Officer Len stepped close and spoke in a low voice meant only for him. "I know it's overwhelming," she said, her grey eyes earnest beneath the lamplight. "I promise we're just taking you somewhere comfortable – warm bed, fresh clothes, a hot meal. You won't be harmed or restrained. We only want you safe." She quirked a light tease, "Maybe even a shower? You've had quite the night."
In spite of everything, Connor felt a laugh ghost through him. A shower and food sounded heavenly, and she knew it. The thought of warmth and cleanliness made tears prick again – he realized how utterly drained he was. Slowly, he nodded. "That… that sounds really good, actually," he whispered, voice wavering with relief and resignation at once. "Thank you."
All three women exhaled as if a silent tension released. The older officer gave a brisk nod and murmured into a lapel pin – likely updating someone. Dr. Ila gently motioned toward the open med-vehicle. Its interior looked inviting enough, softly lit with cushioned seats. "Right this way, sir, watch your step," she urged kindly.
Officer Len stayed by Connor's side as he limped forward (his muscles had tightened from shock; he only now felt the bruises from collapsing in the alley earlier). Without fuss, she offered her arm for support, in that same formally courteous manner – as though escorting a dignitary. Connor, beyond pride at this point, lightly held her forearm. The uniform's fabric was smooth and warm, and she matched his slow pace toward the vehicle.
He felt like a small boat being gently guided into harbor after a storm. It pricked his pride a little – he wasn't used to being coddled – but the exhaustion won out. Best pick battles later.
They helped him into the med-car's cabin. The interior was surprisingly spacious and smelled faintly of lavender. Officer Len sat beside him while the older officer took a front console (there was no steering wheel, just a crystalline panel she placed her hand upon). The medic remained by the door, tapping instructions into a wall interface.
With a soft lurch, the transport lifted. Connor's stomach did a flip realizing it was truly floating – a look out the window confirmed they were gliding a meter above the ground, turning smoothly down the street. He reflexively gripped the seat edge. Len gently placed a hand near (not on – mindful of boundaries) his arm. "It's alright. We'll be there shortly." Her steady confidence was oddly soothing.
Through the window, he watched the alley he'd emerged from slide past then recede. In the predawn hush, the grand city rolled by outside – towering spires trimmed in neon, sky-bridges aglow, and far off, a colossal dome with twinkling lights (a stadium or palace, maybe). The two moons hung heavy, one now dipping toward the horizon.
Inside the hovering car, Connor finally allowed his eyes to slip closed, just for a moment. Every blink painted fragments of memory on the canvas of his mind – flickers of orange flame, the damp gleam of alley bricks, the surprise in Officer Len's gentle eyes as she called him sir. It was overwhelming, incomprehensible – yet he was alive to face it.
A soft hum from the vehicle nearly lulled him to sleep. He forced his heavy lids up one last time to see the central district coming into view: graceful marble buildings and manicured gardens lit by pearlescent streetlamps. If he wasn't hallucinating, this world held as much beauty as strangeness.
Why am I here? What am I supposed to do now? The questions echoed in his mind as the night's adrenaline drained, leaving only raw uncertainty.
He caught his reflection faintly in the window – sooty, tired eyes gazing back, haunted and questioning. He hardly recognized himself. Yet he'd made it through his first harrowing hours. Saved a life, lost his own, then awakened somewhere utterly new.
As the transport carried him onward into the unknown, Connor inhaled the cool, lavender-tinged air and let it fill his lungs. He was alive. Confused, disoriented, but alive – and inexplicably central in a world that did not yet know him.
For now, that would have to be enough.
He closed his eyes, just for a moment, gathering what strength remained. Whatever awaited him at this "safe" haven they promised, he would face come dawn. Lost, yes – but not broken. Not anymore.
Somewhere above, the last stars were fading, night beginning to yield. Connor James – a quiet, unassuming hero from a faraway outback – let out a long breath as the vehicle hummed gently beneath him. He didn't understand this second life fate had dropped him into, but against all reason, a fragile spark of hope flickered within his chest. He had saved a life at the cost of his own; perhaps this strange new existence would offer him a chance to discover why.
The med-car glided on through sleeping streets, carrying him into the first hints of dawn. And Connor, cradled in its quiet, dared to let that tiny spark of hope glow, however tenuously, in the darkness.
Chapter 2: Gilded Cage
A soft warmth cloaked him, accompanied by the faint scent of jasmine and vanilla. Connor's consciousness surfaced through layers of heavy sleep, reluctant and hazy. He felt the plush embrace of a mattress beneath – far softer than any he'd ever known – and silken sheets gliding against his skin. A cool breeze caressed his face, carrying a mix of perfume and disinfectant, oddly soothing.
He blinked awake to a dim hush. Above him arched a ceiling of polished white stone, etched with silver filigree vines and tiny inset lights glowing like trapped starlight. For a moment he simply lay there, disoriented by comfort. Memory seeped back – the alley, the city, being taken into custody. He shot upright, heart lurching.
He was in a bed. A large canopied bed draped with gauzy curtains, in what appeared to be a luxurious bedroom. Connor's fingers sank into a plush duvet as he pushed it aside. The room around him emerged in the low amber glow of a single lamp: elegant furnishings, a tall wardrobe of carved mahogany, a vanity with an ornate mirror. Across fine carpet, double doors stood closed, and on a nearby table rested a silver tray laden with covered dishes and a teapot. The air smelled of fresh linen and calming herbs.
It struck him all at once – this must be the "safe location" the officers delivered him to. A guest suite, by the looks of it. But where?
