The rain fell like knives against the city that night, a sharp, steady hiss that blanketed everything in shadow. The streetlights flickered, choking on the downpour. Arlen Vance tightened his hood and moved faster down the empty sidewalk, cradling a worn-out messenger bag to his chest.
Another miserable Thursday.
The bookstore would close soon. He needed to get there before the manager locked up, or he'd have to wait another week for the special order he'd saved up for. In his pocket, the last of his part-time pay clinked — hardly enough for rent, but just enough for an ancient tome on metaphysical anomalies. It was a stupid luxury, but Arlen couldn't resist.
Maybe it was escapism. Maybe it was something else.
He ducked under an awning and checked his phone. 7:42 PM.
The bookstore closed at 8. If he ran, maybe—
A soft tremor rolled through the ground.
Arlen froze. He glanced around, but no one else was nearby — no one to confirm if it was real. He squeezed the messenger bag tighter. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like someone plucking a massive harp string underground.
Then the world tore open.
It was not a crack. Not an explosion. It was a... fold.
One moment the world was solid. The next, it was peeling, a shimmer running down the alley ahead like a mirror being split by an unseen blade.
Arlen's breath hitched. Instinct told him to run — far, fast, anywhere but there.
But he didn't. He stepped closer.
The rift widened, swirling with colors too deep for human understanding. Blues that smelled like burnt honey. Yellows that whispered of lost oceans. A thousand worlds glimpsed through a tear no wider than a door.
And in the center of it all: a voice.
"Witness."
Arlen staggered back. "What—?"
The voice pressed into his mind like a hot iron, burning away questions before he could form them.
"Witness, you have been called. You will see. You will not act."
"No, no, wait—!" Arlen tried to run, but his body moved as if in syrup. The rain had slowed. The world had slowed.
Only the rift remained fast, its hunger pulling him forward.
The last thing he saw before the rift swallowed him was the dim neon glow of the bookstore sign.
Darkness.
Silence.
A heartbeat — his own — pounding against the void.
Arlen opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast marble hall, stretching into horizons unseen. Pillars thicker than skyscrapers rose around him, crowned with carvings that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Above: no ceiling. Only a sky roiling with black storms and golden cracks.
In front of him, seated upon a throne made of shattered hourglasses, was a figure.
It — he — she? — wore a cloak stitched from the night itself, galaxies blinking from its folds. Where a face should have been, there was only a shifting, crackling mass of white fire.
The Witness King.
Arlen knew the name without being told. Knowledge poured into him like a river into dry soil, ancient and indifferent.
"Wh-what is this?" Arlen whispered. His voice echoed endlessly.
"This is the Atrium of Echoes," the figure intoned. "You have been Chosen, Arlen Vance of the Broken Line."
"I didn't ask for this!" Arlen shouted. His heart thundered. He stumbled backward, but found no end to the marble hall.
The Witness King tilted its head. "None do."
Arlen shook his head. "I don't understand. Chosen for what?"
"To bear witness."
"To see the unfolding collapse of many worlds."
"To record what must be recorded."
"To never interfere."
The words echoed like gongs against his ribs.
"But why me?"
"Because you are unseen. Because you are small. Because you are... willing."
"I'm not willing!" Arlen snapped. "Send me back! I have... things to do! Rent to pay! I—"
The Witness King rose from the throne. Its form stretched impossibly high, casting Arlen into a tiny, trembling shadow.
"You will witness. You will obey. The rift has chosen you, Arlen Vance. Your story is no longer yours."
Before Arlen could scream, the ground dropped from under him.
He fell.
Through stars. Through endless plains. Through moments plucked from dreams and nightmares.
Falling.
Falling.
Until—
Pain lanced through him.
Grass — rough, damp, and too bright — scratched at his skin. The air smelled of sulfur and sweet wine. Strange, oversized birds cawed overhead, their feathers flashing silver.
Arlen groaned and sat up.
He was in a field. Purple grass stretched to a blood-orange horizon. In the distance, jagged mountains tore at a green sky.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He staggered to his feet. His clothes — damp hoodie, jeans, sneakers — were caked with mud. His messenger bag was gone.
Great.
At least he was alive. For now.
A flicker in the grass caught his eye. Something glimmered at his feet: a thin, silver chain, ending in a broken medallion no bigger than a coin.
He picked it up.
