The air was thick with the stench of blood, smoke, and the cries of the dying.
Sir Alaric de Montfort, battered and bruised, stood atop the rubble of a shattered wall, his kite shield raised high against a hail of Saracen arrows. His sword, chipped and stained, dripped with the blood of foes and brothers alike. Around him, the city of Jerusalem burned — a holy prize now little more than a tomb of saints.
"Hold the line!" he roared, voice hoarse beneath his mail coif. "For Christ and kingdom!" But the line was broken. His men were dead or fleeing. The enemy surged like a tide. Still, Alaric stood firm.
Then came the arrow — black-feathered, almost silent — and it found the gap between his gorget and helmet. A sharp pain, then warmth. He staggered, dropped to one knee, and looked toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, its dome lit in firelight.
"Forgive me…" he whispered, blood frothing at his lips.
But death did not come
Instead, the ground beneath him cracked. A circle of radiant glyphs pulsed in golden light. The world spun. Screams and fire gave way to silence and mist.
A New World
Alaric awoke to silence — and pain. He lay on cool stone, staring up at an unfamiliar sky filled with twin moons. His armor was still on, but his wounds… gone. He scrambled to his feet, sword drawn, spinning to face—
Children. Villagers. They looked at him in awe, kneeling. A hooded figure stepped forward, an old woman with eyes that glowed faintly.
"You have come, Holy Flame," she said in a trembling voice. "Just as the prophecy foretold."
Alaric stared. The woman spoke not in Latin, nor any Saracen tongue — yet he understood her. Her voice echoed inside his mind.
"Where… am I?"
"The realm of Elarion," she said. "We summoned thee to save us from the Black Host."
Alaric looked around — wooden huts, strange trees, mountains in the distance shaped like swords stabbing the heavens"This is witchcraft," he spat. "Devil's work."
But before he could raise his sword again, the sky turned red. A scream pierced the clouds — deep and inhuman.
Then he saw them — creatures made of shadow and bone charging toward the village, eyes glowing with hateful fire.The old woman turned to him, desperation in her voice. "You must fight, Holy One. Or all is lost."
Alaric gritted his teeth. He did not understand this world. Its gods were foreign. Its ways, corrupt. But one thing was clear. There was evil here."Then bring me my shield,"
he growled. "Let these devils know the wrath of God."