LoreBound

Zayn drifted in a vast expanse of light, weightless and unanchored. The world around him twisted until he found himself gazing down from above, his vision stretching wide over a magnificent island.

From his vantage point, he could see the entire landmass—lush green forests wrapped around the base of a great mountain peak that jutted toward the sky like a stone spear.

The island was encircled by golden sands, with waves crashing in rhythmic motion against the shore. Streams wove through the land, glinting like silver threads in the sunlight. Birds circled overhead, their dark forms casting fleeting shadows across the forest canopy.

His eyes were drawn to the horizon where small ships, primitive but sturdy, breached the waters, slicing through the waves as they approached the island.

Aboard them were figures, too small to make out individually, but numerous enough to fill the decks. As the boats landed, the figures spilled onto the shore, forming lines and carrying supplies inland. 

Suddenly, the world accelerated. The sun zipped across the sky, rising and setting in rapid succession. The people moved with supernatural speed, swarming the land like ants.

Trees fell, huts rose, and fields spread out as the settlers cultivated the soil. Time folded over itself, and the island transformed.

Zayn watched as structures of wood and stone replaced crude shelters, trails became roads, and fishing boats multiplied along the coast. Smoke spiraled from hearths and forges, merging with the sky as generations passed in mere moments.

His vision began to lower, the high vantage slowly descending toward the land. The fast-forwarded scene slowed until everything moved at normal speed.

Zayn's feet met soft sand, and the blur of motion came to a halt. Darkness flickered briefly over his eyes, and when it receded, he stood at the edge of the sea, the waves gently rolling onto the shore.

The cool breeze ruffled his hair, and the smell of salt filled his nostrils. He glanced down, seeing his reflection faintly in the water.

'This isn't what I look like...'

His skin was now tanned, his build leaner and slightly taller. He flexed his hands, unfamiliar with how different he felt. Even his face was extremely different.

He felt strangely disconnected although he could still control himself perfectly.

'I must be in a different body' he concluded.

He pressed his feet into the damp sand, feeling the ground yield slightly beneath him.

"Is this... what a story feels like?" he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crashing waves.

From what he knew, stories were hostile places—worlds filled with danger, chaos, and unpredictable forces. Yet the serenity of the beach clashed with everything he had learned. This place felt... real. The wind, the warmth of the sun, the tang of salt air—it grounded him in a way he hadn't expected.

He turned his gaze back to the sea, letting the calm wash over him until a voice broke the tranquility.

"Bls! Wtye axc yki duiny hpor?"

Zayn shifted his gaze toward the sound. A tall, broad-shouldered man strode down the beach. His skin was the same tanned hue, and his beard, thick and streaked with gray, moved slightly with the breeze. His features mirrored those of the islanders Zayn had seen from above, bearing the same air of rugged strength.

Though his features were more rugged and rough than his own smoother features.

At first, the man's words were unintelligible, spoken in a language Zayn didn't recognize. But as he continued, the words slowly unraveled into the Imperial English he had grown up with, each syllable smoothing into familiar clarity.

"How could you leave your mother alone? Who will care for her if you go running off like this?"

Zayn blinked, uncertain how to respond. The man's tone was stern but not unkind. There was a familiarity in his eyes, a kind of parental weight behind his scolding. 

He didn't know this man, yet something in the way he spoke suggested otherwise.

"Come now," the man added, placing a firm hand on Zayn's shoulder. "Let's return to your mother."

Zayn's eyes drifted down to the rough, calloused hand gripping his shoulder. His gaze hardened, icy and sharp, as if the mere contact had pierced through him.

The man's brow furrowed slightly, but the sudden chill that swept over him caused his fingers to twitch and slip away from the boy's shoulder.

A tense silence hung between them. Zayn turned his head slowly, locking eyes with the man. The older figure stood tall and broad-shouldered, his weathered features framed by a short beard streaked with gray. There was confusion in his expression, while Zayn's remained distant and cold.

After a moment, the man broke the silence. "Is something wrong?"

Zayn sighed and shook his head. "No."

The man lingered for a moment longer, clearly unsettled, but chose not to press further. With a curt nod, he turned and began walking down the beach toward the distant treeline.

Over his shoulder, he called out, "Come along, boy. We shouldn't keep your mother waiting."

Zayn hesitated but ultimately followed. He didn't know where he was, and learning more seemed like the most logical course of action.

The path from the shore to the village was well-trodden, carved through patches of tall grass that swayed lazily in the warm breeze. Palm trees lined the way, their fronds rustling overhead. As they crested a small hill, the village came into view.

Clusters of thatched huts made from wood and dried palm leaves dotted the area, nestled close to one another. Smoke curled lazily from stone fire pits, and villagers moved about with purpose, carrying baskets and chatting in the soft afternoon light. Children dashed between the huts, laughing and chasing each other, while older women strung red and orange cloths between wooden poles, decorating the village.

