Egor had been trying to get the doctor to see them for nearly an hour. He had driven his grandmother across the entire city, arrived barely five minutes late—and just like that, her appointment was gone.
"Listen, young man, we're booked months in advance. We cannot simply squeeze in Pauoka—"
"I don't have a patronymic," the old woman corrected gently, offering a faint, polite smile. "Just Pauoka Gradova."
"Well," the nurse went on, already irritated, "you missed your time. The only thing I can offer is to reschedule."
"We can't wait months!" Egor snapped, his voice tightening despite his effort to stay calm. "She needs to be seen now. I want to speak to whoever's in charge."
He was close to losing control. His gaze kept darting back to his grandmother, seated quietly nearby. He could not simply walk away.
Not when the thought of losing her—of her just… being gone—twisted something deep and painful in his chest.
"I understand that you're upset, but—" the nurse began, though her tone made it clear she did not care in the slightest.
Her attention had already drifted elsewhere.
There was far more interesting gossip waiting for her. And more importantly, she wanted a glimpse of the mysterious new patient everyone had been whispering about. Handsome young men did not appear in hospitals every day.
That was far more interesting than an anxious boy and his elderly—yet perfectly healthy—grandmother.
The argument dragged on.
Pauoka sat quietly on a bench, hands folded in her lap, watching people pass as if none of this concerned her. She did not understand why Egor was making such a fuss. Her blood pressure had spiked only a couple of times. She had rested, taken her medicine, and felt well enough.
For her age, she remained strong.
Too strong, perhaps, for the concern he showed.
Then—
Her face drained of color.
For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
A tall young man passed by. Long black hair tied at the nape. Straight posture. Measured steps.
At first glance—nothing remarkable, aside from his striking appearance and unfamiliar clothing.
But it was not his face that caught her attention.
It was what marked it.
Black tattoos.
Her fingers tightened slightly in her lap.
How long had it been since she had last seen them?
Fifty years?
More?
Since the day she fled her homeland with an infant in her arms and grief tearing her apart, she had never again encountered a descendant of House Deffender.
And how could she have?
She had not merely left her city.
Not merely her country.
She had left that world entirely.
No one from there could appear here.
No one—
Unless something had gone terribly, catastrophically wrong.
"Egor," she called.
"Grandma, just a second, I'll—"
"Leave it. We will reschedule."
"But—"
"Now," she said, her voice quiet—but carrying an edge he had never heard before. "Stop that young man. The one with long hair. Tattoos on his temples."
Egor stared at her.
His thoughts had been consumed by her health. By the fear that something was wrong. And now—
"Did he do something? Are you—"
"I will explain later. Go. He is leaving. Do not let him reach the exit."
There was no room for argument.
"Stop him," she added, more softly. "Any way you can. I must speak with him."
Egor didn't understand.
But he moved.
He turned on his heel and hurried away from the desk, leaving the nurse behind—who exhaled in visible relief the moment he was gone.
Outside the glass doors, Egor paused, scanning the street.
Nothing.
Damn it.
Too late.
Still, unwilling to return empty-handed, he walked along the side of the building. One direction. Then the other.
And then—
He saw him.
The tall stranger stood near a small food stand, speaking sharply to the vendor.
Egor slowed.
There was something in the way the man carried himself—something rigid, controlled, almost regal. It didn't belong here.
Then he forced himself forward.
"I already told you—I require food," the dark-haired young man said, his tone cold with restrained irritation. "Payment will be delivered later. You will be compensated—generously."
"Kid, that's not how it works," the vendor replied flatly. "You want food, you pay. No money, no hot dog."
For a brief moment, something flashed in the stranger's eyes.
Cold. Dangerous.
If I had my blade, this insolent trader would already be on his knees, begging for the hand he had just lost.
Egor stepped in before things escalated.
"I'll pay," he said quickly. "Two hot dogs, please."
It was the simplest way to stop whatever was about to happen.
He's… not normal.
That look—there's something wrong with it.
"Thank you," the young man said after a pause. "State your name. My house will repay your assistance."
"It's just a hot dog," Egor replied, forcing a small, awkward smile. "No need for repayment. You probably just forgot your wallet—it happens. I'm Egor. Egor Gradov."
He had to tilt his head back to meet the stranger's gaze.
The man was taller by nearly a head.
And his eyes—
Black.
Deep.
Heavy.
He looked at people the way a ruler might regard subjects—measuring, weighing, deciding.
Egor felt his throat tighten.
"Can I ask your name?" he managed. His voice betrayed him—just slightly.
Why am I nervous?
The stranger frowned faintly and brushed his fingers against the tattoo at his temple, as if confirming its presence.
"You do not know my name?" A brief pause. Then, with quiet certainty: "Ah. Then it is not known in your lands."
