Location: Branhal Time: Late Afternoon –Day 2
The sun sat low in the western sky, casting the village of Branhal in a warm, golden haze. Chickens picked lazily at the dirt paths, and the scent of split pinewood and drying herbs hung on the air. Everything about the village spoke of repetition and routine—safe, cyclical, predictable.
And then there was him.
Alec walked at Mira's side, his pace steady but unhurried, dressed in a patched tunic someone had loaned him, his feet wrapped in coarse linen and leather sandals. He stood taller than most of the men in the village, his shoulders squared with a quiet, unnatural ease.
The people watched him from doorways and windows, whispered as he passed. They didn't speak to him. Not yet. Fear and curiosity circled him like a dog uncertain if it should bark or bite.
Mira gestured toward the center square. "Market stalls go up there every eight-day. Nothing special. Bread, cheese, cloth. Jorren's forge is past that shed. That's where you'll find the iron you wanted."
Alec nodded silently, observing. Every step he took was a sensory stream of data — social cues, speech patterns, materials, tools, posture, all feeding into the deep internal map he was building. These people weren't stupid, just limited by the boundaries of their time. Fear ruled them as much as faith.
They passed a group of children playing with sticks near a well. One boy stared openly at Alec, mouth slightly ajar.
"That's the man from the sky," the boy whispered to his sister.
"Don't stare," the girl hissed, dragging him away.
The Forge
The clang of hammer against iron echoed from the rear of a stone shack, where the heat shimmered in waves and the smell of coal was thick in the air.
Jorren stood bare-chested beside his anvil, pounding a glowing horseshoe into shape. His arms were corded muscle, his face damp with sweat. As Alec and Mira approached, the blacksmith looked up, frowning.
"You're not bleeding anymore," Jorren grunted.
"Would it help if I was?" Alec asked calmly.
"Would make you easier to understand."
Alec looked around the forge. "Do you happen to have a swage block" he asked.
Jorren dropped his arm from a downward strike as he looked at him.
Mira shot Jorren a look. "He wants to see what tools you have. He won't touch anything without asking."
"And what would you know about a blacksmith's tools?" Jorren said harsly, setting the hammer aside.
Alec didn't flinch. "A lot more than necessary."
Jorren stepped closer, arms folded, looking Alec up and down. "You talk like a noble
"I'm none of those," Alec said. "But I do need iron. Clay. Wood. I'm not looking to build a weapon. Not yet."
Jorren barked a short laugh. "You say 'not yet' like you already know you'll have to."
"I know men," Alec said. "And fear breeds conflict. This village is afraid of me."
"They should be," Jorren muttered. "We don't need wars here."
"You'll get them anyway," Alec said quietly. "One way or another. Your world is on the brink."
Jorren's eyes narrowed. "And what world do you think this is?"
"Your world," Alec said. "But not mine."
Jorren stared at him for a while, shook his head and then continued with his task leaving the stranger to his own devices.
Later That Day – Gathering Wood
Mira and Alec walked together through the edge of the village. She carried a basket for herbs. He carried a small bundle of wood over one shoulder, hand-carved by the twins—Dal and Fenn—who trailed a few paces behind, whispering to each other.
"I heard he killed two men with just a look," Dal muttered.
"Don't be stupid," Fenn said. "He ain't magic. He's just strange. That's worse."
Mira called back without turning. "He can hear you. He's not deaf."
Dal flushed red and hurried ahead. "You don't talk like anyone I've met," he said to Alec.
"I'm not like anyone you've met."
"Where you from then?"
Alec paused. "A place where fire doesn't just burn—it powers machines. Where people fly without wings, speak across oceans without sound."
The boys blinked. Mira slowed, glancing at him.
"Sounds like a bard's tale," Fenn said.
Alec stopped walking and crouched, placing the bundle of sticks beside the path. He picked one up, broke it in half, and set two stones beside each other.
He reached for Mira's small flint and struck once, twice.
Sparks danced.
"Now," Alec said, holding the stick, "imagine this fire. But instead of warming hands or boiling soup, it explodes inside a metal chamber, pushing force in one direction so that a cart moves without horses. That's what fire can do."
The twins stared.
Mira narrowed her eyes. "You're not a bard. You're not mad. So what are you?"
Alec didn't answer at first. He dropped the stick and stood.
"I'm a man who's seen the world as it could be. And now I'm in the world as it was. But I remember the bridge between them."
Evening – At the Fire
By the time the sun dipped below the trees, Alec had helped repair a broken axle on an old grain cart, rebalanced a chimney vent, and realigned the blacksmith's bellows for more efficient airflow. He hadn't drawn attention to these acts—they were simply done, like muscle memory. And by nightfall, the villagers began to murmur less with suspicion and more with reluctant curiosity.
He sat near the central firepit now, beside Mira, drinking watered ale from a wooden cup. Jorren watched from across the flames. Garric, the old veteran, lingered in the shadows with arms crossed.
"They're watching you," Mira said.
"They should," Alec replied.
"You fixed more things in a day than half our smiths manage in a month. You think that doesn't rattle people?"
"I didn't come here to rattle them."
"No," she said. "You came here to change them."
He looked at her, surprised. Not many would have seen that yet.
"You want to bring your knowledge here. Why?"
"Because I can't go back," Alec said quietly. "And I refuse to rot in a world that doesn't know what it can become."
Mira didn't speak for a long moment. Then, quietly, "Are you dangerous, Alec?"
He turned to her slowly.
"I'm only dangerous when someone tries to stop me."