The smell of blood lingered in the air.
Rael stood at the edge of the battlefield, his boots planted in damp earth, watching as his soldiers moved among the fallen. The bodies had already begun to stiffen, their armor caked in drying crimson, their weapons discarded beside them like broken promises.
It should have felt like victory.
It didn't.
The cheers had already faded, the adrenaline burned away, leaving behind only the low murmur of voices and the rustle of fabric as the wounded were carried back to camp.
The world felt… off.
Small things. Too many things.
He glanced toward a cluster of men cleaning a section of the battlefield. A dark stain marred the dirt beneath them—blood. Except… the blood wasn't spreading.
It wasn't sinking into the soil.
It just… sat there.
Unmoving. Unchanging.
Rael narrowed his eyes.
Then he blinked—
And the stain was gone.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
He had seen it.
Hadn't he?
His fingers twitched at his side. The world was beginning to crack around him, piece by piece. And the worst part?
No one else seemed to notice.
---
The Camp That Wasn't the Same
By the time they returned, the camp was already alive with activity.
The wounded were being treated in hurried motions, the fires were burning hotter than before, and men whispered between themselves, retelling the events of the battle as if trying to cement them into reality.
And yet, something had changed.
Rael moved through the pathways between tents, his eyes sharp, taking everything in.
The camp should have been messier—a place returning from war, where exhaustion and chaos ruled. But instead…
It was too organized.
Tents that had been crooked when they left were now standing perfectly aligned. Footsteps in the dirt, trails left by soldiers earlier that morning, had vanished.
Like the world had… reset.
A man walked past him, rubbing his temple.
"Didn't we already have this fight before?" the soldier muttered under his breath.
Rael's breath hitched. He turned sharply—
But the man was already gone, swallowed into the crowd.
Rael clenched his jaw.
Something was happening.
Something big.
---
A Message From the Enemy
It arrived just before sundown.
A single rider approached the camp. Alone.
Rael stood at the war tent's entrance, arms crossed, watching as the man dismounted.
He was young—too young to be riding into an enemy camp alone. His armor bore the insignia of the Dominion, his tunic dirtied by dust and sweat. And yet, there was no fear in his eyes.
Only certainty.
The guards were tense, hands gripping their weapons, waiting for the command to strike.
Rael held up a hand. "Let him speak."
The young man exhaled slowly. Then, with careful precision, he reached into his coat and pulled out a single folded parchment.
It was sealed with wax.
No insignia. No markings.
Just a single word pressed into the wax in precise lettering: Rael.
Rael stared at it for a long moment.
Then he took it.
He broke the seal. Unfolded the parchment.
Read the message.
His hands went cold.
"We need to talk. Before this war repeats again."
---
The First Cracks in Reality
Rael's breathing slowed.
The words stared back at him, simple yet terrifyingly impossible.
Before this war repeats again.
It wasn't just him.
Someone else knew.
Someone outside of his camp, outside of his army, on the enemy's side.
His grip on the parchment tightened.
Bale stepped closer, glancing at the message over his shoulder. "What does it say?"
Rael hesitated.
For the first time since waking in this world, he didn't know what to say.
Bale frowned, waiting for an answer.
Rael could feel it.
The weight of the camp pressing in. The eyes on his back.
The world waiting.
Waiting for him to decide what was real.
---
The Old Man's Warning
Rael didn't sleep that night.
He sat outside his tent, the note still clutched between his fingers, watching the fires flicker across the camp.
The whispers in his mind wouldn't stop.
"Before this war repeats again."
Over and over, the words circled his thoughts, demanding answers he didn't have.
Then—
A voice.
"You're thinking too loudly."
Rael didn't flinch. He didn't need to turn to know who it was.
The old man sat down beside him, stretching his legs out with a quiet sigh. His staff rested across his lap, the wood worn smooth by time.
Rael exhaled slowly. "You knew this was going to happen."
The old man smiled. "Of course I did."
Rael closed his eyes for a brief second. Then, "What is this war?"
The old man's expression didn't change. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On who's telling the story."
Rael's grip on the parchment tightened. "Someone on the enemy's side knows the truth."
"Do they?" The old man sounded amused. "Or did you simply find someone who remembers… pieces?"
Rael's stomach churned.
The old man leaned back slightly, his voice turning quiet. "Once you start asking questions," he murmured, "the world starts watching."
Rael opened his mouth—
But he stopped.
Something shifted.
Not in the air. Not in the fire.
But in the world itself.
Like a gaze had turned toward him.
A cold, invisible weight pressed against his spine.
It was subtle.
But he felt it.
Like something vast and unseen had just realized he was asking the wrong questions.
The old man's eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Careful, boy," he whispered. "You're looking behind the curtain."
And Rael…
For the first time in his life—the first life, the second, or whatever this existence truly was—felt truly, utterly afraid.