As Ronon Atreus stepped out into the warm afternoon light, his senses were overwhelmed with memories—familiar sights, sounds, and smells from a life he thought was long gone. The village of Lormund stretched before him, bustling with activity as preparations for the Harvest Moon Festival were in full swing. Villagers moved about with joyful energy, carrying bundles of wheat, baskets of fruit, and strings of decorations. The laughter of children echoed in the streets, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted from nearby homes.
It was all as he remembered it, yet everything felt different. Every face, every corner of the village, was a reminder of what would come. Ronon could feel the weight of the future on his shoulders, though no one else around him seemed aware of the darkness looming on the horizon.
"Ronon! Over here!"
The deep, familiar voice shook him from his thoughts. Turning toward the sound, Ronon saw his father, Marcus Atreus, standing by a cart loaded with supplies. His heart caught in his chest. Seeing his father alive and well, tall and strong, was like seeing a ghost. The grizzled warrior who had raised him and fought beside him was now standing there, twenty years younger, completely unaware of the fate that awaited him.
"You're late as usual," Marcus called with a teasing grin, waving him over. His dark hair was streaked with only the faintest traces of gray, and his face was unscarred by the battles to come.
Ronon walked over, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "Sorry, I... overslept," he replied, his voice thick with the weight of everything he couldn't say.
Marcus clapped him on the back with a chuckle. "Overslept? Sounds like someone stayed up too late drinking with the lads last night."
Ronon forced a smile, nodding. He didn't have the heart to explain that he had spent the night reliving two decades of battle-hardened memories in the body of his younger self.
"Well, never mind that," Marcus said, picking up a crate. "There's work to be done. We've got to get these supplies to the square before the festival starts. Your mother's already there, making sure everything's in place."
The mention of his mother made Ronon's chest tighten. Elara Atreus, his mother, was still alive too. He hadn't even had time to process that yet. The thought of seeing her again after so long made him feel both overjoyed and sorrowful at the same time.
Ronon took the crate from his father's hands and followed him toward the village square, trying to focus on the task at hand. But his mind kept drifting to what was to come. The festival tonight would be a joyous event, just as it had been in his youth. But within a year, tragedy would strike.
The memory of that fateful day played out in his mind like a nightmare. A raid by northern marauders had come unexpectedly, devastating Lormund and taking the lives of many, including his father. That attack had been the catalyst for Ronon's transformation from an idealistic young man to a hardened warrior bent on revenge. But now... now he had the chance to prevent it all.
"Father," Ronon began cautiously as they walked, "have you heard any news from the north? Any word of the northern tribes?"
Marcus glanced at him, a bit surprised by the question. "The northern tribes? Not much. They've been quiet for years now, ever since the last peace talks. Why do you ask?"
Ronon hesitated, unsure of how much he could say without sounding insane. "Just a feeling. I thought we might hear more from them soon."
Marcus shrugged. "Maybe. But we're a long way from the border, son. Whatever trouble those tribes are stirring up, it won't reach us here."
Ronon clenched his jaw. He knew better. Trouble was coming, and it would reach them sooner than anyone expected. He had to find a way to convince his father without revealing the impossible truth.
As they reached the square, Elara Atreus spotted them and waved, her warm smile lighting up her face. Ronon's breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. She looked exactly as he remembered—kind, graceful, and with a sharp intelligence in her eyes.
"Ronon! You're finally up," she teased, walking over to embrace him. "You missed all the morning preparations. I hope you're ready to make up for lost time."
Ronon hugged her tightly, unable to find words. He had lost her too, years ago, and now she was here, alive, standing in front of him.
"Don't squeeze the life out of the boy," Marcus joked, though he gave Ronon a curious look. "He's been acting strange all day."
Elara laughed and let Ronon go, giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Come on, we've still got work to do. The festival won't set itself up."
As his parents walked ahead, talking and laughing, Ronon lingered behind, watching them with a mixture of longing and dread. He had a second chance—a chance to change the course of history. But how? How could he alter events without revealing the impossible truth of his return? And even if he could change things, would it be enough to stop the tide of darkness that was destined to come?
The weight of his past—and his future—hung over him like a sword poised to fall. Ronon Atreus had been given another life, but with it came a terrible responsibility. This time, he would not fail. He couldn't.
The fate of his family, his village, and the entire kingdom depended on it.