He swung his legs over the bedside. A soft cotton tunic and trousers had replaced his ruined clothes, and his skin felt clean. Someone must have washed him while he slept – the thought made his cheeks warm. Yet he felt infinitely better: the grime and soot gone, his hair clean and trimmed, stubble shaved. They had tended him like a cherished invalid.
He slid off the high bed, toes sinking into plush carpet that muffled his steps. Every ache and bruise from the day before had faded to a dull memory, likely thanks to potions or just deep sleep. He padded to a tall window draped in heavy brocade. Gently, he pulled the curtain aside.
Morning light flooded in, bright and golden. Beyond the glass stretched a manicured garden enclosed by a high marble wall. He glimpsed flowerbeds and a fountain, and just above the wall, the spires of a cityscape. Women in crisp uniforms patrolled a gate at one end. It dawned on him – he was likely inside a Male Protective Zone, one of those enclaves Officer Len had alluded to. Perhaps the very Lilygarden House they mentioned in the alley.
The calm beauty outside felt at odds with his internal storm. He had escaped one trap (the fire) only to land in a gilded one. Men were "protected" here to the point of being cosseted, kept separate. The opulence of the room reinforced that: it was a comfortable cage, but a cage nonetheless.
A knock sounded at the door – soft, tentative. Connor tensed. Before he could respond, a gentle voice called, "Good morning, sir. May I enter?"
He cleared his throat. "Yes, come in."
The double doors opened and a woman in a lavender dress stepped through, carrying a smaller tray. She appeared in her fifties, with kind eyes and steel-grey hair coiled in a bun. At the sight of him standing by the window, she offered a warm, deferential smile and inclined her head.
"Good morning, Sir Connor," she greeted. "I'm Marisela, the house matron. I trust you slept well?"
Sir Connor again. He managed a nod, still off-balance. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." His voice came out quiet, almost shy – the enormity of yesterday still weighed on him.
Marisela beamed at his polite form. "We've prepared some breakfast and tea." She gestured to the tray on the side table. "Might I pour you a cup?"
He realized his throat was parched and stomach hollow. "That would be lovely, thank you."
As she busied herself uncovering a delicate teapot and cup, Connor took a seat in a nearby armchair. It swallowed him in cushions. This scenario felt strangely like a royal hostage being pampered. He decided to glean information gently. "Forgive me, I'm still not entirely sure where I am," he ventured.
Marisela set a steaming cup of spiced tea on the table before him, along with a bowl of porridge topped with glazed fruit. "Of course, sir. You're in Lilygarden House, one of the secure manors within Aurelia City's Male Protective Zone." She spoke gently, like she might to a lost child. "You were brought here early this morning for rest and recovery."
Aurelia City – so that was the name of this metropolis. And indeed in a protective zone as suspected. He spooned a bit of porridge – the taste of honey and berry burst on his tongue. Despite anxiety, he nearly moaned; he hadn't realized how hungry he was. Marisela watched, pleased at his evident appetite.
She continued carefully, "Officer Len briefed us that you were found disoriented and alone, with no registry on file." Connor noticed her tact in avoiding pressing for his story. "There's no rush to discuss any of that until you feel ready. Our priority is your well-being."
He met her gaze. She radiated maternal kindness, but he discerned a hint of curiosity she tried to mask. "I… appreciate that," he said slowly. "It's all a lot to process."
"Of course. Take your time." Marisela folded her hands, hesitating, then added softly, "If there's anything you need – clothes, books, someone to talk to – please ask. We want you to be comfortable here."
Comfortable, yet not free. Connor nodded and managed a small smile. "You've all been very kind. I admit I'm not used to such… attention."
Marisela's expression grew almost pitying, as if imagining the ordeal he must have gone through. "It's our duty and honor, sir." She looked like she might say more, but a chime sounded somewhere in the house. Duty called. She rose. "I'll return shortly to check on you. In the meantime, please enjoy breakfast."
When she left, Connor allowed his polite façade to slip. He rubbed his face with his hands, exhaling shakily. So, it was as he feared – he was a "guest" in a gilded sanctuary. Treated like glass, kept like treasure. They wouldn't harm him, but they also wouldn't let him out freely.
As he savored the warm tea (spiced with cinnamon and something floral), he pondered next steps. The Watch likely was investigating who he was. Would they believe the truth if he told them? Unlikely – "I came from another world via death" would sound mad or miraculous.
For now, playing the part of the compliant recuperating man might buy him trust or at least more information. He decided to explore his confines a bit.
After dressing in a fresh set of simple clothes provided (a high-collared shirt of fine cotton and soft trousers – surprisingly comfortable), Connor slipped out into the corridor. The house was quiet, elegant – muffled sounds of staff moving somewhere distant. He padded down a staircase toward a sunlit atrium. No one stopped him, but he caught discreet glances from female attendants in the halls, who always gave a little bow or a smile before moving on. Word had spread of the rare male newcomer.
Reaching a ground-floor salon, Connor paused by a large window overlooking the gardens. Lush lawns and a sparkling fountain beckoned. Perhaps some fresh air?
He found the glass door unlatched and stepped outside onto a stone veranda. The morning sun and scent of blossoms greeted him. For a moment, he closed his eyes and simply breathed – it felt like ages since he'd felt safe enough to do that.
A few gardeners (all women) tended rose bushes along the paths. They noticed him and immediately averted their gazes with respectful nods. It felt… odd. Back home, he could wander anywhere unremarked. Here, his mere presence created a ripple of quiet awe. It made him self-conscious.
He wandered to the fountain at the garden's heart. Water burbled from a marble sculpture of a robed woman – likely a Matriarch or goddess – pouring water from an urn. Connor trailed fingers in the pool. The cool water and tranquil sound eased some tension in his chest.
