Re: An Age of Ashes

The roar of jet engines reverberated in Captain Elias Carter's chest, a familiar, comforting hum that had accompanied him through thousands of missions. He sat in the cockpit of his F-22 Raptor, the sleek aircraft cutting through the air at unimaginable speeds over the South China Sea. Below, the endless blue stretched out to the horizon, while above, the sun hung low in the sky, painting the clouds with hues of orange and purple.

Elias' fingers danced over the controls with practiced ease. His mind, honed through years of service in the U.S. Air Force, was already plotting his next moves, calculating the trajectory of his jet, anticipating the enemy's tactics. But in the span of a single heartbeat, that world shattered.

A flash of red light—a missile, tracking directly for him—blazed across his peripheral vision. The cockpit alarm screamed, a shrill, high-pitched noise that clawed at his nerves. His heart pounded in his chest, a primal instinct flickering to life as his mind shifted into survival mode.

He yanked the control stick hard to the right, hoping to evade, but it was already too late. The missile collided with the tail of the jet, sending shockwaves of heat and force throughout the fuselage. The world erupted in a cacophony of twisting metal and blinding white light. A searing, suffocating pain shot through Elias' body, a deep, fiery burn that left him gasping for breath as the world around him spun out of control.

The cockpit, once a sleek, well-oiled machine of precision, became a tomb. The smell of burning fuel and melted plastic filled his nostrils, acrid and nauseating. Elias gritted his teeth as the pain in his side intensified. His hand clutched the ejector lever, but it was too late—he had no time for such an instinctual reaction.

Everything went black.

The next moment, Elias found himself not falling, but floating. The pain receded, replaced by an eerie calmness. The harsh winds, the roaring of engines, the sounds of the aircraft breaking apart—they were gone. A silence so complete that it felt unnatural.

For a long while, he drifted in that void, detached from reality. There was no sense of time, no sense of place, only an endless expanse of nothing. His body, though aching and broken, felt strangely weightless, untethered to the gravity of existence.

Then, slowly, faintly, he became aware of a sensation—a pulling, a tugging, like hands reaching out to him, pulling him from one world into another.

The blackness faded, and the bright, blinding light gave way to a soft, golden glow. Elias blinked, his eyelids heavy as if weighted by centuries. His vision swam, and the air around him felt dense, thick with the kind of humidity he had never known—oppressive, almost suffocating.

He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt sluggish, as if they'd been encased in lead. The sensation of the air was wrong. The heat was wrong. The smell of burning fuel, once sharp and metallic, was replaced by something earthy, musky, with an undertone of something faintly floral—flowers he couldn't name, but ones that seemed strangely familiar, as if they had been in his childhood memories.

When his eyes finally adjusted, Elias—no, Adrian—found himself in a room unlike anything he had ever seen. The walls were stone, rough-hewn and cold to the touch. The furnishings were old, but finely made—rich tapestries draped over a chaise lounge, heavy wooden beams supporting a ceiling that seemed far too high. Candlelight flickered from sconces, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. The smell of burning wax filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of something else—something sweet, like honey, and something smoky, like a campfire at dusk.

He took a deep breath, his chest rising with an unfamiliar weight, the air thick with the perfume of something that didn't belong in a modern world. His mind recoiled as he tried to piece together what was happening, but his thoughts were clouded by a growing sense of panic.

Where was he?

His hand instinctively reached to adjust the control panel in front of him, but there was nothing but thick, opulent cloth beneath his fingers. A pillow? His breath quickened.

The world around him didn't make sense. The warmth of the room, the old-world craftsmanship of the furniture—it felt like he was no longer in the future. He wasn't surrounded by the sterile, clinical environment of the military. No longer could he hear the low hum of modern technology or see the precision of fighter jets soaring above. Instead, the space around him was drenched in age, in a time where fire and steel were the weapons of choice. His senses were assaulted by the richness of history.

A sound, soft and melodic, drifted into his ears. A woman's voice. Familiar, yet foreign.

"Adrian?" she asked, her tone gentle, yet laced with concern. "You've returned from your travels early."

Adrian's heart skipped a beat, his mind reeling as he fought against the weight of the impossible situation unfolding before him. His gaze shot toward the doorway, where a woman stood—a figure in an elegant gown that shimmered faintly in the dim light, her eyes soft and expectant.

