His body still ached from whatever tore him out of his world. His hands shook — the fingers that weren’t there hours ago now flexing like they'd never left.

But he couldn’t focus on that.

He kept thinking about her voice.

The guards.

The gate.

The blood on his blade.

I was supposed to go back.

He scanned the room again, half-expecting someone to materialize.
Or the walls to start melting.

Nothing. Just wood and stillness.

His eyes landed on a drawer. He opened it with shaky fingers.

Inside: a few scraps of cloth. A folded cloak.
And beneath them — books.

He froze.

"No."

He yanked one out and stared at the cover.

"Elarion"

The letters shimmered faintly. Too clean. Too deliberate. Like it had been waiting for him.

And the next?

“How Powerful Is Julius Minos?”

Kai let out a dry, bitter laugh. The sound barely escaped his throat.

“Is this a joke?”

He hurled both books across the room. They hit the wall with dull, heavy thuds. One bounced. Another split open. Pages fluttered.

"I don’t want a library.
I want a way back.
I want to know if they’re still alive."

He stormed to the door.

Tried the latch.

It creaked open.

A breeze met him — cool, strange. It smelled like wild grass and something electric.

He stepped out.

Sunlight spilled across endless trees. A dense forest, almost too vivid. Sky too blue. Birds too quiet.

Nothing like home.

No smoke.
No fences.
No watchtowers.

But no people either.

Where the hell am I?

He looked back at the cabin — a solitary, wooden box dropped in the middle of nowhere.

There were markings on the outer beams. Circles. Lines. A symbol etched near the doorframe.

Magnolia.

That name again.

Like it followed him here.

The world didn’t look like it needed saving.

But maybe he did.

He stepped off the porch.

The world looked quiet — trees too tall, light too soft — like a painting someone forgot to finish.

He hated it.

Each step into the grass made his teeth clench. It was too gentle. It didn’t press back. Didn’t demand anything.

Back home, even the ground was cruel.
Here, it welcomed him like nothing had ever bled on it.

He scanned the trees, eyes sharp. Looking for signs of people. Sentries. Anything familiar.

Nothing.

Not even a footprint. Just moss and those damn white flowers — magnolias blooming like they owned the place.

He kicked one out of the dirt.
Watched the petals scatter.
Felt no better.

They took me.
They tore me out of my world — out of my fight.
And dumped me here.

He turned back toward the cabin, but even that felt like a joke.

Who built this place?
Why leave books and clothes and quiet?
If they brought me here… why hide now?

“If you’re watching,” he muttered to the sky, “say something.”

Nothing.

Just birds in the distance. The kind that don’t know how to scream.

“You pulled me out of my war and threw me into your garden.
Now what?
You want me to explore?
Play chosen one?”

He spat into the dirt.

“I’m not your story.”

He didn’t know what this place was.
Didn’t care if it was paradise or prison.

He’d find the edge.
Or he’d burn it down.

Either way—

He wasn’t staying quiet.