At once, a deep pulse shot up his arm. He gasped, dropping it. But it didn't fall — it hovered, spinning lazily before him.
An inscription carved into the broken metal caught the light:
"Record, but do not bind."
A cruel joke? Or a warning?
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed — a high, hysterical sound. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Stranded in fantasy land with cryptic jewelry."
In the distance, something roared — a sound of pure, animal fury.
Arlen froze.
A plume of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
Instinct screamed at him: Run. Hide. Stay low.
But something else stirred inside him — something new. A thread of defiance. A refusal to be a passive observer.
He wasn't just going to watch.
He was going to do something.
Arlen clenched his fists, feeling the broken medallion's presence thrumming around him.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty field. "Let's break some rules."
And with that, Arlen Vance — Witness, unwilling — took his first step into a world that would tear itself apart to silence him.
The rain fell like knives against the city that night, a sharp, steady hiss that blanketed everything in shadow. The streetlights flickered, choking on the downpour. Arlen Vance tightened his hood and moved faster down the empty sidewalk, cradling a worn-out messenger bag to his chest.
Another miserable Thursday.
The bookstore would close soon. He needed to get there before the manager locked up, or he'd have to wait another week for the special order he'd saved up for. In his pocket, the last of his part-time pay clinked — hardly enough for rent, but just enough for an ancient tome on metaphysical anomalies. It was a stupid luxury, but Arlen couldn't resist.
Maybe it was escapism. Maybe it was something else.
He ducked under an awning and checked his phone. 7:42 PM.
The bookstore closed at 8. If he ran, maybe—
A soft tremor rolled through the ground.
Arlen froze. He glanced around, but no one else was nearby — no one to confirm if it was real. He squeezed the messenger bag tighter. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like someone plucking a massive harp string underground.
Then the world tore open.
It was not a crack. Not an explosion. It was a... fold.
One moment the world was solid. The next, it was peeling, a shimmer running down the alley ahead like a mirror being split by an unseen blade.
Arlen's breath hitched. Instinct told him to run — far, fast, anywhere but there.
But he didn't. He stepped closer.
The rift widened, swirling with colors too deep for human understanding. Blues that smelled like burnt honey. Yellows that whispered of lost oceans. A thousand worlds glimpsed through a tear no wider than a door.
And in the center of it all: a voice.
"Witness."
Arlen staggered back. "What—?"
The voice pressed into his mind like a hot iron, burning away questions before he could form them.
"Witness, you have been called. You will see. You will not act."
"No, no, wait—!" Arlen tried to run, but his body moved as if in syrup. The rain had slowed. The world had slowed.
Only the rift remained fast, its hunger pulling him forward.
The last thing he saw before the rift swallowed him was the dim neon glow of the bookstore sign.
Darkness.
Silence.
A heartbeat — his own — pounding against the void.
Arlen opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast marble hall, stretching into horizons unseen. Pillars thicker than skyscrapers rose around him, crowned with carvings that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Above: no ceiling. Only a sky roiling with black storms and golden cracks.
In front of him, seated upon a throne made of shattered hourglasses, was a figure.
It — he — she? — wore a cloak stitched from the night itself, galaxies blinking from its folds. Where a face should have been, there was only a shifting, crackling mass of white fire.
The Witness King.
Arlen knew the name without being told. Knowledge poured into him like a river into dry soil, ancient and indifferent.
"Wh-what is this?" Arlen whispered. His voice echoed endlessly.
"This is the Atrium of Echoes," the figure intoned. "You have been Chosen, Arlen Vance of the Broken Line."
"I didn't ask for this!" Arlen shouted. His heart thundered. He stumbled backward, but found no end to the marble hall.
The Witness King tilted its head. "None do."
Arlen shook his head. "I don't understand. Chosen for what?"
"To bear witness."
"To see the unfolding collapse of many worlds."
"To record what must be recorded."
"To never interfere."
The words echoed like gongs against his ribs.
"But why me?"
"Because you are unseen. Because you are small. Because you are... willing."
"I'm not willing!" Arlen snapped. "Send me back! I have... things to do! Rent to pay! I—"
The Witness King rose from the throne. Its form stretched impossibly high, casting Arlen into a tiny, trembling shadow.
"You will witness. You will obey. The rift has chosen you, Arlen Vance. Your story is no longer yours."