He could barely make sense of her presence. How could this be real? His heart beat faster, the heavy, rhythmic thud filling his ears as his fingers trembled.

"You've been unwell for several days," she continued, stepping closer to him, her delicate steps falling like the faintest brush of wind. "Perhaps you should rest."

He blinked, trying to respond, but the words caught in his throat. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. The weight of his unfamiliar body seemed to pull him further from his previous life.

Who was this woman? Why did she call him Adrian?

He opened his mouth to speak but could only manage a rasping, broken whisper. "Who... Who am I?"

Her eyes flickered with a mix of sadness and confusion. "Adrian von Rabenfeld, my lord. You're home."

Adrian's mind screamed at the foreignness of the name. It felt wrong, disconnected, as if he were trapped in a nightmare, a memory that didn't belong to him. And yet, something about it resonated—a deep, unsettling feeling that he was supposed to be Adrian, that this world of stone and candlelight, of politics and warfare, was his to command.

As the woman approached him, the faintest trace of lavender mixed with something sharper, like the earthy smell of damp wood. The warmth in the air, the softness of her voice—it all swirled together, and for a fleeting moment, Adrian felt his heart skip a beat.

But it wasn't his heart anymore. It was the heart of someone else—a man of power, of history, a man whose life had already been written, whose destiny was already set.

The world outside was waiting, and Adrian von Rabenfeld would need to figure out where he fit into it.

Adrian's mind whirled. The more he tried to grasp onto the reality of the situation, the more it slipped through his fingers, like water through clenched fists. His breath was shallow as his chest tightened, suffocating under the weight of confusion. He tried to stand, but his legs—weak and unsteady—betrayed him, forcing him to clutch the edge of the couch to stop himself from falling.

Helene's eyes flashed with concern, but she remained poised, as if this was a routine occurrence for her. "My lord," she said, her voice steady, "I'll call for a physician."

"No," Adrian rasped, shaking his head slowly, his thoughts fragmented. "No physician. I'm… fine." But even as he said the words, they felt hollow. His mind was anything but fine.

Helene's brow furrowed, and she stepped forward, her hands clasped in front of her like a noblewoman who knew how to maintain composure even in the most distressing of circumstances. But there was something else in her expression, something deeper—a flicker of recognition, perhaps, or maybe doubt, that betrayed a memory she was struggling to place.

"Adrian…" she whispered again, as if the name were a prayer on her lips. She moved to help him stand, but Adrian pulled away, pushing himself to his feet unsteadily. He needed to get a grip. He needed to make sense of this madness, of the life that now seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

The room felt oppressive, closing in on him with its dim light and thick air. The faint scent of burning wax, like a memory from childhood, mixed with the musty, earthy undertones of the stone walls. His skin prickled with the warmth of the room, the heat from the fire crackling softly in the hearth across the room. There were no windows to let in the cool breeze he had grown accustomed to. It was as if the world outside was a distant echo, muffled and forgotten.

A thousand questions collided in his mind. How had he gotten here? What had happened to his fighter jet? Was this a dream? A nightmare? Or was he… somewhere else entirely?

"Where am I?" he asked hoarsely, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. The words didn't sound like something a modern soldier would say—no, they sounded like a man who had lived in a different age, a man who had known nothing but war and politics.

Helene hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides as if she were holding something back. She met his gaze, her eyes softening as though searching for the right words. "You're at home, my lord. The Duchy of Rabenfeld," she said, as if the name should mean something to him, as if it should evoke some kind of recognition.

The duchy. Adrian repeated the word in his mind, trying to fit it into the puzzle of his reality, but nothing clicked. He felt the heavy weight of responsibility press down on his chest, an invisible force that threatened to crush him. He couldn't stay here. He needed to get out.

"I need to see…" he trailed off, his thoughts fractured. His eyes darted around the room, looking for something familiar, something to ground him, but all he saw were relics from an age he couldn't place—furniture that looked as if it belonged in a medieval court, tapestries depicting scenes of long-forgotten battles, portraits of stern-faced men in armor who seemed to watch him with unblinking eyes.