Was this his life now? A pampered, protected existence behind walls? Some men might find it paradise: comfort, attention, no demands. But Connor's skin prickled at the thought of being kept, however kindly. He valued quiet and safety, yes – but also independence and purpose. He had dreams once (to maybe teach math, to travel) – would any of that matter here?
As he mused, he noticed a hush falling. The gardeners had all straightened and looked toward the house. Marisela was approaching along the path, accompanied by two unfamiliar women – one in a crisp navy uniform with captain's insignia and another in scholarly robes carrying a ledger.
They approached with the deliberate politeness of a delegation. Connor's pulse quickened; this looked like an official inquiry.
He squared his shoulders, trying to project calm. The uniformed captain – a woman with bronze skin and sharp amber eyes – offered a shallow bow. "Good morning, Sir Connor. I am Captain Sela Var of the City Watch." So this was the local head of security. She spoke respectfully yet there was an edge of authority in her tone. "This is Guildscribe Hanna of the Civil Registry."
The robed scribe, a petite woman with ink-stained fingers, sketched a polite curtsy.
Marisela stood slightly behind them, hands clasped, as if there for moral support.
"We apologize for intruding on your morning," Captain Sela continued, "but we hoped, if you felt up to it, to gather a few details to ensure we properly identify and assist you."
Connor expected this. He mustered a cordial nod. "I understand. I'll do my best to answer."
They guided him to a stone bench by the fountain. Marisela hovered at his flank – an implicit reassurance, perhaps at his request earlier not to be overwhelmed. The scribe opened her ledger, quill at the ready, while the captain gently began:
"Sir, for our records – you gave your name as Connor James. Do you recall your age and place of birth?"
Connor swallowed. A soft breeze carried the fragrance of roses, belying the tension he felt. "I'm 24," he answered truthfully. But place of birth? If he said Earth or Australia, they'd be baffled. He decided on partial truth: "I was born in a remote settlement far from cities. You wouldn't likely know it by name."
Guildscribe Hanna's quill hovered. "You may be surprised – our maps are thorough. Could you tell us its name or region?"
He hesitated. "It's called Wallaroo… in the Western Expanse." He borrowed a local-sounding direction and prayed no such town existed to conflict.
Captain Sela frowned thoughtfully. "The Western Expanse is sparsely populated, mostly tribal lands and ruins. It's possible a village by that name exists off official records." She didn't press the point, instead moving on. "No registration was found for you in the city citizen logs. Have you resided outside formal guild or family structures before now?"
Connor nodded slowly. "Yes. I've never been in a city until now." That at least was honest.
The scribe's quill scratched away, recording. Captain Sela's amber eyes studied him – not unkindly, but shrewdly. "Officer Len indicated you seemed disoriented and possibly injured when found. Are you able to tell us how you came to be in that alley? Did someone harm or abandon you?"
Connor's heart thudded. Here lay the crux. He lowered his gaze to the rippling water. Tell them a version of it. "I… experienced an accident," he said slowly. "A terrible fire. I thought I was…" he paused, voice catching, "…going to die."
Marisela's hand flew to her mouth; Captain Sela's stern expression softened in shock. "Stars above," the captain murmured.
"I remember flames, pain," Connor continued, and the raw emotion in his tone wasn't feigned. "Then nothing. Next I knew, I woke up in that alley, confused and alone. I truly don't understand how I got here."
He looked up, letting them see the truth of his bewilderment and earnestness in his eyes.
The silence was heavy but sympathetic. Guildscribe Hanna's quill had stilled; she was staring at him, lips parted. Marisela gently laid a hand on his shoulder. "You poor dear," she breathed.
Captain Sela exchanged glances with the scribe – a silent communication. She then spoke gently, "Such incidents are rare but not unheard of… sometimes a magical surge or wild portal can deposit someone far from home, especially in moments of extreme peril. You may have been saved by an ancient ward or by pure fate."
It sounded like she was rationalizing – possibly thinking a malfunctioning teleport spell or deity's intervention. Connor neither confirmed nor denied, simply lowering his eyes in humble acceptance. Let them come to their own conclusions.
The captain cleared her throat. "Regardless, you are safe now. We will of course attempt to locate any family or kin from your home to inform them you're alive and well. And we'll see to all your needs here."
Connor's chest tightened. Family – his mother back on Earth – they'd think him dead for sure. He could never contact them. He bowed his head to hide the sorrow flickering across his face. "Thank you."
Guildscribe Hanna quietly resumed writing, noting likely something about "possible portal displacement." They asked a few more benign questions – did he possess any personal items when found (he did not, aside from ruined clothes), had he experienced any unusual magic before the fire (he said no, which was true until awakening here).
Captain Sela stood. "I believe that's sufficient for now. We won't tax you further. In due time, once you've recovered more, the Matriarch Council may request an audience, but that will be handled with utmost care to your comfort."
Matriarch Council – likely the city's ruling body. The thought made Connor uneasy; he was content dealing with kind matrons and officers, not politicians.
Marisela smiled and patted his shoulder again. "You've done very well, Sir Connor. Is there anything you desire now? A walk, a bath, more rest?"
He almost laughed at how they coddled him. Yet it wasn't unpleasant; after facing death and transposition, some pampering was admittedly nice. Still… "If it's alright, I'd like a bit of time alone to think," he replied softly.
"Of course," Captain Sela said at once. "You're free to enjoy the garden or any common areas of the house. If you need anything, simply ask one of the staff."
Free within these walls, Connor noted internally. But he nodded gratefully.
The trio departed back toward the manor, Marisela casting one last motherly look his way before following the others inside. Connor remained on the bench, the fountain's gentle spray cooling the breeze.