Before Arlen could scream, the ground dropped from under him.
He fell.
Through stars. Through endless plains. Through moments plucked from dreams and nightmares.
Falling.
Falling.
Until—
Pain lanced through him.
Grass — rough, damp, and too bright — scratched at his skin. The air smelled of sulfur and sweet wine. Strange, oversized birds cawed overhead, their feathers flashing silver.
Arlen groaned and sat up.
He was in a field. Purple grass stretched to a blood-orange horizon. In the distance, jagged mountains tore at a green sky.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He staggered to his feet. His clothes — damp hoodie, jeans, sneakers — were caked with mud. His messenger bag was gone.
Great.
At least he was alive. For now.
A flicker in the grass caught his eye. Something glimmered at his feet: a thin, silver chain, ending in a broken medallion no bigger than a coin.
He picked it up.
At once, a deep pulse shot up his arm. He gasped, dropping it. But it didn't fall — it hovered, spinning lazily before him.
An inscription carved into the broken metal caught the light:
"Record, but do not bind."
A cruel joke? Or a warning?
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed — a high, hysterical sound. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Stranded in fantasy land with cryptic jewelry."
In the distance, something roared — a sound of pure, animal fury.
Arlen froze.
A plume of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
Instinct screamed at him: Run. Hide. Stay low.
But something else stirred inside him — something new. A thread of defiance. A refusal to be a passive observer.
He wasn't just going to watch.
He was going to do something.
Arlen clenched his fists, feeling the broken medallion's presence thrumming around him.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty field. "Let's break some rules."
And with that, Arlen Vance — Witness, unwilling — took his first step into a world that would tear itself apart to silence him.
The rain fell like knives against the city that night, a sharp, steady hiss that blanketed everything in shadow. The streetlights flickered, choking on the downpour. Arlen Vance tightened his hood and moved faster down the empty sidewalk, cradling a worn-out messenger bag to his chest.
Another miserable Thursday.
The bookstore would close soon. He needed to get there before the manager locked up, or he'd have to wait another week for the special order he'd saved up for. In his pocket, the last of his part-time pay clinked — hardly enough for rent, but just enough for an ancient tome on metaphysical anomalies. It was a stupid luxury, but Arlen couldn't resist.
Maybe it was escapism. Maybe it was something else.
He ducked under an awning and checked his phone. 7:42 PM.
The bookstore closed at 8. If he ran, maybe—
A soft tremor rolled through the ground.
Arlen froze. He glanced around, but no one else was nearby — no one to confirm if it was real. He squeezed the messenger bag tighter. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like someone plucking a massive harp string underground.
Then the world tore open.
It was not a crack. Not an explosion. It was a... fold.
One moment the world was solid. The next, it was peeling, a shimmer running down the alley ahead like a mirror being split by an unseen blade.
Arlen's breath hitched. Instinct told him to run — far, fast, anywhere but there.
But he didn't. He stepped closer.
The rift widened, swirling with colors too deep for human understanding. Blues that smelled like burnt honey. Yellows that whispered of lost oceans. A thousand worlds glimpsed through a tear no wider than a door.
And in the center of it all: a voice.
"Witness."
Arlen staggered back. "What—?"
The voice pressed into his mind like a hot iron, burning away questions before he could form them.
"Witness, you have been called. You will see. You will not act."
"No, no, wait—!" Arlen tried to run, but his body moved as if in syrup. The rain had slowed. The world had slowed.
Only the rift remained fast, its hunger pulling him forward.
The last thing he saw before the rift swallowed him was the dim neon glow of the bookstore sign.
Darkness.
Silence.
A heartbeat — his own — pounding against the void.
Arlen opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast marble hall, stretching into horizons unseen. Pillars thicker than skyscrapers rose around him, crowned with carvings that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Above: no ceiling. Only a sky roiling with black storms and golden cracks.
In front of him, seated upon a throne made of shattered hourglasses, was a figure.
It — he — she? — wore a cloak stitched from the night itself, galaxies blinking from its folds. Where a face should have been, there was only a shifting, crackling mass of white fire.
The Witness King.
Arlen knew the name without being told. Knowledge poured into him like a river into dry soil, ancient and indifferent.
"Wh-what is this?" Arlen whispered. His voice echoed endlessly.
