The rain finally stopped.
By morning, sunlight broke through the clouds like a reluctant visitor—cold, pale, and uncertain. It slid through the window blinds, laying quiet patterns across the wooden floor, where puddles from the leaky roof still glimmered faintly. The scent of wet earth drifted in, mingling with the sharpness of disinfectant and the faint trace of burnt candle wax from the night before.
Vivian had gone to fetch medicine from the nearby store, leaving the small house wrapped in silence. The ticking clock on the wall was steady, almost comforting—yet beneath it, there was a stillness that felt too perfect.
Macon sat on the edge of his bed, half-dressed, his mind caught between dream and reality. His chest rose and fell under the thin bandages that hid the scar—the same scar that had vanished, only to return glowing and bleeding like something alive.
He pressed his palm lightly against it. The faint pulse beneath his skin was slower now, weaker, yet undeniably there. It throbbed with a rhythm that didn't match his heartbeat—like the echo of something ancient trying to remember itself through him.
He should have felt afraid. But what he felt instead was curiosity.
Rising to his feet, Macon crossed the creaking floorboards, the cool air brushing against his bare shoulders. His gaze drifted toward the tall bookshelf near the window. It had always been there—crowded with Vivian's medical texts, old journals, a few novels she'd inherited from her mother.
But this time, one book drew his attention.
It wasn't there before.
A thick, black leather-bound volume rested awkwardly between two faded poetry collections. Its surface was layered in dust, yet the edges gleamed faintly, as though freshly oiled. There was no title. No markings. Just a dark cover that seemed to absorb the light around it.
Macon frowned and reached out. The moment his fingertips touched it, the air shifted—first warm, then suddenly cold.
The ticking clock stopped.
The curtains fell still.
Even his breath seemed to hang frozen in the air.
He stared around the room. Nothing moved. Even the sunlight, spilling across the floor, looked as though it had paused mid-step.
Slowly, he opened the book.
The first page was blank. But as his eyes lingered, faint black lines began to rise from the paper—bleeding, curling, forming words that wrote themselves as if guided by invisible hands.
"The Battlefield Curse: Chronicle of the Fallen General."
The ink shimmered faintly, alive, pulsing in time with the beat beneath his scar.
He turned the page.
The next leaf revealed sketches drawn in a style older than any he had seen—soldiers in heavy armor, their faces shadowed beneath horned helmets. Strange sigils marked their shields and swords, twisting symbols that felt familiar yet wrong.
And there, carved into the center of the page, was the emblem—the same pattern that had once burned across his scar in the other world.
His stomach dropped.
He flipped through more pages. Each one was filled with stories—accounts of war, betrayal, and blood. Names he didn't recognize but somehow remembered. Places that didn't exist on any map he'd ever seen but still tugged at the back of his mind.
Then his eyes caught a passage, and he froze.
> 'In the Age of War, there was a General known as the Dawnbringer. Loved by many, feared by gods. His victories bled kingdoms dry, and his mercy died with his last battle.'
'The gods, angered by his defiance, cast a curse upon his soul: that he would never rest, that every lifetime he would return to fight the same war until he remembered what he had done.'
The words struck something deep inside him—something buried, aching, and half-awake.
He whispered under his breath, "The Dawnbringer…"
His voice trembled. The ink on the page began to ripple, the letters twisting into new shapes.
"The curse is sealed by blood. The scar is the mark. The reflection, the gate.'
He shut the book so fast the sound echoed through the room.
His chest heaved. He looked toward the mirror on the far wall—its surface plain and silver, reflecting the same ordinary room. But the longer he stared, the more uneasy he felt.
For a brief moment, he thought he saw movement.
Not behind him—but inside the mirror.
A faint shadow. A flicker. Like a hand brushing the other side of the glass.
Then it was gone.
When Vivian returned minutes later, carrying a small paper bag of medicine, she found him sitting at the table with the strange book closed beside him. He didn't even look up when she entered.
"Macon?" she said, setting the bag down. "Are you okay?"
He didn't answer at first. His eyes stayed on the dark book. "Where did this come from?"
Vivian blinked. "What book?"
"This one." He slid it toward her.
She frowned, confused. "That? It's been here for years. Part of my grandfather's collection."
"No," he whispered, his tone sharper. "It wasn't here before. I would've seen it."
Vivian looked from him to the book again, uneasy. "Maybe you just didn't notice."
Macon forced a smile. "Maybe."
But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.
When she turned away to prepare his tea, he whispered under his breath, "You shouldn't exist here."
That night, long after Vivian had fallen asleep, Macon sat alone by the window. The storm clouds were returning, crawling slowly across the moonlight. The black book lay open before him, pages fluttering even though the air was still.
He turned to the last page.
At first, it was empty. But then, faintly, new words began to appear—drawn in blood-red ink.
"You will remember, Macon of the Dawn. The war never ended. You just changed worlds."
His pulse stuttered.
He reached out, tracing the sentence with trembling fingers. The paper felt warm beneath his touch, alive.
In the reflection of the window, something stirred.
A faint figure stood behind him—a man clad in armor, eyes glowing faintly red, watching him with something between sorrow and fury.
Macon turned sharply.
No one was there. Only the empty room and the whisper of rain.
But when he looked back at the glass, the reflection still remained—smiling faintly, like an echo that refused to die.
And somewhere deep inside his chest, the scar pulsed once, twice, like the beating of a forgotten war drum.