He had answered carefully and apparently earned their sympathetic acceptance of a magical accident narrative. That was perhaps the best outcome he could hope for. It gave him breathing room.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and ran a hand through his trimmed brown hair. Bits of sunlight danced on the water before him. He was alive, being cared for, and not under harsh interrogation. In a sense, unbelievably lucky.
So why did he feel a growing restlessness in his bones?
Because he knew this status quo couldn't hold. Already talk of Council audiences and protective permanence loomed. They'd keep him here indefinitely "for his own good" – the thought made him clench his fists. If this world had truly saved him for some purpose, it surely wasn't to idle away in seclusion.
A delicate blue butterfly flitted over the fountain, landing on the marble lady's stone hand. Connor watched it slowly open and close its wings. What now? he asked himself. Would he accept a cosseted life or find a way to make more of this second chance?
In the quiet of the garden, he resolved: once he regained strength and learned more of this society, he would push gently at the boundaries of his cage. There had to be a way to contribute, to belong, without being merely an object of awe.
For now, he would play the part of the obedient guest, gather knowledge, and perhaps allies. Marisela's genuine care touched him – maybe she could become an advocate. And Officer Len, who found him, seemed kind. He tucked those names away like seeds for future hope.
As the morning wore on, Connor rose and wandered a bit under the trellised walkway, letting dappled sunlight warm him. Staff passed with polite nods, giving him space. He felt like a ghost in a protective bubble – seen but kept at arm's length in deference.
He paused beneath a flowering tree where blossoms draped white and fragrant. Gently, he plucked a single bloom and turned it between his fingers. In its delicate petals he saw a symbol of his state – beautiful, sheltered, plucked from its wild origin and destined to wilt unless planted anew.
Connor drew a slow breath and slipped the flower into his pocket. A token of silent rebellion, perhaps – a promise to himself that he wouldn't let his spirit wither here.
Somewhere beyond these walls lay a bustling matriarchal city full of magic and technology he barely grasped. It both terrified and intrigued him. When he closed his eyes, he remembered last night's sky – the twin moons gazing down as if judging his resolve.
He had survived the worst a world could throw at him and awoken in another. There had to be meaning in that. If men were rare and revered here, maybe he could leverage that status to craft a life of purpose, not just protection.
As midday approached, he made his way back inside to avoid the rising heat. The quiet halls of Lilygarden felt almost monastic – all soft footfalls and distant harp music playing from somewhere. In his suite, he found a set of books left on the side table (Marisela's doing, perhaps anticipating his hunger for information). Grateful, he sank into the armchair and perused them. One was a slim guide titled Welcome to Aurelia – A Gentlemen's Primer. He couldn't help a chuckle – apparently a manual for men on etiquette and resources. The other was a volume of poetry by someone named Evander, and another a history of the city's founding Matriarchs.
They were trying to acclimate him in the softest way possible. He appreciated it; knowledge was power, and he'd devour every scrap. If Act One of his journey was survival and confusion, Act Two would be adaptation and subtle action.
For now, in this safe golden cage, Connor allowed himself to heal – body and mind. But not to forget. The spark of determination he'd carried out of the fire still glowed inside his chest, small but steady. He would feed it with patience and insight until the time came to let it burn bright.
He didn't know how or when, but he silently promised to himself under that flowering tree: he would not remain a passive rarity. He would find a way to stand on his own feet in this new world, not as a kept pet, but as a person forging his destiny anew.
With that resolve warming him, Connor closed the primer and gazed out the sunlit window of his suite. Beyond the garden walls, he could hear the faint sounds of Aurelia's streets – a distant whoosh of a hover-tram, an echo of market chatter at noon. A world bustling out of reach, for now.
He gently fingered the white flower in his pocket and smiled. For now.
Chapter 3: City of Veils
By late afternoon, a restlessness had settled over Connor like an itch he couldn't scratch. Lilygarden House was perfectly comfortable, but its very ease chafed. After hours of polite conversation and gentle coddling, he yearned to step beyond the walls, if only in secret. Curiosity tugged at him: glimpses of Aurelia City beyond the fence tantalized with their futurist magic and teeming life. And something deeper – a need to affirm he wasn't truly a prisoner – urged him toward the idea of a clandestine exploration.
An opportunity presented itself as dusk fell. Lilygarden's staff and any assigned escorts assumed he would retire early; he'd feigned fatigue and retreated to his suite after dinner. Now, twilight draped the sky in hues of violet, and through his window Connor watched lamps flicker on in the distant city beyond. The house had grown quiet, save for a few guards patrolling the perimeter.
His heart thumped as he quietly donned a set of plain clothing the house had provided – a simple tunic and trousers in dark charcoal. More like what a servant might wear than a pampered sir. He found a soft cap in the wardrobe and tucked his hair under it. Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he noted with a thrill that he looked quite unlike the scrubbed gentleman from that morning – more like a wiry young groundskeeper.
Sliding open his window, he was greeted by the warm night air and the chirr of crickets. He climbed onto the sill and carefully eased down the trellis outside – the same one that earlier that day he'd admired for roses. Now it served as a handy ladder, though he apologized silently to the crushed blooms under his boots.
Feet on grass, Connor kept to the shadows of the garden's trees. The gate he'd seen earlier was to the east, guarded by two watchwomen and warded likely by magic. That was not his route. Instead, he skirted to the garden's western edge, where an oak's broad branches arched over the marble wall. It reminded him of the library oak from the night before.
Adrenaline surged; could he truly attempt this? One day under protective lock and he was already plotting an escapade. But he felt alive in the risk. Smiling determinedly, Connor clambered up the oak's gnarled trunk, palms scuffing on the bark. The garden below shrank as he climbed. At a thick limb that spanned the wall, he shimmied out over to the far side and peered down at the street.