The sound of heavy boots echoed from the hallway outside the door. Adrian's head snapped toward the sound, his military instincts kicking in. His heart pounded in his chest as the noise grew louder, the unmistakable rhythm of soldiers' footsteps. He could feel the pressure in his chest, the sense of urgency that had always defined his career. A gut reaction—a survival instinct—told him that something was wrong.

Helene caught the look in his eyes and stepped back slightly. "You… you should rest," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "There is much to discuss, but it is not the time. Your duties will resume soon enough."

But Adrian couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen, something that would tear the fragile veneer of civility from this place and expose the chaos underneath. His breath quickened, the oppressive weight of the room bearing down on him, but he fought to steady himself. This was no time for panic.

"Who's coming?" Adrian asked, his voice rough but demanding.

Helene didn't answer immediately, her eyes flicking toward the door. A shadow loomed in the hallway outside, the silhouette of a tall figure framed in the doorway. He wore a dark, ornately embroidered cloak and a scowl that seemed permanently etched into his face. His eyes locked onto Adrian, piercing and cold.

The man's voice, gravelly and commanding, broke the tension. "Adrian, my son, I see you've finally recovered." His words were heavy with authority, yet laced with something colder—an unspoken challenge, an expectation that Adrian should understand something he didn't.

Adrian's mind scrambled. "Son?" The word barely escaped his lips. He didn't feel like anyone's son. Not in this world, not in this place.

The man stepped into the room, the boots that had echoed down the hallway now silent on the stone floor. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and radiated an intimidating presence—an older man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, with a face lined with experience and the weight of countless battles fought. His eyes were sharp, like a hawk's, observing everything, missing nothing.

Adrian felt a sickening realization settle in his stomach. The man was his father—his father. A man who must have once ruled over the Duchy of Rabenfeld. His mind raced, trying to recall anything that could connect him to this figure—anything that might explain how he had ended up here. But nothing. Only fragments of a life that had no place in this world.

"Are you well, my son?" the man asked again, his voice softer now, but still carrying an edge of something far more dangerous. "I trust that you understand the importance of this moment."

Adrian swallowed hard, the confusion in his mind thickening. He looked to Helene, but she remained silent, her face unreadable. His father's gaze was now fixed on him, and Adrian could feel the weight of that gaze—an expectation, a demand for recognition.

"I don't understand," Adrian said, his voice hoarse. The words felt inadequate, too weak for the storm of thoughts battering against his mind. "I'm not—who you think I am."

The older man's eyes narrowed, the mask of authority slipping slightly. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I'm… I'm not Adrian von Rabenfeld," Adrian said, his voice trembling despite his efforts to maintain composure. The words felt like a confession, a betrayal of whatever reality he had been thrust into. "I don't know who I am in this world. But I'm not your son."

There was a long pause, heavy with tension. The older man stood motionless, his face unreadable. Then, with a sudden, surprising calmness, he nodded, as if the admission had been expected.

"Very well," he said quietly, his voice now almost resigned. "We will see how long that lasts. We shall see how long you can hide from the truth."

Adrian's heart pounded in his chest as the weight of those words settled over him. Whatever he thought this place was—whatever reality he had imagined for himself—it was slipping away, unraveling. He had no choice now but to play the role he had been given, to fight for a place in this new world, even if it meant becoming the very thing he feared most: a man out of time.

And as his father's gaze lingered on him, Adrian could feel the world around him begin to shift once more.

The older man's lips twitched in what could have been a smirk or a sneer, but it was quickly masked. "We'll speak more of this later," he said, his voice clipped and final. He turned, his heavy cloak swirling as he strode towards the door. Before leaving, he paused and glanced back at Adrian over his shoulder.

"Remember, son, duty comes before all else. This is not a world where one can afford weakness." His voice carried the weight of a command, an ancient order that ran deeper than blood or history. Then, without waiting for a response, he left, his boots echoing down the corridor, slowly fading into silence.

Adrian's pulse hammered in his ears, the words lingering like smoke in the air. Duty. Weakness.

Those were not the terms he understood. His mind, still caught in the vestiges of his life as Captain Elias Carter, searched for logic in the madness. The military had always been about discipline, about following orders and trusting in the structure. But this? This was something entirely different.

