Rupert's consciousness slammed back into reality with the force of a magnetic quench. He found himself standing on a packed dirt road at the crest of a mountainous ridge, his body intact but his mind reeling as he tried to process what his senses were telling him. Something was wrong with the light.

The sky above him was different. Instead of the familiar blue, it was a deep, bruised purple. The celestial object dominating the sky was 4 times larger than it should be, and the wrong color. Instead of the expected yellow-white G2V spectral class star, an enormous red disc hung in the sky, the size of a clenched fist at arm's length. It was grotesquely swollen, like an infected wound in the heavens. It stained everything in a perpetual crimson twilight that made it impossible to tell what time of day it was, let alone what season.

An irregularly shaped moon was visible despite the sun, hanging low in the sky, its irregular, cratered surface clearly visible to the naked eye. It looked like a massive chunk of rock that had been violently torn from another planet and held captive in orbit.

Waves of aurora rippled across the sky—sickly greens and pinks that spoke of intense solar radiation. They moved quickly and chaotically, the death throes of the star reflected in the planet's magnetosphere.

The air had a dry, thin quality, suggesting high elevation. The atmospheric pressure felt notably lower than Geneva's. His ears hadn't popped, which suggested the transition had been gradual, or... he pushed that thought aside for later. The air was colder than it should be under such an enormous star. His mind, even in its shocked state, recognized the contradiction—a red supergiant should be heating this world to uninhabitable temperatures, yet there was a bitter chill in the breeze that cut through his light office clothes. Of course, it could always be the altitude.

Twisted coniferous trees lined the road, their needles a dark purple-black instead of green, an adaptation to photosynthesis under the red star's dying light. Their branches were gnarled and bent, all growing away from something in the distance that he couldn't quite see. In the peculiar light, it was difficult to tell if they were dead or alive. Their needle structures spiraled in fractal patterns he'd never seen in Earth flora.

Behind him, a vast mountain range rose up into the twilight, dark and jagged against the sky. Snow glinted on their heights, tinted pink by the sunlight, as if the peaks were bleeding. On either side, a forest stretched into the distance, the trees densely packed and twisted. The terrain reminded him of the Alps.

Below him, a settlement perched precariously on a plateau, surrounded by a defensive wooden palisade. A single stone structure dominated the center. It appeared to be repurposed from an older building and fortified. Smaller buildings surrounded it, rough wooden structures with steep, heavy roofs. Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys.

The road beneath his feet was unpaved but showed signs of regular traffic, with parallel ruts worn into the soil.

He checked his phone. Dead, of course. His watch, at least, was still functioning: 05:23. Though given the sun's position and the quality of light, that was meaningless here. His method of timekeeping would need to be recalibrated for this star system's parameters.

Rupert pushed his glasses up his nose with trembling fingers, a habitual gesture that felt absurdly normal in this abnormal place. He was alive again—somehow—but everything he knew about the universe told him that he shouldn't be here. That this place shouldn't be here. That nothing about this should be possible.

And yet, here he was, standing on an alien road under a red sun, his shadow stretching out before him in two different directions at once from the sun and aurorae. The cold was beginning to slice through his light shirt and slacks. The probability of his survival would decrease significantly without shelter before nightfall, assuming this world even had a normal day/night cycle. He needed to gather more data, and quickly.

Rupert heard them before he saw them: the creak of wooden wheels, the jingle of harnesses, and the rhythmic squeaking of poorly-oiled axles. The caravan appeared around a bend in the road behind him: four heavily-laden wagons creaking their way uphill, canvas covers drawn over their contents. The lead wagon's wheels squealed in protest as the driver navigated through a particularly deep rut. Six armed men walked with the convoy, carrying long spears. Three of them had short bows slung in cases over their shoulders. Their gear showed signs of hard use – scratched leather, patched scale mail, chipped spear shafts.

Rupert stepped to the side of the road, projecting harmlessness while observing the group. There were preserved foodstuffs under the canvas covers – salt-cured meats and fish based on the smell, along with barrels that probably contained wine.

The guards gave him measuring looks as they passed, but seemed more curious than hostile. One scratched his beard and muttered something to his companion.

After weighing his options (which were admittedly few), Rupert raised a hand toward the two guards walking beside the second wagon. "Excuse me," he called out, surprised when the words came naturally in what his brain insisted should be an unfamiliar language.

The guards exchanged glances. They were both bearded men wearing thick wool kaftans under their armor, with heavy felted boots and fur hats. The older one leaned on his spear, giving Rupert an appraising look. His companion seemed more amused than anything.

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"Lost your way, young lordling?" the older guard asked, his accent thick (it sounded Slavic) but understandable. "Bit far from the capital to be dressed like that."

His companion snickered. "Must be one of the palace eunuchs, Kyril," the younger guard said. "Look at him – soft hands, no beard, clothes not fit for the cold. Probably ran away from service."

“What city is that?” Rupert asked, determined to get a word in.