"This is the Atrium of Echoes," the figure intoned. "You have been Chosen, Arlen Vance of the Broken Line."
"I didn't ask for this!" Arlen shouted. His heart thundered. He stumbled backward, but found no end to the marble hall.
The Witness King tilted its head. "None do."
Arlen shook his head. "I don't understand. Chosen for what?"
"To bear witness."
"To see the unfolding collapse of many worlds."
"To record what must be recorded."
"To never interfere."
The words echoed like gongs against his ribs.
"But why me?"
"Because you are unseen. Because you are small. Because you are... willing."
"I'm not willing!" Arlen snapped. "Send me back! I have... things to do! Rent to pay! I—"
The Witness King rose from the throne. Its form stretched impossibly high, casting Arlen into a tiny, trembling shadow.
"You will witness. You will obey. The rift has chosen you, Arlen Vance. Your story is no longer yours."
Before Arlen could scream, the ground dropped from under him.
He fell.
Through stars. Through endless plains. Through moments plucked from dreams and nightmares.
Falling.
Falling.
Until—
Pain lanced through him.
Grass — rough, damp, and too bright — scratched at his skin. The air smelled of sulfur and sweet wine. Strange, oversized birds cawed overhead, their feathers flashing silver.
Arlen groaned and sat up.
He was in a field. Purple grass stretched to a blood-orange horizon. In the distance, jagged mountains tore at a green sky.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He staggered to his feet. His clothes — damp hoodie, jeans, sneakers — were caked with mud. His messenger bag was gone.
Great.
At least he was alive. For now.
A flicker in the grass caught his eye. Something glimmered at his feet: a thin, silver chain, ending in a broken medallion no bigger than a coin.
He picked it up.
At once, a deep pulse shot up his arm. He gasped, dropping it. But it didn't fall — it hovered, spinning lazily before him.
An inscription carved into the broken metal caught the light:
"Record, but do not bind."
A cruel joke? Or a warning?
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed — a high, hysterical sound. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Stranded in fantasy land with cryptic jewelry."
In the distance, something roared — a sound of pure, animal fury.
Arlen froze.
A plume of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
Instinct screamed at him: Run. Hide. Stay low.
But something else stirred inside him — something new. A thread of defiance. A refusal to be a passive observer.
He wasn't just going to watch.
He was going to do something.
Arlen clenched his fists, feeling the broken medallion's presence thrumming around him.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty field. "Let's break some rules."
And with that, Arlen Vance — Witness, unwilling — took his first step into a world that would tear itself apart to silence him.
The rain fell like knives against the city that night, a sharp, steady hiss that blanketed everything in shadow. The streetlights flickered, choking on the downpour. Arlen Vance tightened his hood and moved faster down the empty sidewalk, cradling a worn-out messenger bag to his chest.
Another miserable Thursday.
The bookstore would close soon. He needed to get there before the manager locked up, or he'd have to wait another week for the special order he'd saved up for. In his pocket, the last of his part-time pay clinked — hardly enough for rent, but just enough for an ancient tome on metaphysical anomalies. It was a stupid luxury, but Arlen couldn't resist.
Maybe it was escapism. Maybe it was something else.
He ducked under an awning and checked his phone. 7:42 PM.
The bookstore closed at 8. If he ran, maybe—
A soft tremor rolled through the ground.
Arlen froze. He glanced around, but no one else was nearby — no one to confirm if it was real. He squeezed the messenger bag tighter. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like someone plucking a massive harp string underground.
Then the world tore open.
It was not a crack. Not an explosion. It was a... fold.
One moment the world was solid. The next, it was peeling, a shimmer running down the alley ahead like a mirror being split by an unseen blade.
Arlen's breath hitched. Instinct told him to run — far, fast, anywhere but there.
But he didn't. He stepped closer.
The rift widened, swirling with colors too deep for human understanding. Blues that smelled like burnt honey. Yellows that whispered of lost oceans. A thousand worlds glimpsed through a tear no wider than a door.
And in the center of it all: a voice.
"Witness."
Arlen staggered back. "What—?"
The voice pressed into his mind like a hot iron, burning away questions before he could form them.
"Witness, you have been called. You will see. You will not act."
"No, no, wait—!" Arlen tried to run, but his body moved as if in syrup. The rain had slowed. The world had slowed.
Only the rift remained fast, its hunger pulling him forward.