He staggered toward the stone table beside the chaise, gripping its edge as his body swayed. His reflection in the polished surface was pale and unfamiliar. The man staring back at him was dressed in rich, aristocratic clothing—darker tones of black and deep crimson that marked him as something far removed from the tattered flight suit and helmet he wore before. The face was his, but the eyes—they were different. They were… someone else's.

"Adrian," Helene whispered from across the room, breaking the thick silence that had settled in the wake of his father's departure. "You must regain yourself, my lord. There is little time for confusion."

Adrian slowly turned to face her, blinking hard as if waking from a trance. She was standing by the door now, her posture straight, though there was a softness in her gaze, a care that seemed to cut through the tension.

"You heard him," she continued. "It is expected of you to take up the mantle. The Duchy, your legacy—it is at stake."

He nodded, though his thoughts were far from clear. "The Duchy?" he echoed, the word sounding foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. "But I... I'm not..." He trailed off, struggling to articulate the impossible situation that was unfolding around him. The world he had known—planes, technology, tactics—seemed to evaporate into the ether, leaving him stranded in a realm that had not seen the likes of modern warfare or innovation.

Helene's eyes softened, and she took a step closer. "I know it is difficult," she said gently, "but the truth is that you are now Adrian von Rabenfeld. You are the heir to this land, the Duke's son, and you must rise to meet your destiny."

Adrian von Rabenfeld. The name still felt like an ill-fitting coat, a persona he had not chosen, a life he had not planned. Yet, the weight of it settled deeper into his chest with every passing second. It was undeniable.

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat thickening. What was he supposed to do?

"I don't understand," Adrian finally said, his voice hoarse. "How can I be Adrian von Rabenfeld? How can I—" His breath hitched as his thoughts turned to the jet, the explosion, the pain. "How am I even here?"

Helene's face clouded, her expression wary. She stepped closer again, her delicate fingers hovering just above his arm, as if unsure whether to comfort him or hold him at arm's length. "You were grievously injured, my lord. We found you unconscious in the field outside the castle. Your body—" She paused, eyes darting away for a moment, "—you were broken. We feared the worst."

Adrian's mind raced. Found unconscious? In a field? He could recall only fragments of his final moments—crashing through the sky, the terrible sound of his plane tearing apart. His heart hammered in his chest again, but now it was a different kind of fear that took hold.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, steadying himself. "What happened to me? To my... my life?" He had to know the truth, even if it tore him apart.

Helene's gaze faltered for just a moment, a shadow of something deeper passing through her eyes. But when she spoke, her voice was calm, unyielding. "My lord, your life—your former life, as you put it—is lost to you now. You were reborn here, in this world. As Adrian von Rabenfeld, heir to the Duchy, son of Duke Wilhelm von Rabenfeld. There is no turning back."

Adrian's world spun again. Reborn. He couldn't even process the implications of such a statement. His mind, trained in the methods of military precision and logical thinking, fought against the chaos. "So... this is some kind of dream, then? Some kind of delusion?" His voice trembled, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. "This can't be real."

Helene gave him a long, searching look before answering. "It is real, my lord. The reality of this world is woven into the fabric of your very being now. You will not wake from this. You have only to accept it."

Adrian staggered back, feeling the floor shift beneath him as the truth of her words crashed into him. There was no waking from this. No escape. His mind rebelled against it, unable to fathom how he could be here, in the 17th century, trapped in a world of swords, politics, and ancient wars. There had to be a way out. There had to be—

"Your father will expect you at the council meeting shortly," Helene interrupted, breaking his spiraling thoughts. "The lords are gathering to discuss the matters of the Duchy. It is time for you to take your place at the table."

Adrian stared at her blankly. "A council meeting?"

She nodded. "Yes. The kingdom is in turmoil. There are those who question your ascension to the title. They will demand answers from you. You must be strong."

"Strong?" Adrian repeated, his voice low. How could he be strong in a world he didn't understand?

Helene offered a small, reassuring smile, but there was a tension in her expression. "The Duchy needs you, my lord. And soon, you will understand what that means."

Adrian closed his eyes for a moment, trying to push down the rising wave of panic. I need to be ready. There was no choice. He had to survive in this new world, no matter how impossible it seemed. His military training surged to the surface—adapt, improvise, and overcome.

He opened his eyes, meeting Helene's gaze with resolve. "Lead the way."

And with that, the door to his new reality swung open.