“You are not from this world.”

The words clung to my mind like wet cobwebs, each syllable sticking and pulling as if trying to drag me somewhere I didn’t want to go. For a moment, I didn’t even blink. The whole stronghold was awash in the amber light of sunset, every face watching like they were waiting for me to explode into feathers or burst into flame.

A sudden smack across my back snapped the air from my lungs. I doubled over, coughing, the sting blooming across my spine like molten iron. The tall, broad-shouldered woman who had hauled me in here was apparently a firm believer that blunt force trauma was a universal cure for confusion.

If birthday slaps back home were a polite tap on the shoulder, this was an eight-out-of-ten earthquake. I could almost feel her handprint burned into my skin.

Right. Of course. Otherworlders popping out of nowhere—perfectly normal. In my novel, anyway.

I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, each attempt scraping like sandpaper over stone. No surprise. In war, water was worth more than gold, and thirst made for an easy leash.

One of the other women—a lean, sharp-eyed one—stepped forward and pressed a small bronze cup into my hands. It was laughably tiny, barely a mouthful, but I drained it like a dying man.

God. I’d never tasted anything so good.

I lowered my head in thanks—half genuine gratitude, half survival instinct.

“Yes,” I rasped. “I’m from another world… I guess.”

Not a lie. Not the full truth either.

The elder seated in the center, wrinkles carved deep around eyes like polished obsidian, exhaled. The air seemed to tighten, pressing against my ribs. Weapons shifted in the corners of my vision, hands brushing hilts.

One of the elders to her right spoke, voice low and steady.

“Why now, of all times? After the war is over, after the tragedies have passed…”

The tension wrapped around me like a vice. Blades tilted toward me—just slightly, just enough to remind me that they could be in my ribs before I finished a sentence.

The central elder fixed me with her gaze.

“What do you think of this situation? And what do you want?”

What do I think? I think you’re all tragic side characters in my plot, lady. But somehow I doubted that would go over well.

“I think… there was a war,” I said slowly, “and I want to go home.”

Her eyes narrowed. Murmurs passed between the elders like a jury deciding on a verdict. Finally, the one on the far left stood.

“From tomorrow, you will work to rebuild. You will be under constant watch.”

Fantastic. My privacy had been stolen by my readers before, and now by spear-wielding Ladies.

The meeting ended without fanfare. The others drifted away like mist, and I was dragged outside before I could process what had just happened.

They called this place a stronghold, but it was just a village of weathered tents huddled near the forest. No walls. No gates. Not even a token fence. If this was a fortress, then my old apartment was a castle. On my way I saw many ladies making weapons or clothes. Some were chatting while others were practicing for battle.

Two guards—my new shadows—led me to a tent at the far edge. Prime location if your idea of safety involved being eaten first by any wild animal that wandered in.

The air was damp with pine and loam, the night alive with the faint clang of metal somewhere deep in the camp. My mind wandered back to the worldbuilding I’d planned years ago for this place—no magic, no machines, just hard-earned survival. I’d written these people into being. Now I was living with them.

A sharp cuff to the cheek brought me back.

“Sleep,” one of the guards said flatly. “We can’t babysit you all night.”

Point taken. Lore drop could wait.

The tent was empty, barely big enough for two people. The only light came from a dying lamp. A thin carpet lay on the ground, scratchy and cold. I lay down without complaint. I can't even start to complain with how bad it was compared to my bed.

Sleep claimed me the instant I lay down.

Then—battlefield.

A sea of corpses stretching to the horizon. Blood pooling in the mud. Missing limbs. Torn eyes. Entrails spilling like rotten ropes.

One man stood among them, motionless.

Every ruined head turned toward him in perfect, unnatural unison.

They stared.

Their mouths began to open—

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I woke screaming, drenched in sweat, heart pounding against my ribs.

Two guards burst in, weapons raised. They froze at the sight of me trembling, pale, shivering like a stray caught in a downpour. One turned to the other.

“Bring the boy. He knows what to do.”

The second vanished instantly. The first knelt beside me, voice calm but laced with something unspoken.

“Everything will be fine. Just wait.”

It wasn’t the kind of reassurance you got from someone unacquainted with fear. This was the voice of a survivor.

Minutes later, he arrived.

A boy no older than twelve, with ocean-blue eyes and a gaze far older than his years. His white shirt and blue shorts looked strangely clean for this world. Without a word, he sat beside me as if we’d known each other forever.

“Breathe,” he said. “Close your eyes. Think of something that makes you feel safe.”

I obeyed. Slowly, the shaking faded, though the fear still clung like a shadow. His presence alone made it bearable. After I was normal both the guards left.

It was almost funny. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one comforting him?

Before I could speak, a faint chuckle drifted in from outside the tent. The boy didn’t react, but I froze.

It wasn’t from the guards.

In English, I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Samraaditya. You know Prakrit, right?”

Kind of. In this world, Prakrit and Latin were the main tongues, and I’d been nerdy enough to research both while writing the novel.

“Yes,” I said. “Sort of.”

Outside, the guards’ voices carried through the canvas.

“…check him tomorrow… take him to her… Angel of the Field… the Mirrorless Oracle…”

“No, to Diana.”

“Aren’t they the same person?”

“Yes. Her real name is Diana.”

The name hit me like a stone sinking in cold water. Diana. I knew her. Very well.

“Do you know this Diana?” I asked quietly. Knowing what his reply would be.

Samraaditya’s serious mask cracked into a warm smile. For the first time, he looked like a child.

“She’s my mom.”

Special note:

Even if he didn't kill anyone his hands were more bloodied. Not because of sword but because of pen.