Zayn's eyes wandered, taking in the details. Small wooden boats were propped along the shore in the distance, and colorful trinkets hung from the huts' entrances. The air smelled of salt and roasted fish. Despite the peaceful nature of the village, there was a hum of excitement. People smiled, exchanged greetings, and worked together as if preparing for something significant.

The man beside him caught his lingering gaze. "It's the festival. You'll see it soon enough. This will be your first."

"Festival?" Zayn asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

The man chuckled, hands resting on his hips. "Aye. The Festival of the Red Flame. It only happens every twenty years."

Zayn looked up at him as he continued. "It's a sacred event. When our people first arrived on this island long ago, it was the Red Flame that lit our path and guarded our nights. Of the Four Great Gods, the Red Flame is the greatest. The only one that protected us after we lost our home."

At the mention of gods, Zayn's expression tightened. His eyes flicked toward the man, but he offered no reaction.

"The Red Flame is a humble god," the man went on, glancing at the cloth banners swaying in the wind. "It could ask for worship every year, but it desires none until the sun burns its brightest red. That is when we celebrate."

Zayn took in the explanation quietly. His focus drifted back to the villagers, watching them with faint curiosity. This gave him at least some understanding of the world he had stepped into, though it still left him wondering what part he was meant to play.

From tidbits he heard here and there in school, Characters went into stories to resolve issues or play roles. If they successfully this the story would conclude and nothing will happen.

If they failed though, well... an Undoing would occur, and from what little he knew, no one would want that to happen.

They reached a small house nestled at the edge of the village. Unlike some of the larger huts, this one was modest but well-kept, with a small garden in the front. The man stepped forward and knocked lightly on the wooden door before pushing it open.

"Come on in, boy," he said, disappearing inside. Zayn lingered on the doorstep for a brief moment before following him in.

Zayn stepped into the house, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior as the door creaked shut behind him. The inside was modest, yet warm—woven reed mats lined the floor, and wooden carvings of sea creatures adorned the walls.

A single hammock hung near the far side of the room, swaying gently with the breeze drifting in through the open windows. Dried herbs dangled from the ceiling, their faint earthy scent blending with the salt of the sea air. 

Zayn's gaze drifted from one detail to the next, cataloging the unfamiliar surroundings. His fingers brushed lightly against the smooth surface of a carved wooden bowl resting on a nearby table. Everything about the home felt lived-in, in yet meticulously kept.

The man who brought him there strode across the room, approaching a woman seated beside the window. Her posture was relaxed, eyes half-lidded as she ran her fingers over what appeared to be finely spun fabric stretched across her lap.

Upon noticing him, she set the fabric aside and rose to her feet, her expression softening as the man wrapped his arms around her in a brief embrace. They exchanged a few words, their voices low and affectionate.

"I found him by the shore," the man said, nodding toward Zayn. "He was just looking at the sea."

The woman's eyes shifted to Zayn, her gaze tender. A gentle smile curved her lips as she stepped forward, cradling her belly with one hand. Her swollen form left little doubt—she was with child. But what struck Zayn more was the resemblance she bore to him, or at least this body.

Her deep-set eyes, the curve of her nose, and the softness of her features mirrored this body's own far more than the man's did.

Zayn's sharp eyes lingered on her, noting the similarity immediately. This woman—this mother—was unmistakably connected to him, unlike the man.

"Come here, little one," she beckoned with a wave of her hand.

He hesitated for a moment but eventually crossed the room toward her. As he approached, she gently took his hand in hers, lifting it to inspect him as if searching for injuries. The warmth of her touch clashed with his cold, indifferent stare, but if she noticed, she gave no sign of it.

"At least you're unharmed," she said softly. "I was worried when you disappeared. Running off like that without a word... What were you doing by the shore?"

Zayn said nothing, his mind blank. He had no explanation for what this body—his body—had been doing before he arrived in this strange place. What answer could he possibly give?

Seeing that no response would come, she simply let out a quiet sigh and glanced over her shoulder at the man. 

"He doesn't seem hurt," she said, lowering Zayn's hand gently. "That's enough for me."

The man crossed his arms, shaking his head. "You're too easy on him. He left you alone in your condition. What if something had happened while he was gone?"

The woman chuckled, brushing the concern aside with a wave of her hand. "Oh, let him be. Can you blame him? The entire village is bustling, and the festival only happens once every twenty years. It must be hard for a boy his age to stay cooped up here with his mother. I'd wager you were the same at his age."

The man scratched his beard, relenting with a faint grin. "Fair enough. I suppose I was."

Zayn listened in silence, observing the exchange between the two with faint detachment. He shifted uncomfortably, the easy atmosphere between them unfamiliar to him. 

Seeing his chance, Zayn took a step back, turning toward the doorway. 

"I'll let him go for now," the woman said knowingly, sensing his desire to leave. "Let him see the preparations for the festival."

The man didn't object, and Zayn quietly slipped out, eager to take in more of this strange world he found himself in.