The last thing he saw before the rift swallowed him was the dim neon glow of the bookstore sign.
Darkness.
Silence.
A heartbeat — his own — pounding against the void.
Arlen opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast marble hall, stretching into horizons unseen. Pillars thicker than skyscrapers rose around him, crowned with carvings that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Above: no ceiling. Only a sky roiling with black storms and golden cracks.
In front of him, seated upon a throne made of shattered hourglasses, was a figure.
It — he — she? — wore a cloak stitched from the night itself, galaxies blinking from its folds. Where a face should have been, there was only a shifting, crackling mass of white fire.
The Witness King.
Arlen knew the name without being told. Knowledge poured into him like a river into dry soil, ancient and indifferent.
"Wh-what is this?" Arlen whispered. His voice echoed endlessly.
"This is the Atrium of Echoes," the figure intoned. "You have been Chosen, Arlen Vance of the Broken Line."
"I didn't ask for this!" Arlen shouted. His heart thundered. He stumbled backward, but found no end to the marble hall.
The Witness King tilted its head. "None do."
Arlen shook his head. "I don't understand. Chosen for what?"
"To bear witness."
"To see the unfolding collapse of many worlds."
"To record what must be recorded."
"To never interfere."
The words echoed like gongs against his ribs.
"But why me?"
"Because you are unseen. Because you are small. Because you are... willing."
"I'm not willing!" Arlen snapped. "Send me back! I have... things to do! Rent to pay! I—"
The Witness King rose from the throne. Its form stretched impossibly high, casting Arlen into a tiny, trembling shadow.
"You will witness. You will obey. The rift has chosen you, Arlen Vance. Your story is no longer yours."
Before Arlen could scream, the ground dropped from under him.
He fell.
Through stars. Through endless plains. Through moments plucked from dreams and nightmares.
Falling.
Falling.
Until—
Pain lanced through him.
Grass — rough, damp, and too bright — scratched at his skin. The air smelled of sulfur and sweet wine. Strange, oversized birds cawed overhead, their feathers flashing silver.
Arlen groaned and sat up.
He was in a field. Purple grass stretched to a blood-orange horizon. In the distance, jagged mountains tore at a green sky.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He staggered to his feet. His clothes — damp hoodie, jeans, sneakers — were caked with mud. His messenger bag was gone.
Great.
At least he was alive. For now.
A flicker in the grass caught his eye. Something glimmered at his feet: a thin, silver chain, ending in a broken medallion no bigger than a coin.
He picked it up.
At once, a deep pulse shot up his arm. He gasped, dropping it. But it didn't fall — it hovered, spinning lazily before him.
An inscription carved into the broken metal caught the light:
"Record, but do not bind."
A cruel joke? Or a warning?
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed — a high, hysterical sound. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Stranded in fantasy land with cryptic jewelry."
In the distance, something roared — a sound of pure, animal fury.
Arlen froze.
A plume of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
Instinct screamed at him: Run. Hide. Stay low.
But something else stirred inside him — something new. A thread of defiance. A refusal to be a passive observer.
He wasn't just going to watch.
He was going to do something.
Arlen clenched his fists, feeling the broken medallion's presence thrumming around him.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty field. "Let's break some rules."
And with that, Arlen Vance — Witness, unwilling — took his first step into a world that would tear itself apart to silence him.
The rain fell like knives against the city that night, a sharp, steady hiss that blanketed everything in shadow. The streetlights flickered, choking on the downpour. Arlen Vance tightened his hood and moved faster down the empty sidewalk, cradling a worn-out messenger bag to his chest.
Another miserable Thursday.
The bookstore would close soon. He needed to get there before the manager locked up, or he'd have to wait another week for the special order he'd saved up for. In his pocket, the last of his part-time pay clinked — hardly enough for rent, but just enough for an ancient tome on metaphysical anomalies. It was a stupid luxury, but Arlen couldn't resist.
Maybe it was escapism. Maybe it was something else.
He ducked under an awning and checked his phone. 7:42 PM.
The bookstore closed at 8. If he ran, maybe—
A soft tremor rolled through the ground.
Arlen froze. He glanced around, but no one else was nearby — no one to confirm if it was real. He squeezed the messenger bag tighter. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like someone plucking a massive harp string underground.
Then the world tore open.
It was not a crack. Not an explosion. It was a... fold.