No one immediately below. The street here was a side lane, dimly lit, bordering a quiet residential row. Farther away, the glow of busier avenues beckoned.
He took a deep breath, then dropped from the branch. He landed in an agile crouch on cobblestones, knees smarting slightly. He was out.
For a moment he crouched in the alley's shadows, heart hammering in triumph and fear. No alarms sounded; no shout went up behind him. The protective zone wall loomed, silent and oblivious to its charge's escape. Connor exhaled – a shaky, exhilarated breath.
Night cloaked the city in friendly darkness. He pulled his cap's brim low and casually blended into the foot traffic on a broader street nearby. A cluster of chattering women in guild uniforms passed, paying him no mind beyond a polite "Good eve, brother" (perhaps thinking him a messenger or low-ranked male out with permission). Connor nodded mutely and kept walking.
The city unfolded around him in all its evening bustle: storefronts with holographic displays whirred and glowed, street vendors under paper lanterns hawked skewers of grilled meat and exotic fruit, an auto-carriage hummed by above carrying laughing passengers on a sky-rail. Connor's senses drank in the overload – scents of frying spices and sweet pastry mingled with the ozone tinge of active runes lining the streets. Music – both a lone harp busker on a corner and an upbeat synth tune piping from a café – layered into the soundscape along with clattering wagon wheels and distant whooshes of airborne traffic.
He was one invisible mote in a sea of life. Women strode by in elegant suits, in flowing robes, in work overalls, each engaged in her own purpose. And dotted among them, rarely, he saw other men – always escorted closely by one or more attentive women. He spotted an older gentleman with two ladies guiding him gently across a busy intersection. A young man, scarcely more than a boy, surrounded by what looked like a group of well-dressed women as they emerged from a theater (the women laughed and occasionally one would reach to adjust the boy's cloak, as if fussing over him).
No wonder his lone presence earlier had caused a stir – an unaccompanied male was basically an event.
Connor kept his head down and posture humble, which conveniently fit the expected demeanor of a lower-class man about errands. He found he could move relatively freely if he mirrored the body language he observed in the few servant-class men: a slight deference at intersections, yielding the right of way to any group of women, eyes averted unless spoken to. It rankled a bit, but he reminded himself this was reconnaissance, not rebellion (not yet).
As he ventured deeper towards the city center, he felt the thrill of discovery chase away lingering fear. Here he was, walking unknown streets in an alien metropolis, free – at least for the moment – under the twin moons' light.
Passing under a grand archway engraved with the Matriarchal Council's seal, he entered a wide plaza teeming with night market stalls. The Council Hall – a magnificent building of white marble columns – loomed on one side of the square, but Connor's attention zeroed in on the crowd. Women of all walks milled here, and amidst them hovered tiny orb-cameras – little crystal spheres that darted around certain individuals. Influencers doing live broadcasts, no doubt, recording interactions for kudos.
He recalled Lady Yara's explanation on the news: women compete for interactions with men via social media. To his left, a group of excited young women gathered near the gated entrance of what must be another male enclave – craning to glimpse inside while chattering to their hovering camera-drones. Content, he realized. They were streaming any sighting of men inside. Indeed, occasional laughter and male voices from beyond the gate sent these would-be streamers into fits of glee as they narrated to invisible audiences.
Connor slipped past, uneasy at the voyeurism but also pondering its potential. If he wanted anonymity, this attention economy was a double-edged sword – random bystanders might whip out cameras if they realized he was the missing male. On the other hand, if he ever needed to broadcast a message, stepping into public view could spread information like wildfire. A thought for another time.
As he paused at a stall selling baked tarts (the kindly baker pressed a small sugared bun into his hand "for the brother out so late," refusing payment), a nearby public screen flickered to life above the square. The nightly news segment began, projecting a vivid hologram visible to all in the plaza.
A polished anchorwoman reported updates: a successful monster repulsion at the western wall (Connor noted, monsters were real here too, not just rumor), a new research grant for the Alchemical Guild, upcoming festivities for Founder's Day. Then Connor's chest tightened as his name was mentioned.
"…Council spokeswomen confirm that the missing gentleman, now identified as Sir Connor James of Western provenance, remains in good health under protective care. Public speculation runs high about his origins, given he appeared under unusual circumstances. The Matriarch Council urges against unwarranted gossip and emphasizes that Sir Connor's privacy and adjustment are top priority…"
He exhaled – at least they weren't broadcasting his image or calling for hunts anymore. They'd pivoted to PR damage control. "Unusual circumstances" indeed.
Two women nearby in the crowd gossiped openly, however. "I heard he fell from the sky, like a star," one giggled. "Maybe he's a gift from the goddess!"
Her friend rolled her eyes. "I heard he's the lost son of some northern matriarch, kept hidden 'til now."
"Psh, more like he escaped some rogue guild that kidnapped him. The Watch always covers up the juicy bits," the first insisted.
Connor ducked away, cheeks warm. Already wild theories flew. Better than truth perhaps – truth might be harder to swallow.
After nearly an hour weaving through marketplaces and boulevards, fatigue tugged at him. His ankle (bandaged back at Lilygarden) throbbed a little from so much walking. Perhaps it was time to turn back before he overextended luck. He had a trove of observations to reflect on now.
He turned down a quieter side street, intending to loop back toward the protective zone's vicinity. As he walked, a prickling sensation crawled up his neck – the distinct feeling of being watched far more closely than in the busy plaza.