"Vranograd," Kyril said, studying Rupert's clothing with particular interest. "Strange clothes for a traveler.”

"More suited for a dancing girl," the younger guard snorted. "Where are you from?"

"I'm..." Rupert's mind raced through possibilities, none of them especially good. "I'm from outside the country. Switzerland."

The younger guard frowned. "Where in the hells is that?"

"Name sounds like one of those barbaric lands beyond the northern reaches of the empire," Kyril cut in with the certainty of someone who'd heard many travelers' tales. "Past the Ordu lands, isn't it?"

"Yes, exactly," Rupert seized on the convenient assumption. "I'm traveling here for research. My party was... caught in a storm. We were separated."

The guards exchanged knowing looks. “You have the look of one of those scholars,” the older one nodded slowly. "You an arcanoscribe? A loremaster?”

Rupert stared blankly, then decided to nod along with whatever sounded less dangerous, “Loremaster.”

“Ah, that explains the get-up." He gestured at Rupert's glasses and office clothes. "Loremasters always dress like eccentrics. You can walk with us to the city if you want. But we're not a temple charity. Once we're at the gate, you're on your own."

"That's… acceptable," Rupert said, falling into step beside them as they resumed their slow climb. They kept a sharp eye on him despite his lack of any weapons.

The caravan crawled down the ridge towards the city, then back up the winding plateau road. The drivers called soft encouragement to their horses. It was dusty and unpleasant going, and Rupert had developed a raging thirst after only half an hour.

As they walked, Rupert listened carefully to the guards' casual conversation, building a mental lexicon of local terms and phrases. The younger guard was complaining about bandits getting bolder in the outlying areas. The older one blamed it on the crop failure last fall, hungry people got desperate. Neither the guards nor the teamsters seemed particularly concerned about the oddly-dressed foreigner in their midst, which suggested such sights weren't entirely uncommon here.

Vranograd's wooden walls looked more imposing up close, though he noted signs of clumsy repair in several sections. The gates stood open, but armed men were visible on the wall walk above and on either side of the gate. A huddle of makeshift shelters and smoking fires stretched for a hundred yards on either side of the gate. Exhausted and emaciated families clustered together, watching the caravan with dull eyes. The foul smell of smoke from burning manure, unwashed bodies, and livestock hung over everything.

The city guards at the gate were a different breed than the caravan escorts - less combat-ready , more bureaucratic. They wore dark red woolen tunics and carried shorter spears better suited for crowd control than fighting. One held out a hand to stop Rupert.

“Where do you hail from?”

“Switzerland,” Rupert replied.

"Fee's two copper assars for non-citizens. You carry any letters of reference?"

"I lost everything in the storm," Rupert said, increasingly aware of how flimsy his story sounded.

The guard squinted at his clothes. "What kind of get-up is that anyway? Where're you from?”

"Found him on the road," Kyril called over. "He says he's a loremaster from up north."

"Looks too soft to be a bandit spy," his partner added helpfully. “I think he’s a eunuch.”

"Well with balls or none ‘e still needs to pay," the gate guard shrugged . "No exceptions."

Rupert turned to Kyril with what he hoped was a persuasive expression. "Could you possibly..."

"Already told you. Not a charity." Kyril's tone was gruff. "Got my own family to feed and my pay barely covers that."

Rupert dug through his pockets. His phone was dead, his wallet contained a bit of paper money and credit cards…nothing of value here... but his hand closed around a Bic pen. He pulled it out.

"What is that?" Kyril asked, peering at it.

"It's a pen - for writing. But you never have to dip it in ink." Rupert demonstrated on his palm, drawing a quick line.

Kyril shrugged. "Can't write anyway."

"Do you know someone who can?" Rupert asked, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. The refugee camp was not where he wanted to spend the night.

"Caravan master can," Kyril said, gesturing to a heavy-set man in a better quality coat who was negotiating with the guards over import duties. "Vasile! The foreign scholar has something you might want to see."

The caravan master walked over, irritation written on his face. "What is it? We're losing daylight."

"He has a magic pen," Kyril said, then added to Rupert: "Show him."

Rupert demonstrated again, explaining the concept of the ballpoint. He could see the moment Vasile grasped the implications - a pen that needed no inkwell, couldn't spill, and could write at any angle. The man's eyes lit up with mercantile interest.

"Interesting toy," Vasile said carefully, trying not to appear too eager. "And you want...?"

"Just the entry fee," Rupert said quickly. "Two assars, was it?"

Vasile snorted. "For that? I'll pay your fee and give you another assar for dinner. Deal?"

"Deal," Rupert agreed, relieved. He handed over the pen, watching Vasile test it with obvious delight.

The caravan master flipped two copper coins to the gate guard and one to Rupert. "Welcome to Vranograd, man. Word of advice? Find Magister Hou if you're really a loremaster. Old drunk practically lives at the Sleepy Drink tavern. Maybe he'll take pity on you." He grinned. "But I wouldn't count on it."