Consciousness returned to Aarav in fragments.
First, the weight of his body—heavy, as though he had been pressed into the earth for a long time. Then, the softness beneath him, unfamiliar and foreign. His eyelids felt thick, resistant, like they had been sealed shut by something beyond his control. When he finally forced them open, the world swam into focus: a ceiling of pale wood, a single window through which light was coming, and the faint sound of voices speaking in that incomprehensible tongue.
Where am I?
He lay on a bed. A real bed, with sheets that smelled of soap and something herbal. Around him, the room was modest but clean—a small table against one wall, a bookshelf with worn volumes, a chair in the corner. Everything spoke of humble practicality, the kind of space that belonged to someone who valued function over luxury. But it was not his. He had never seen this room before.
I don't recognize this place.
Aarav sat up slowly. The movement sent a wave of dizziness through his skull, and he paused, gripping the edge of the mattress until the sensation faded. How long had he been unconscious? Minutes? Hours? He couldn't remember anything clearly after the collapse—only the sensation of the world tilting, the feeling of falling, and then nothing.
What happened? How did I get here?
The voices from the other room grew clearer. He recognized one—Rajan's voice, and a second voice, unfamiliar, steady and calm. There were others too, voices he did not know. Strangers. In a place he did not recognize, with people he could not identify.
Aarav forced himself to his feet. The room swayed slightly, but he pushed through it, moving toward the doorway. His legs felt weak, unstable, but he needed to see. He needed to know.
Aarav came near the door and entered the room. It was larger than the bedroom, with a low ceiling and walls of bricks. Light was coming from windows that dominated one side. On chairs sat Rajan and Veer, and across from them were three figures Aarav did not recognize.
Who are these people?
The first was a woman—elderly, probably in her 60s. Her hair was white as ash, her face lined with the kind of wrinkles that came from decades of expression. She wore simple clothes: a grey dress, a dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes, when they fixed on Aarav, were sharp and assessing.
An older woman. Someone with authority, perhaps.
Beside her sat a young boy, no more than 9 or 10, with dark hair and a cautious expression. Aarav recognized him immediately—the child Rajan had saved when he was falling from the tree.
Nick. The boy from before. But how did we get here? How did we end up in the same place as him?
The third figure was another woman, probably in her late 30s. Aarav understood that this woman might be the mother of that child.
His mother. So this is his family. But where are we?
"Ah," the elderly woman said, rising slightly from her seat. "The young man awakens. Come, sit. You have been unconscious for only about an hour—exhaustion, nothing more. Your body needed rest."
Aarav couldn't understand what she said. He understood only that she was probably telling him to sit. The words were foreign, meaningless sounds. His head still felt heavy, and the room tilted slightly as he moved.
I can't understand her. She's speaking but I have no idea what she's saying. How can I communicate? How can I know if these people are safe?
"Be careful," Rajan said quietly, noticing how unsteady Aarav was. "You're not fully well yet."
Veer nodded in agreement, his eyes fixed on Aarav with concern.
At least Rajan and Veer are here. But they're not explaining anything. They seem... comfortable with these strangers. How long have I been unconscious?
Aarav moved toward the table, his movements measured and careful. He settled into a chair, acutely aware of how vulnerable he felt, how little he understood of his surroundings. "Thank you," he said in halting words, trying to find the right sounds in this foreign language. "For... helping us."
I don't even know if I'm saying this correctly. I don't know if they can understand me. I'm at their mercy.
The elderly woman understood that this young man might not know the language. She got up from her seat and went into another room. She returned moments later with a collar—a band-like thing made of dark metal.
Just by seeing it, Aarav understood that it was the same magical item the guards had used during the inspection.
The translation device. At least I'll be able to understand what they're saying. But why do they have this? Are they connected to the guards?
Knowing how to use it, he quickly placed it around his neck.
The sensation was immediate. The fog that had surrounded his mind since arriving in this world lifted. Suddenly, the elderly woman's words became clear, as if they had been in his own language all along.
"Can you understand me now?" the elderly woman asked.
Aarav said, "...Yes."