Connor glanced about. The lane was dim, lined with closed shops and a few alley mouths yawning in darkness. No obvious followers. Still, years of wandering outback nights had honed his instincts – he was definitely not alone.
He quickened his pace, heart thumping. The faint echo of additional footsteps reached him, then stilled. Someone possibly tailing him from just out of sight. Not Watch – they'd hail him openly. This felt… predatory.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, fingers closing around a stray metal bolt he'd picked up near a tram stop (a habit of his, pocketing interesting bits). If needed, it could serve as a makeshift knuckle weapon or be thrown to distract.
As he passed an alley, a silhouette detached from the shadows ahead, blocking his path. A woman – tall, cloaked, a glint of steel visible in her hand. "Evening, sir," she purred low. "Awful late for a man to be out alone."
Connor's blood ran cold. From behind him, another figure emerged, cutting off retreat. Two of them.
His mind raced. These didn't look like city watch – their stance predatory, not protective. Kidnappers? The briefing papers Marisela gave him did mention unscrupulous sorts might target unescorted men as commodities.
The woman in front twirled a knife. "Why not join us, pretty thing? We'll take good care of you." In the lamplight her face was scarred and cruelly eager.
Heart pounding, Connor raised his hands placatingly, trying to summon the polite aloofness he'd seen aristocrat men use. "Thank you, but I'm expected at home. My guards will be along any moment."
A bluff, but he delivered it with as much surety as he could muster.
They laughed. The second thug, circling to his side, sniffed. "Not a mark on him and dressed plain – likely a runaway. No one's coming for you, love."
They had him pegged. In a flash, Connor realized running would be useless; they were positioned to pounce. He had to do something unexpected.
The scarred leader lunged suddenly, impatient. Connor jerked back – her blade whistled past his ribs, grazing cloth. Instinct took over. He flung the metal bolt from his pocket straight at her face.
She flinched – the bolt cracked against her brow. Not enough to fell her, but it made her snarl and stagger a step. In that second, Connor dove sideways, trying to slip past and sprint.
The second assailant was on him in two strides – iron grip vise-tight on his forearm. "Not so fast," she hissed, wrenching his arm behind his back. Pain jolted up Connor's shoulder; he bit back a cry.
He struggled, but she was strong – likely rune-enhanced or just Amazonian. The scarred leader recovered and stalked toward him, knife gleaming. Rage contorted her features. "Little bastard, you'll regret that," she growled, raising the blade.
Connor's mind raced in panic. Magic. He had no formal training, but desperation had made something happen back at the fire – or in the alley? Hard to recall. But perhaps… perhaps he could invoke whatever flicker he'd felt then.
With his free hand, he instinctively thrust outward as if warding off the impending stab and shouted, "Stay back!"
To his shock, a ripple of force visibly distorted the air in front of him, like heatwave on a road. It slammed into the scarred woman's chest and blasted her off her feet. She flew backward a full two meters, colliding with the brick wall and collapsing in a heap, knife clattering away.
All three of them – Connor, the thug pinning him, and the downed leader – froze in mutual astonishment.
Connor recovered first. He drove his elbow into his captor's gut with all his might. Her grip slackened with an oof, and Connor tore free, sprinting down the lane.
A strangled shout rose behind him. "After him, you slitch!" the scarred one screamed, voice ragged.
Feet pounded. Connor's heart was a drum in his ears as he darted around a corner. The protective zone wasn't far – if he could reach an area with guards or alarms…
His vision swam; that burst of force had drained him more than expected. His steps faltered just as he glimpsed the zone's gated street ahead. Lanterns – armed figures! He must risk calling out.
"Help!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Here!"
One of the patrolling guards at the zone's gate whirled, spotting him. Behind Connor, the pursuing thug cursed and skidded to a halt – unwilling to tangle with official security. She melted into an alley, abandoning the chase.
Connor stumbled toward the guards, adrenaline giving way to trembling. Two watchwomen rushed forward, halberds at the ready, scanning for threats. He bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. "Th-there were… they tried to—" he couldn't finish, shaking too hard.
But the senior guard understood. Her eyes flashed with anger as she signaled to a colleague. "Get an incident flare up – notify perimeter units. Sir, you're safe now." She gently placed a cloak around Connor's shoulders (only then he realized his shirt had a tear and blood from a shallow knife scratch).
Within minutes, a swarm of security combed the area. Connor was escorted, almost carried, back through Lilygarden's gates by three different people, all fussing and checking him. The protective zone had come alive with alarm – lanterns lit, voices shouting orders.
Marisela appeared at the front steps in night-robe and curlers, expression stricken. "Oh merciful heavens! Sir Connor!" She hurried to him, and on impulse – propriety be damned – folded him in a tight hug. Connor, still shaking, found it a comfort he badly needed. He clung to her like a child to a mother for a brief moment.
Soon he was ensconced back in his suite, a flurry of caretaking around him. A healer applied salve to his minor cut, clucking sympathetically that men always bruise easily. Marisela pressed a warm mug of chamomile into his hands. Captain Sela herself arrived, face grim, and took his account of the attack with eyes blazing in protective fury.
Connor omitted mention of the force blast that saved him. In the chaos, perhaps the thugs might attribute it to some unseen mage's intervention. He wasn't ready to reveal that ability even to these kind people – not until he understood it himself. He simply said he struggled and managed to break away and run.
Captain Sela squeezed his shoulder, jaw tight. "This is exactly why men are not permitted to wander unescorted. The city can be dangerous after dark even in good districts." There was no scold in her tone, only pained concern. "We failed you in leaving you unguarded, and for that I deeply apologize."
Connor, throat thick, could only shake his head. It wasn't their fault; he'd snuck out. But confessing that would only distress them further (and likely result in being watched like a hawk). He lowered his eyes. "I… wanted some fresh air. I didn't think it through. I'm sorry."
