Egor screamed.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
Something seared into his skin—hot, alive, wrong.
He stumbled back, clutching his arm.
"What the hell—?!"
Klaus grabbed his wrist before he could pull away.
"Don't move."
Egor froze.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then Klaus's expression changed.
"…Impossible."
On Egor's skin, beneath the charred fabric, something shifted.
An eye.
It blinked.
Several days earlier…
A blinding flash burned through Klaus's vision, forcing his eyes shut as pain and disorientation crashed over him. His thoughts dissolved into a murky haze. Nausea surged. His legs buckled—his body no longer obeyed—and he dropped to his knees.
Not onto the floor of his bedroom, where he had been only a moment ago.
His palms struck something hard. Stone, perhaps. Something utterly unfamiliar.
He forced his eyes open.
Darkness.
A faint, cool gust brushed his face.
Outside?
But how—
An alien, tightening dread gripped his chest. His breath faltered. Klaus tried to stand, misjudged, and nearly collapsed again. His legs simply refused to hold him.
"What the hell just happened?" he rasped, the words barely more than a hoarse, desperate whisper.
No answer.
Accepting that standing was impossible for now, he pushed himself upright and buried his face in his hands. Helplessness—one of those long-forgotten feelings.
He was the heir to the throne.
This was unacceptable.
The nausea slowly began to recede as he remained still.
Then—a long, drawn-out sound behind him, followed by a burst of harsh white light.
Instinct, honed over years, snapped into place.
Klaus whipped his head toward the noise and groaned as the world lurched again. Something enormous was hurtling straight at him at terrifying speed—a creature with blazing eyes, emitting a sound that was neither a roar nor a scream, but something grotesquely in between.
He would not make it out of the way.
His hand flew to his belt.
No weapon.
Of course.
It lay on his bed.
Minutes ago, the crown prince had been preparing for sleep when he was violently interrupted. A group of soldiers in his father's service had smashed the door from its hinges in a single blow. The last thing he remembered was the whistle of a blade near his ear—the unmistakable promise that his head would soon roll from his shoulders.
Instead—light.
And now this.
Which was worse? To be beheaded in his own chambers, or devoured by some unknown creature in…
Where, exactly?
His entire life flashed before his eyes.
He had never been unarmed.
Not once.
The beast stopped abruptly, letting out that same unnatural growl, its bright eyes fixed on him.
Klaus froze.
Even drawing a breath required effort.
What now?
Run?
Unarmed. Unknown terrain. No allies.
Run?
No.
He had never fled the battlefield.
Then the impossible happened.
The creature split open—
—and a man stepped out.
A man. Without question. Pale, gray-haired, wide-eyed with fear, shouting something in a language Klaus did not recognize.
The shock lingered, but his mind began to reassert control. Suspicion came easily—it always had. His body tensed, ready to strike at any moment.
Not a warrior.
The man crouched beside him, still speaking rapidly. His dull blue eyes flickered with fear. A round scar marked his cheek.
Klaus flinched inwardly.
Torture? A survivor? Revenge against the royal family? A fallen noble? Or—
The unfamiliar speech snapped him out of his thoughts.
Klaus reached forward and pressed two fingers to the point between the man's brows, releasing a faint surge of energy.
Control.
Power.
Familiar.
Comforting.
It lasted only a fraction of a second. The man didn't react—only blinked, confused.
"I'm sorry! I thought I stopped the car in time. Did I hit you?"
Now the words made sense.
But using his power came at a cost.
It felt as though something inside him had been drained dry. The weakness he already felt deepened into something heavier, more dangerous. The fleeting sense of superiority vanished, replaced by crushing exhaustion.
Klaus tried to steady himself, to regain control.
He failed.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
When he opened his eyes again, he was somewhere else.
What now…?
Fear returned—sharp, immediate.
Had he been captured?
What awaited him next? Torture? Execution?
First the creature. Now this.
A stark white room. A sterile, nauseating smell. At least the bed beneath him was soft.
The door opened.
A young woman stepped inside, dressed in strange green clothing—trousers.
A woman in trousers.
That alone told him enough.
He wasn't merely far from home.
He wasn't even in his own country.
What now?
Panic would be a mistake.
"Excuse me," Klaus said, speaking the language he now understood—and, somehow, could use.
"You're awake? How are you feeling?"
"Where am I?"
"You're in a city hospital. A man brought you in last night—said he hit you on a road outside town. I'll get the doctor."
She spoke quickly and left just as fast.
Hospital.
A healer's ward?
Klaus glanced around.
I have never seen anything like this.
If you do not understand the situation—adapt.
His tutor's voice surfaced unbidden.
Difficult to play a role without knowing the play.
Which meant one thing.
Improvise.
"Good evening. I'm your attending physician—Inna Sergeyevna Strogina. How are you feeling?"
"I thank you. I feel… tolerable. Could I have my clothes returned?"
Only now did he notice they were gone—his leather trousers and linen shirt replaced with a flimsy garment covered in flowers, which preserved little of his dignity.
"You shouldn't rush. Don't worry—Professor Skotsky has covered all expenses and left his contact details. You were severely exhausted. What happened to you?"
"At present, I am well enough. I would still like my belongings… and those contacts."
Whatever that strange man left me, it may prove useful.
The doctor studied him for several long seconds.
"Very well. I'll prepare your discharge papers. You'll need to sign a refusal of hospitalization, though I strongly recommend—"
"My thanks. I shall sign whatever is required. Kindly be quick."
She left.
By the time she returned, Klaus was already dressed again. He had become acutely aware that local clothing bore no resemblance to anything he had ever seen—not in Anatodon, not in neighboring lands, nowhere.
This place was far.
Very far.
Uncharted.
And he was trapped here.
A nurse—Sveta—brought him footwear.
Soft, low shoes with laces.
Strange.
But comfortable.
"I'm sorry, it's all we have. They're called sneakers. Someone left them here."
"You have my gratitude. When I return home, I shall see that your kindness does not go unrewarded."
She smiled, clearly amused, and left.
Paperwork followed.
Klaus examined the sheets with mild irritation.
To replicate such precise script by hand… how long would that take a scribe?
"Sign here and here."
He took the pen—remarkably convenient—and wrote in careful, elegant script:
Klaus Deffender
Then added a sweeping flourish beneath it.
"Done. Now I require the contact information."
At last, he was free.
And immediately faced a new problem.
"Excuse me—where is the exit?"
"The elevator's that way."
A sealed metal door.
He tried to force it open.
Nothing.
Only when another person pressed a button did the doors slide apart with a mechanical sound.
Inside—a narrow metal box.
People stepped in.
Klaus hesitated only for a moment.
Adapt.
He followed.
The doors closed.
The box began to move.
Down.
A cold, creeping dread coiled in his chest.
What infernal contraption is this?
Then—
Outside.
Klaus stopped dead.
The world seemed to freeze.
Creatures raced along the roads—metal beasts, each carrying people inside.
Not beasts.
Machines.
Vehicles.
Understanding came slowly.
How… extraordinary.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Perhaps it would not be so terrible to remain here for a time.
To observe.
To learn.
To take this knowledge back with him.
Perhaps something could be changed.
Perhaps not everything needed to be built upon fear.
The people here—
They smiled.
They walked freely.
No weapons in sight.
No tension in the air.
Only life.
For the first time in a long while, Klaus felt something unfamiliar stir within him.
Envy.
Of their ease.
Of their safety.
Of a world where the air carried no trace of blood, fear, or suffering.