Finally. Now I can understand. Now I can piece together what's happening.
"Good," she said with a smile. "I'm Ysolde. This is my grandson Nick, and she is his mother. Thank you for saving my grandson."
The boy nodded solemnly, his eyes grateful but cautious.
Ysolde. The grandmother. She seems kind, but that doesn't mean anything. In this world, kindness could be a mask. I need to be careful. I need to understand why they helped us, why they would risk taking in three strangers.
Nick's mother rose from her seat. "I'll bring some water," she said, excusing herself. She disappeared into another room and returned moments later with a pitcher and cups. After pouring water for everyone, she got busy with her own work, moving quietly to the back of the house.
Aarav took a sip of water, grateful for the coolness of it. He turned his attention back to Ysolde.
"I am Arlan," he said, introducing himself. "Thank you for helping us. Your kindness is... very normal. We appreciate it greatly."
Ysolde's expression softened. "I know," she said simply.
She knows?
Aarav's eyes narrowed slightly, though he kept his expression composed. There was something about the certainty in her tone that unsettled him. How much did she know about them?
As if reading his concern, Ysolde continued, "Your friends told me about you. They mentioned your journey, how the guards inspected you. They were very forthcoming."
Those two fellows... do they not understand that revealing information about us could be dangerous? Do they not realize the risk they've taken by talking to strangers? I will have a serious conversation with them later.
Aarav's jaw tightened for a moment, but he forced himself to smile and nod, as though the revelation didn't trouble him. "I see. Thank you for your discretion."
Ysolde studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes assessing. "Are you really refugees from Silva?" she asked, her tone direct but not accusatory.
"Yes," Aarav confirmed, nodding slowly. "We are from Silva."
The moment the words left his lips, he saw Ysolde's face change. Her expression shifted—subtle but unmistakable. Her eyes softened with something that looked like pity, and there was a tightness around her mouth, as though she had just learned something sorrowful.
Why? Why does she look at us like that? What does it mean to be a Silva Refugee here?
Aarav watched her carefully, searching for signs of hostility or malice. But there were none. Only concern. Only a kind of sympathetic understanding that made his instincts scream that something was wrong.
"I understand," Ysolde said quietly, "what you three must have gone through. The suffering, the oppression. I feel... sorry for you."
Aarav's mind raced.
Is being a Silva Refugee something to be pitied? Is there danger in this identity we've adopted?
"No, no," Aarav said, attempting to wave away her concern. "It is not a very big problem. We are managing."
Ysolde shook her head firmly. "No, it is a big problem indeed. Silva is a locked nation—ruled by dictatorship and suppression. The government oppresses its own people terribly. There is crime, corruption, and fear. Your people suffer greatly. I am relieved that you escaped."
Escaped? We didn't escape. We were transported here against our will. But she doesn't know that.
Aarav felt a chill run through him.
Did we make a mistake by disguising ourselves as Silva Refugees? We know nothing of Silva, nothing of Eloria. We've adopted an identity based on assumptions, and now we're trapped by it. Why life is so problematic?
The realization settled heavily in his chest. They had no real knowledge of this world—neither Silva nor Eloria. They didn't understand the politics, the conflicts, the histories. And yet they had committed themselves to a story that required them to know these things.
I need information. I need to understand what we've claimed to be.
Aarav gathered his thoughts carefully, choosing his next words with precision. "Ysolde," he said, his tone respectful but curious, "how does Eloria view Silva? What do your people think of the Silva Kingdom and the refugees who come from there?"
Ysolde settled back in her chair, her expression becoming more serious. "Eloria sees Silva as an enemy," she said slowly. "A locked nation. A dictatorship where the government crushes its people beneath its heel. There is crime, suppression, oppression—all enabled by those in power."
She paused, her weathered hands folded in her lap. "Refugees come to Eloria and other nations every year. Although Silva tries to stop them, they fail due to internal political conflicts and various gangs who help refugees escape. It is a constant flow."
Her expression grew more guarded. "But not all refugees are good people. Silva sometimes tries to infiltrate spies among them—people sent to gather information, to cause trouble. It is a risk we take when we welcome those fleeing oppression."