Marisela dabbed her teary eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, hush, dear, you've nothing to apologize for. We should have anticipated restlessness."
The guilt weighed heavy – these sweet people blaming themselves for his foolishness. Connor's chest ached with remorse and gratitude all at once.
Captain Sela's voice gentled. "We'll increase security around the grounds and assign a discreet companion should you wish to walk outside henceforth. You will be safe, sir, I swear it on my life."
He opened his mouth to protest needing a constant guard, but one look at their faces – drawn with genuine fear for him – and he relented. Perhaps, for now, concession was wise.
Later, long after midnight, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling's etched vines now lit by a soft nightlamp. He should have been exhausted enough to pass out, but his mind churned replaying the ambush. The power he'd manifested – it was real. Raw and untrained, but real. In a moment of dire need, he'd reached inside and something answered. It had saved his life.
Men in this world weren't supposed to do such things, he gathered. It was rare or taboo. If it became known he could wield magic innately, how would that change their treatment of him? Would they revere him as some prophesied throwback… or fear him as a potential threat? The unknown kept him silent on it for now.
Yet, privately, he felt a flicker of pride and possibility. He wasn't completely helpless. A spark lived in him beyond anyone's expectations – even his own. That spark could grow if he nurtured it, learned to control it.
Perhaps this was part of why he was here. The fire of Ares, as legends dubbed it, in a world nearly devoid of it. He recalled the prophecy snippet about a man's old gift returning to either save or doom. A chill danced over his skin.
He turned on his side, gazing at the silhouette of the rose trellis outside his window. They'd locked it now, he was sure, likely posted guards under his sill too. There would be no slipping out again anytime soon.
Connor sighed, equal parts relieved and frustrated. He'd gotten a taste of the world and of his latent power, and both tasted sweet despite the danger. Now he was back in the velvet cage, albeit with greater awareness of both what lay outside and what lay within himself.
He swore quietly into the darkness: he wouldn't squander this knowledge. Going forward, he'd work within their system to gain more freedom gradually, to avoid such desperate outings. Maybe request supervised visits to a library or some guild where he might learn magic under guise of academic interest. Find allies who could quietly help him cultivate his abilities and independence.
His reckless jaunt had nearly ended in disaster – he wouldn't make that mistake again. Next time he pushed boundaries, he'd plan, ensure backup, maybe even confide in someone trustworthy like Marisela or Captain Sela when the time was right.
For now, he closed his eyes and allowed the weariness to take him. In his mind's eye he saw the white rose he'd pocketed earlier that evening, symbol of his promise to himself. He'd lost it during the struggle – likely trampled underfoot. But no matter; he could always pick another. The resolve it represented remained unbroken.
As sleep finally crept in, Connor drifted on newfound confidence: in a single day he had tested the edges of his cage, glimpsed the world's wonders and threats, and discovered a strength within himself no one suspected. He had stumbled, yes – but also learned.
Cradled in silken sheets, safe once more, the young man from nowhere silently vowed that next time he ventured into the city of veils, it would be on his terms, with eyes open and that hidden fire at the ready. And until then, he would wait, heal, and quietly stoke the flames of his growing resolve.
Chapter 4: Whispers Before Dawn
Night deepened, and Lilygarden House gradually settled into slumber. But sleep eluded Connor. He lay awake in the hush of his ornate suite, limbs heavy but mind alight. Every few minutes he closed his eyes, only to have phantoms of the day flicker behind his lids – a flash of the knife in the alley, the shock on the thugs' faces as unseen force hurled them back, the concerned gaze of Marisela as she'd bid him goodnight after the ordeal.
He sighed and sat up. Through the high windows, he could see one of Aurelia's moons – the smaller crescent – dipping low, heralding the approach of dawn. The air felt still, expectant. In the silence, his own thoughts became a roar.
He slipped out of bed and padded over the cold marble floor to the window. Unlatching it quietly (they hadn't locked it after all; perhaps they trusted he'd learned his lesson), he opened it wide. A gentle pre-dawn breeze wafted in, cool and carrying the scent of damp earth and distant city smoke.
Connor rested his elbows on the sill and drank in the predawn quiet. The garden below was dim, shapes of shrubs and statuary barely discernible in the wan moonlight. At the perimeter, he could make out a guard's silhouette, lantern in hand, doing her rounds. He felt a swell of mixed emotions – gratitude for their vigilance, guilt for necessitating it, and a pang of longing for true freedom beyond those walls.
He rubbed his sternum absently. There, beneath skin and bone, a subtle warmth seemed to glow – or so he fancied – where his mysterious power slept. He remembered the tingle of energy that surged through him when he'd instinctively pushed back at the assailants. In hindsight, it felt like flexing a new muscle; sore now, but undeniably present.
He craved to understand it. What was this ability exactly? Did it have limits or trigger only under duress? Could he summon it calmly?
The house was asleep, and he was alone. Perhaps it was foolhardy – but if ever there was a time to experiment, it was now in the safety of his suite.
Connor drew the curtains closed to avoid any light spilling and waking staff. In the center of the room, he pulled a footstool out as a target. The memory of how the force felt came to him: an almost electric sensation pulsing out from his core, directed by sheer intent and adrenaline.
He took a deep breath and focused on the footstool. It was sturdy oak, not likely to break easily. Good.
Raising his hand, he tried to recall the emotion of that moment in the alley – the fear transmuted into a will to repel. Fear was easy to summon; he had plenty of it swirling in him even now. But he also didn't want to fling the poor stool through a wall accidentally. Cautiously, he aimed his palm and willed a gentle push.
