The world was a screaming vortex of disorientation and pain. Elias Thorne's last conscious memory was the searing heat and the deafening concussive blast of an IED in a sun-scorched desert. The acrid smell of high explosives and scorched earth filled his lungs, then faded into a suffocating darkness. His next memory was a quiet, almost unsettling silence, broken only by the crackling of a nearby fire. A chill bit through his tattered combat fatigues, a far cry from the oppressive heat of the Middle East. He pushed himself up, his head swimming, and his hand instinctively went to the M-16 strapped to his back, a familiar, comforting weight. He had no idea where he was. The sky was the same, a pale, indifferent blue, but the land was alien. It was medieval, with thatched-roof huts and cobbled roads carved from a world he had only read about in history books. But it was not just the era that was wrong; it was the unnatural air, thick with the faint scent of ozone and something else, a sweet, cloying aroma that made his skin crawl. The impossible silence was a terrifying stillness that preceded a storm.
He blinked, rubbing the grit from his eyes, and a slow, creeping dread began to spread through him. The village was a collection of a dozen or so stone and timber hovels, their straw roofs matted and gray. The people were gaunt, their clothes little more than rags. They moved with a listless, hopeless resignation that spoke of years of oppression. This was not a place of vibrant life; it was a place where hope had died a long time ago.
The sound came first—a crackle, a pop, and then a terrifying whisper of heat. Elias watched, frozen in a haze of confusion, as a man in gleaming, ornate armor casually raised his hand. The armor itself was an impossible work of art, a suit of polished steel that seemed to shimmer with an inner light, untouched by rust or blemish. The man wore a haughty sneer, his eyes a cold, piercing blue. He was a force of nature, and his power was as effortless as breathing. There was no fire, no lightning, no visible source of power. Just a gesture. A flick of the wrist. A simple hut across the village square, a home that had stood for generations, erupted into a geyser of flame and ash, its timber and straw consumed in an instant. The raw power of the act was staggering, a silent, deadly expression of dominance. The villagers, a desperate collection of farmers and laborers, huddled in the dirt, their faces a canvas of fear and awe. They were not screaming; they were praying.
Elias's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, desperate beat. This was a world of magic, a world where the laws of physics he knew were irrelevant, and he was just a man with a useless M-16. His rifle wouldn't fire, because in his pouch, a quick check revealed the tragic truth: no ammunition. His only weapon, a symbol of his old life, was useless. He was a tactician without a strategy, a soldier without a weapon, and in this world, he was utterly, terrifyingly helpless. The feeling was profound, a deep, gnawing terror he hadn't experienced since his first firefight. He had always relied on his training, his gear, his ability to out-think and out-gun his opponent. Here, all of that was gone. He was, quite simply, an outlander, and the knight in front of him was a god.
He was not, however, helpless for long. In the distance, the knight turned his attention to a woman huddled in the dirt, a child clinging to her skirt. Elias knew, with the cold certainty of a combat veteran, that the villagers had to be freed from the threat, that the knight would kill them without a second thought. Elias realized his mind, not his weapon, was his only asset. He had no gun, but he had knowledge. He had to act. He would use their fear, their magic, their arrogance against them. He would use his mind to fight a war that, to this world, was still a whisper on the wind.