Aarav felt his body tense. The implication was clear. If spies from Silva infiltrated Eloria among the refugees, then anyone could be suspect. Anyone could be watched. Anyone could be questioned.
Does she think we are spies? Is that why she's telling us this? Is she testing us?
His hands grew cold, and he forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep his expression neutral. But something in his face must have betrayed his alarm, because Ysolde's expression immediately softened.
"No, no," she said gently, raising her hand in a reassuring gesture. "You need not worry. I do not think you are spies. I can sense these things. You three... you are not spies."
How can she be so certain? How can she know that simply by looking at us?
Aarav felt a mixture of relief and unease wash over him. Relief that she did not suspect them of being agents of Silva. Unease at how easily she had dismissed the possibility. How could she possibly know? What made her so confident in her judgment?
Perhaps I am fortunate that it is not a bad stranger who found us. But as for how she knows that we are not spies... it is none of my concern. I should not ask. I should accept her assurance and move forward.
Ysolde seemed to read the lingering doubt in his eyes, because she smiled—a knowing smile, as though she understood his internal calculation perfectly.
"You have helped my grandson," she said simply. "That is enough for me. Come now, you must be hungry. Most Elorians pity refugees. We believe you are fortunate to have escaped, that you now have the chance to live a better life, free from the tyranny you endured."
She stood, steadying herself with a hand on the table. "I have some work to attend to, but I will return shortly. For now, you should eat lunch here. It is the least I can do for those who saved Nick's life."
She glanced at Nick, who had been watching the exchange silently. "Nick, show our guests where they can freshen up a bit. They must be uncomfortable after everything they've endured."
Yes. We need to clean ourselves, to recover our strength.
Nick nodded eagerly and stood. "This way," he said, gesturing toward a back corridor.
As Nick led them toward the back of the house, Aarav removed the collar from his neck. The sudden silence was disorienting.
He pulled Rajan and Veer closer, his voice low and urgent.
"How long was I actually unconscious?" he asked.
Veer glanced at Rajan before answering. "Less than an hour. Maybe thirty or forty minutes."
"What exactly happened to me after I blacked out?" Aarav demanded, though he kept his voice measured.
Veer took a breath. "After you collapsed, a man appeared—Nick's father. He saw what happened and told us his house was nearby. He said Nick would show us the way. We came here, and Nick told the old woman—Ysolde—what had happened. She took you in, told us to lay you in bed. We were worried, but she told us not to worry."
"She told us to wait outside the room," Rajan added. "For about a minute or two. When she came back out, she said you were fine. Just exhausted. She said you probably hadn't eaten well."
What did she do in those one or two minutes alone with me?
The question nagged at Aarav, but he filed it away for later consideration. There were more pressing matters.
"How were you both speaking with Ysolde without the translator?" Aarav asked, his voice carrying an edge of accusation. "You never explained any of this to me when I woke up."
Rajan let out a quiet chuckle. "Remember how we both searched through the market yesterday for information, food, and a place to rent? We learned so many words, picked up the basics of the language. We've been practicing."
He glanced at Veer with amusement. "Looks like someone didn't bother learning the language."
They learned the language. Yesterday, while I was dealing with other matters. And I was left behind, dependent on a magical device to understand anything.
Veer leaned in slightly. "You should go to the market," he suggested. "You'll get plenty of information there. More than you could get anywhere else."
The market. Yes. Information flows through markets like water through channels. I should have thought of that myself.
Aarav felt a mixture of gratitude and irritation. "These two..." he muttered, shaking his head.
But before he could say more, they had arrived at the washroom. Nick pushed open a wooden door, revealing a modest room with whitewashed walls. A simple wooden washstand held a ceramic basin and pitcher. A small mirror hung above it, and several folded cloths rested on a shelf below. In the corner stood a bathing tub, iron-banded and worn with age. Everything spoke of practical cleanliness—well-maintained but without luxury.
"You can wash here," Nick said simply. "I'll wait outside."
He closed the door gently behind them, leaving the three alone.