He straightened slightly.
"I am Klaus of House Deffender."
"You're a foreigner, but your Russian is perfect," Egor said, trying to keep the conversation moving.
"With my abilities, acquiring a language is trivial," Klaus replied. "I obtained it from a scholar."
He produced a folded slip of paper.
"Can you direct me to this address?"
Egor glanced at it.
Then blinked.
That was his building.
Of all possible places—
"I know it. I live there. My grandmother and I are heading back now. You can come with us."
Klaus suppressed the urge to lash out—to overturn the stand, to punish the man who had dared speak to him that way.
Instead, he inclined his head slightly, as if accepting something trivial rather than relying on help.
The necessity of it grated.
"This is the second time you have aided me," he said, taking a bite of the hot dog.
He paused.
"…Unexpected."
Another bite.
"…Yet… not unpleasant."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Egor muttered. "Come on."
They returned inside.
Pauoka was still seated on the bench.
She watched the young man approach without looking away.
Relief.
And something colder.
Something far less comforting.
"Good evening, young man," she said.
Her gaze lingered on his temples.
"Tell me—how did you come to be here?"
Klaus stopped.
"Do you know me?"
"Not you," she said quietly. "But those."
She gestured toward the tattoos.
Her hand trembled.
"I know what they mean. So I will ask again—how did you arrive here?"
Klaus studied her carefully.
"You recognized them," he said. "Then answer me this—who are you? And what is this place?"
A tired breath left her.
"I see evasion runs in your blood."
She met his gaze directly.
"This place is far beyond your homeland. You cannot reach it by sea. Nor by air. It is not another country."
A pause.
"It is another world."
Egor stared at them both.
Another world?
What are they talking about?
And why does she sound like she believes it?
A tight, uneasy pressure built in his chest.
"My name is Klaus Deffender," Klaus said. "Heir to Isorobia. I do not know how I was brought here."
A brief pause.
"Can you send me back?"
"That," Pauoka said softly, "may not be possible."
She looked at him with something close to sorrow.
"You are the first I have seen from our homeland in all these years. One may be brought here."
A faint shake of her head.
"Leaving is… another matter."
"You came here as well?" Klaus pressed. "Who did this? For what purpose? I require answers—"
Control slipped, just for a moment.
Hope—dangerous, unwelcome—flared beneath it.
"Slow down," she said gently. "We will speak. But not here."
She rose.
"Come with us. If you intend to survive, you have much to learn."
"I do not intend to remain."
"That is no longer entirely your decision."
Her tone hardened.
"Come, Egor. We are taking a guest."
Egor walked beside them in silence, stealing glances at Klaus.
The man was holding himself together—but barely.
Fear.
Disbelief.
And something sharper beneath both.
It quickly became clear that Klaus had never seen anything like this world.
Not the subway.
Not a phone.
Not even something as simple as a turnstile.
Egor had to guide him through it—step by step.
When the train doors opened, he had to physically pull him inside.
For eight stations, Klaus remained tense.
Every jolt.
Every metallic screech.
His hand moved—again and again—to where a weapon should have been.
And found nothing.
Only when they stepped back into open air did his breathing steady.
"This system…" Klaus said slowly, looking back toward the entrance. "Underground transport."
A pause.
"Ingenious."
Yet his shoulders remained tight.
The calm of the people around him made no sense.
A sealed metal carriage racing beneath the earth.
And they stood inside it as if nothing were wrong.
Madness.
He would not willingly enter such a contraption again.
"There is much here that will astonish you," Pauoka said. "You will need to learn. If you wish to pass unnoticed."
Klaus turned his head sharply.
"I have no intention of hiding."
The irritation in his voice was no longer concealed.
"I am not one of your common men."
"For now," she replied evenly, "you are exactly that."
A pause.
"It is unusual that you were brought here. What happened before?"
"A group of my father's soldiers attempted to assassinate me in my own chambers," Klaus said.
Calm.
Too calm.
A chill ran down Egor's spine.
How can he say that like it's nothing?
"I see," Pauoka murmured. "Then you were removed for a reason."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Protection, perhaps. Or something more deliberate."
"I require no protection," Klaus said, sharper now. "If my own soldiers turn against me, then my homeland stands on the brink of collapse."
A step forward.
"I need to return."
"You cannot," she said.
"Not yet."
A beat.
"Accept that—or be broken by it."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unyielding.
"And what," Klaus asked at last, his voice quieter but no less dangerous, "do you suggest I do?"
"I do not know," she admitted.
"But nothing of this scale happens without cause."
Her gaze drifted ahead.
"Perhaps this is not exile."
A pause.
"Perhaps it is an opportunity."
"I doubt Anatodom has changed in fifty years," she added quietly.
Then, almost to herself:
"But I believe it still can."