The smell reached him before the light. It was not disinfectant or burning concrete, but pine smoke, damp wool, horse leather, and boiled milk. Pavlo tried to open his eyes, yet every movement felt as though it belonged to someone else. The world swayed gently beneath him.
When his vision finally steadied, he found himself staring at the curved roof of a felt yurt. Wooden ribs met at a circular opening where pale morning light filtered through drifting smoke. Two elderly women spoke in hurried voices. Though he had never learned their language, every word arrived in his mind with impossible clarity.
'The fever has broken,' one whispered. 'Tell Bayar. Tell the Khan's riders.'
Pavlo tried to answer. The voice that escaped his lips was that of a young boy. Panic surged through him. He raised trembling hands. They were small, scarred by childhood rather than age. Outside came the snorting of horses and the laughter of children.
The entrance flap opened. A tall warrior entered, wrapped in heavy furs despite the cold morning wind. His presence silenced everyone inside the yurt. His eyes were calm, hard, and accustomed to command.
'You wake at last,' the warrior said. 'I am Temüjin.'
The name struck Pavlo harder than the assassin's bullet ever had. History flooded through broken memories—Temüjin, later known to the world as Genghis Khan. The conqueror. The lawgiver. The man who would reshape Eurasia.
'Who... am I?' the boy asked.
The women exchanged confused glances before one answered softly. 'You are Tului, youngest son of the Khan.'
Silence filled the yurt. Somewhere outside an eagle cried above the endless steppe. Pavlo closed his eyes. Ukraine, rain, sirens and stone squares faded like a dream carried away by the wind. Only faint fragments remained.
Temüjin watched him carefully. 'Illness changes a man,' he said at last. 'Sometimes it leaves weakness. Sometimes wisdom. We shall discover which has visited you.'
After the Khan departed, the younger healer helped Tului stand. Every step was unfamiliar. Beyond the doorway stretched rolling grasslands beneath an impossibly vast blue sky. Hundreds of horses grazed near scattered yurts while warriors repaired saddles and women prepared the morning meal. It was not merely another place. It was another age.
Tului drew a slow breath. Somewhere within him, echoes of another lifetime stirred—not enough to guide him, only enough to remind him that he had once lived beneath a different sky. Whatever destiny had brought him here had offered no answers, only another beginning.