One moment the world was solid. The next, it was peeling, a shimmer running down the alley ahead like a mirror being split by an unseen blade.
Arlen's breath hitched. Instinct told him to run — far, fast, anywhere but there.
But he didn't. He stepped closer.
The rift widened, swirling with colors too deep for human understanding. Blues that smelled like burnt honey. Yellows that whispered of lost oceans. A thousand worlds glimpsed through a tear no wider than a door.
And in the center of it all: a voice.
"Witness."
Arlen staggered back. "What—?"
The voice pressed into his mind like a hot iron, burning away questions before he could form them.
"Witness, you have been called. You will see. You will not act."
"No, no, wait—!" Arlen tried to run, but his body moved as if in syrup. The rain had slowed. The world had slowed.
Only the rift remained fast, its hunger pulling him forward.
The last thing he saw before the rift swallowed him was the dim neon glow of the bookstore sign.
Darkness.
Silence.
A heartbeat — his own — pounding against the void.
Arlen opened his eyes.
He was standing in a vast marble hall, stretching into horizons unseen. Pillars thicker than skyscrapers rose around him, crowned with carvings that shifted when he wasn't looking directly at them.
Above: no ceiling. Only a sky roiling with black storms and golden cracks.
In front of him, seated upon a throne made of shattered hourglasses, was a figure.
It — he — she? — wore a cloak stitched from the night itself, galaxies blinking from its folds. Where a face should have been, there was only a shifting, crackling mass of white fire.
The Witness King.
Arlen knew the name without being told. Knowledge poured into him like a river into dry soil, ancient and indifferent.
"Wh-what is this?" Arlen whispered. His voice echoed endlessly.
"This is the Atrium of Echoes," the figure intoned. "You have been Chosen, Arlen Vance of the Broken Line."
"I didn't ask for this!" Arlen shouted. His heart thundered. He stumbled backward, but found no end to the marble hall.
The Witness King tilted its head. "None do."
Arlen shook his head. "I don't understand. Chosen for what?"
"To bear witness."
"To see the unfolding collapse of many worlds."
"To record what must be recorded."
"To never interfere."
The words echoed like gongs against his ribs.
"But why me?"
"Because you are unseen. Because you are small. Because you are... willing."
"I'm not willing!" Arlen snapped. "Send me back! I have... things to do! Rent to pay! I—"
The Witness King rose from the throne. Its form stretched impossibly high, casting Arlen into a tiny, trembling shadow.
"You will witness. You will obey. The rift has chosen you, Arlen Vance. Your story is no longer yours."
Before Arlen could scream, the ground dropped from under him.
He fell.
Through stars. Through endless plains. Through moments plucked from dreams and nightmares.
Falling.
Falling.
Until—
Pain lanced through him.
Grass — rough, damp, and too bright — scratched at his skin. The air smelled of sulfur and sweet wine. Strange, oversized birds cawed overhead, their feathers flashing silver.
Arlen groaned and sat up.
He was in a field. Purple grass stretched to a blood-orange horizon. In the distance, jagged mountains tore at a green sky.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He staggered to his feet. His clothes — damp hoodie, jeans, sneakers — were caked with mud. His messenger bag was gone.
Great.
At least he was alive. For now.
A flicker in the grass caught his eye. Something glimmered at his feet: a thin, silver chain, ending in a broken medallion no bigger than a coin.
He picked it up.
At once, a deep pulse shot up his arm. He gasped, dropping it. But it didn't fall — it hovered, spinning lazily before him.
An inscription carved into the broken metal caught the light:
"Record, but do not bind."
A cruel joke? Or a warning?
Arlen shoved his hands into his pockets and laughed — a high, hysterical sound. "Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Stranded in fantasy land with cryptic jewelry."
In the distance, something roared — a sound of pure, animal fury.
Arlen froze.
A plume of black smoke rose beyond the hills.
Instinct screamed at him: Run. Hide. Stay low.
But something else stirred inside him — something new. A thread of defiance. A refusal to be a passive observer.
He wasn't just going to watch.
He was going to do something.
Arlen clenched his fists, feeling the broken medallion's presence thrumming around him.
"Alright," he muttered to the empty field. "Let's break some rules."
And with that, Arlen Vance — Witness, unwilling — took his first step into a world that would tear itself apart to silence him.