Fourteen years in that other world— that other Earth that mirrored his own in so many ways despite its lack of magic, and Hastur was finally back.

He’d never been prone to bouts of sentimentality but Hastur felt himself overcome by a wave of emotion all the same. Foremost was relief at finally finding himself home among the familiar after so long in a foreign land— but there was regret, too. Hastur had been through war on a scale the people of his home world couldn’t begin to imagine then gone on to build himself an empire among Detroit’s rapidly expanding criminal underground.

He’d been living like a lord until it had all come crumbling down.

The sound of pursuit behind him spurred Hastur into motion once more and he took off running— pausing just long enough in the mouth of an alleyway to drag on his boots before the pavement could cut his feet to shreds. His shirt and jacket he shrugged into on the move while he looked for a landmark to tell him where he was.

There was no doubt in his mind that this was Vorslav, his hometown and capital of Fane, southernmost duchy in the kingdom of Tyrov— he’d dreamed of that familiar skyline with its intricately painted onion-domed roofs while he was gone. He’d looked at them every day of his life until fourteen years ago when he’d mysteriously woken up in the body of one Michael Smith in a world that was not his own.

That said, fourteen years was a long time and cities changed almost as much as people did— plus, it wasn’t as if Hastur knew every street of his home town…

He wasn’t lost, of course. He just… didn’t recognize where he was, precisely— but the more he looked around the more Hastur was able to narrow it down. He was definitely in Hightown, judging by the size of the houses, but still a decent ways from the ducal castle up on the hill where it overlooked the city and the harbor below. That meant west Hightown where the lesser nobility and some wealthier merchants lived so he needed to head east and south if he wanted to make it to the docks.

Hastur rounded a street corner and narrowly avoided bowling over one man, but plowed directly into another with a startled grunt as they went down in a tangle of limbs. Hastur was tall and heavily muscled and while the man he landed on was just as tall— he was significantly thinner.

Hastur’s weight landing on his chest drove a strangled wheeze from the stranger, but before Hastur could even consider apologizing, someone behind him shouted, “Here! He’s here!”

The thunder of boots and rattling armor made Hastur’s heart lurch and he scrambled to get to his feet, but found himself unexpectedly held in place when a pair of large, finely-boned hands grabbed the front of his coat with surprising strength. Before Hastur could even put together what was happening, the stranger flung him to the side and rolled until suddenly he was on top, pinning the heavier man in place with a very efficient hold.

“Hey! Come on—” Hastur tried to object as he tried, and failed, to get free. It was only then he realized that his body wasn’t in quite the same shape he’d left it in, even taking into account the fourteen year interim. He was weak— winded, even, after only a brief run…

Just what the hell has Mike been up to in my body?

“Hold still or you will be fined for resisting arrest,” the man holding Hastur down said in a clipped tone, eyes cool and expression collected as he stared down into his captive’s face.

Hastur blinked and actually hesitated for a moment— not because he was afraid of the city watch, but because he’d finally gotten a good look at his captor’s face. To call him beautiful was an understatement, though there was a roughness around his edges that kept the man from looking like the marble sculpture he might have otherwise. The man’s hair was a rare shade of platinum blond one rarely saw in either world Hastur had dwelled, which he wore pulled back from his angular face. His eyes had a cunning, feline quality that made Hastur’s heart flip when they met his own and despite staring into them deeply for a long moment the man still couldn’t say just what color they were.

Two more members of the city watch arrived and the first of them offered a slim pair of engraved cuffs to the man practically sitting on Hastur’s chest— who immediately used them to bind his wrists together.

“Can’t you at least buy me a drink, first?” Hastur groused as the magic imbued into the cuffs hummed to life— a fine vibration against the skin of the man’s wrists. The cuffs themselves didn’t look like much— even in his diminished state Hastur could have broken them given something hard to hit them against and a willingness to bite down on the pain, but he knew better than to try. The magical force required to break the spell on them would probably fry his arms clean off before the cuffs broke, so it was the key held by their owner or nothing at all if Hastur wanted his freedom.

That or a mage that specialized in what boiled down to magical lock-picking but those weren’t the kind of person you just found standing around on a street corner.

Hastur’s comment was ignored by the watchman as he got to his feet then used his hold on the cuffs to drag Hastur to his own.

“That man is wanted by Count Tsarkaya, hand him over,” one of the guards that had pursued Hastur from the manor demanded. He was a man of impressive stature— broad in the shoulders with a face so square it was practically an edifice, dressed head to toe in heavy armor. It was no wonder he and his compatriots had only just caught up, lugging all that gear around.

If not for his unfortunate encounter with an (unjustly handsome) off-duty watchman Hastur would have gotten away scott-free, he mused wryly to himself. He cast a sidelong glance at the man that had caught him and found him staring down the guard, eyes narrowed as he took his measure. At that moment, the sun shone through the scattered clouds and bathed the scene in warm, golden light to lend the watchman an ethereal glow.

For just a moment he looked like something out of a painting, or a figure of living glass stepped free from the stained-glass windows of the holy temple. But then light faded and reality returned to their little corner of the world, bringing Hastur’s good sense when it came.

The watchmen and the guards were locked in a heated argument, he realized belatedly. “It’s nice to feel wanted, but if its all the same to the count, I’ll just be on my way and never darken his doorway again. Least I can do,” he offered helpfully.

Unfortunately, all it earned him was an ugly look from all parties involved, both of whom returned to ignoring him in favor of arguing further.

“I am Reeve Naum Branimir and I am taking this man into custody for disturbing the peace. If the count would like to press charges, he may send word to the central watch office.”

Hastur winced. Reeves were basically police detectives but with more clout— able to serve as judge, jury, and executioner on the spot if the situation demanded it. Things got more complicated when nobility were involved, though, especially if the reeve in question didn’t have noble backing of their own. The fact that Hastur didn’t recognize the reeve’s family name didn’t bode well for his ability to refuse the count’s wishes.

The square-faced guard reached for his sword and something in the air shifted uncannily around the reeve. It wasn’t anything physical like a change in the wind or a drop in temperature— it was much closer to a sense of being watched, like the force of ten thousand eyes all turning to a single target and Hastur was caught in the cross-fire.

The man flinched reflexively, hair standing on end when Naum’s lips moved soundlessly around a word Hastur couldn’t hear. It was like the man had somehow managed to speak unfiltered silence into the noise of the world. Being so close to the phenomenon made Hastur’s ears ache but he didn’t have time to think on it as lightning cut an arc between the reeve and the advancing guards. It did not strike them, but it did burn a line in the cobblestone pavement scant inches from their feet and brought the men up short with a startled yell.

“He’s a caster?” one of the guards demanded, wary now, verging on frightened while their leader stared the reeve down with a furious scowl.

He was sweating, though, and Hastur couldn’t blame him.

Casters were rare— human shaped forces of nature mostly born amongst Tyrov’s nobility thanks to generations of careful breeding. Those casters common-born often found themselves forcefully ‘adopted’ by noble families looking to reintroduce or maintain magic in their bloodlines; how well these beneficiaries were treated varied widely depending on the noble family and the child’s aptitude, however.

Hastur had no idea which Naum Branimir might be, but the reeve looked completely un-phased as he maintained a firm hold on Hastur’s cuffs and stared down the guard he had just blatantly threatened. All around them, people were fleeing the scene, though Hastur noted more than a few people watching from between the curtains in the windows of nearby buildings.

Sweat trickling down his spine under his shirt, Hastur wished he could join them. He’d rather be dodging tank-fire in trenches again than standing next to an unfamiliar caster.

At least you could always tell which way a tank was aiming— and it only had one way of blowing you up.