"Move," he whispered, voice barely audible.
Nothing happened. He furrowed his brow. Perhaps he needed more intensity. He remembered how his heart had thundered, how desperation had lent iron to his command.
Connor closed his eyes, dredging up flashes of that panic – the knife glinting toward him, the trap of those cruel hands on his arm. His heart obligingly sped at the memory. He snapped his eyes open and thrust his palm forward, hard, exhaling sharply through his teeth.
A ripple in the air – faint but visible like a heat shimmer – leapt from his hand. It struck the footstool with a soft thff, barely enough to rock it. But it moved. A half-inch shuffle on the floor, but indisputable.
Connor's lips parted in amazement. He had done that deliberately. No immediate threat, just concentration and will. The power answered, albeit weakly.
His pulse sped with excitement now. He tried again, this time with more confidence and a touch of anger at the stool (imagining it the barrier to his freedom). He thrust both hands this time and whispered a firm, "Go."
The force rippled out stronger. The footstool skidded back a full foot, its wooden legs scraping the marble softly.
Connor grinned, exhilarated. It was like discovering an extra limb. He closed his fists and pumped them silently in triumph.
But the exertion left him oddly breathless, as if he'd run a sprint. A sheen of sweat dotted his brow. So, there was a cost – a drain on his energy, which aligned with what little he gleaned from eavesdropping and the primer book (magic uses one's aether or stamina).
He sank onto the edge of the bed, breathing deeply to recover. A glance at the window showed the night starting to yield – a faint paling of the sky beyond the curtains.
A soft knock startled him out of his thoughts. He hastily wiped his face and opened the door a crack. It was Marisela, impeccably dressed for dawn in a fresh day gown, bearing a small tray with a steaming cup.
"Sir Connor," she said quietly. "Forgive the early hour. I thought you might appreciate some chamomile to help you rest, since it's nearly morning and you…" She peered at him, mother's intuition reading the fatigue in his face.
He smiled gratefully and opened the door. "You read my mind. I've been… up thinking."
Marisela set the tray on his nightstand and regarded him kindly. "Understandable, dear. You've had a lot happen in a short time." She fussed slightly, straightening his rumpled sleeve. "If you'd like to talk, I'm here to listen. Sometimes sharing a worry halves its weight."
Connor considered confiding in her – not the magic, but perhaps his feelings of confinement and guilt. He trusted her good heart. Yet he hesitated; too much honesty might trouble her or worse, prompt tighter restrictions out of concern.
He opted for a half-truth. "I keep thinking how I caused trouble for everyone. The guard, you, rushing out to save me last night… I feel guilty."
Marisela's face softened in empathy. She reached and squeezed his hand lightly. "Oh, sweetheart, you mustn't feel that way. Our only regret is not keeping you safer. None of this is your fault."
He ducked his head, humbled by her earnestness. How lucky he was that she was the one overseeing his care – a more jaded matron might not be so endlessly patient.
"There's also…," he ventured, gaze drifting to the dim light edging the curtain, "I feel an urge to do something. To not be idle. It's hard to explain. Back home I was always busy with tasks or study. Here I'm just… waiting."
Marisela nodded slowly. "Men under protection often experience that restlessness. We call it cabin heart – when the comfort becomes stifling."
Cabin heart. Apt.
She smiled conspiratorially. "You know, in the old days, men like you – bright, young, in good health – often joined guild research teams or became advisors. The world has changed with more safety concerns now, but perhaps some vocation could be arranged for you once things settle. If that interests you."
Hope fluttered. "It does. Very much."
"Then we'll make it happen," she said as simply as stating breakfast would be served at eight. "I'll speak with the Council liaison about opportunities suited to your talents, once you're ready."
Emotion welled – gratitude, relief, a painful yearning for purpose. Connor squeezed her hand back, words failing.
She patted his cheek gently, like a mother comforting a son. "You are not a prisoner, Sir Connor. You're a valued citizen of Aurelia now. It will just take time to adjust the traditional arrangements to suit someone… of your unique background."
He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Valued citizen, not prisoner – he clung to that.
Marisela stepped back. "Now, drink your tea before it cools. Try to get a little rest at dawn. I'll ensure no one disturbs you until later in the morning."
Connor obeyed, sipping the chamomile – floral warmth coating his anxiety. Marisela smiled, satisfied, and made to leave.
At the door, she paused, then crossed back to him impulsively and pressed a gentle kiss to his brow. The gesture was soothing and chaste, bringing a sting of tears to his eyes. "We're all so very glad you're safe," she whispered. "I'll see you at breakfast."
Then she departed, leaving Connor in the peaceful half-light, the taste of chamomile on his tongue and a damp spot of her tear on his temple where her kiss landed.
When she was gone, he allowed the tears to fall – silent streaks down his face. For the first time since waking in this world, he let himself grieve and yet feel comforted. Marisela's affection had opened a floodgate of emotions: sorrow for what he'd lost, gratitude for the kindness found here, resolve to honor that kindness by becoming someone worthy in this new life.
He finished the tea and returned to the window. Dawn was imminent – the largest moon had vanished and a silvery light rimmed the east.
Below, a gardener was already moving among the beds, and the gate guards changed shifts with soft clinks of armor. The city beyond stretched and murmured with morning's approach.
Connor drew a deep breath of the cool air. A new day, fresh with possibility.
He went to the desk where the primer and a blank journal lay. Dipping a pen, he began to write – quietly penning his memories of Earth, little details he feared would slip away: the exact timbre of his mother's laugh, the endless red horizon of outback sunsets, the name of the girl he saved (he realized he didn't even know; someone would tell his family he died a hero, he hoped).