"What do you want to talk about?" he asks, his voice guarded.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "What does 'suka' mean?"

Atlas's eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he schools his expression. "I... I heard it in a dream. I don't know what it means."

Internally, I scoff. A dream, my ass. This kid's about as subtle as a bull in a china shop. If he's who I think he is, he's going to need some serious coaching in the art of deception.

"Sit down," I say, patting the grass beside me. Atlas complies, lowering himself to the ground with a grace that seems at odds with his childish form.

"I know what that word means," I say, watching his face carefully.

Atlas's eyebrows shoot up. "You do? What does it mean?"

I sigh, feigning reluctance. "It means 'bitch'."

Atlas's eyes widen, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. "Are you hiding something from me?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

Atlas shakes his head vigorously. "No, I'm not hiding anything."

I have to bite back a laugh. Oh, you poor, naive fool. You're about as transparent as a pane of glass. But two can play at this game.

"I won't judge you," I say, injecting a note of sincerity into my voice. "You can tell me anything."

Atlas denies it again, but I can see the uncertainty in his eyes. Time to up the ante.

"You know," I say casually, "I know some words I heard in dreams too." Then, in perfect Russian, I say, "У меня тоже есть сны." (I have dreams too.)

Atlas tilts his head, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. For a long moment, he's silent. Then, in equally flawless Russian, he replies, "У меня раньше тоже были сны." (I used to have dreams too.)

I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Two reincarnated souls, speaking Russian in medieval Ireland. In Romanian, I say, "Ce coincidență interesantă, nu crezi?" (What an interesting coincidence, don't you think?)

Atlas jumps to his feet, his eyes wide. "You're Romanian!"

I sigh and nod. "Tell me about your past life," I say, dropping all pretense of childishness.

Atlas glances around nervously. "You won't tell anyone?"

I nod solemnly, and Atlas lets out a long sigh before launching into his tale.

"In my past life, I was Alexander Volkov, a champion MMA fighter from Russia. I was undefeated, at the top of my game. I had a beautiful wife, two kids... we were happy. Then the aliens came."

Atlas's voice grows distant as he recounts the world that Lilith created. "It was... incredible. Like nothing you could imagine. We had nanotech that could cure any disease, reverse aging. We had outposts on other planets. And at the center of it all was Lilith, the AI that changed everything."

He goes on, describing the utopia that Lilith had created, his voice filled with awe and respect. "And the man behind it all? Alexandru Popov. He was a genius, a visionary. He created Lilith, gave us this perfect world."

As Atlas speaks, I can't help but feel a mixture of pride and amusement. Oh, you poor, clueless bastard. You have no idea who you're talking to, do you? Just wait until I drop this bomb on you.

"But then it all went to hell," Atlas continues, his voice growing bitter. "The aliens attacked. They bombed our cities, killed millions. I... I died in the first wave, along with my family. And then I woke up here, in this... this primitive hellhole."

As Atlas finishes his tale, I can't keep the smirk off my face. "That's quite a story," I say. "But I've got one that might top it. You see, I'm Alexandru Popov."

Atlas's jaw drops, his eyes widening to comical proportions. I can't help but laugh at his expression.

He looks me up and down, taking in my small, feminine form. Then he bursts into laughter. "You? Alexandru Popov? A man in a woman's body?"

I feel a surge of irritation, but I force it down, channeling it into a playful retort. "Oh, you think that's funny, do you? At least I didn't end up as a snot-nosed brat with delusions of grandeur. Tell me, champ, how's that MMA training working out for you in that pint-sized body of yours?"

Atlas's eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He crosses his arms, puffing out his chest in a comical display of bravado that looks utterly ridiculous on his six-year-old frame.

"I've got time to grow up and be back in my prime," he retorts, his voice a strange mix of childish pitch and adult confidence. "This time, I've got a younger body to work with. Just you wait and see."

I can't help but roll my eyes, though I'm careful to keep my expression childlike. "Yes, yes, a younger body with the experience of... how old were you, anyway?"

Atlas's brow furrows, as if trying to recall a distant memory. "I was thirty-two when... when it happened," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. He glances around, as if afraid someone might overhear, then leans in closer. "What is this place, anyway? Is it... is it hell or something?"

I let out a long sigh, running my fingers through my blonde hair. How to explain the inexplicable? "It's... complicated," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "From what I've been told by... let's call her a cosmic overseer named Gwenhwyfar, aliens recreated Earth as it was in 2024. The geography's the same, but they've made some... interesting additions."

Atlas's eyes widen, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. I continue, warming to my subject. "They've made fictional and historical figures real. Mythological and supernatural creatures? Also real. And get this - magic is real too, but it's more like different schools of telekinesis or psychokinesis."

"You're shitting me," Atlas breathes, forgetting for a moment that he's supposed to be a child.

I shake my head, a wry smile twisting my lips. "I wish I was. I've seen it in action. There was this vampire woman, Dumitra. She could just say a word to someone, and that word would apply to them. Like, if she said 'sleep,' they'd instantly fall asleep."

Atlas lets out a low whistle. "That's... that's incredibly powerful."

"Yeah, and I don't even know the limitations of this 'magic,'" I add. "I've only seen a couple other users. There was this pink-haired girl who could supposedly turn you to ash with a touch, though I didn't see that one in action. And a violet-haired girl who could make you feel... really good just by touching you."

Atlas's face scrunches up in disgust. "This is a fucked up world, then."

I nod solemnly. "It's like... the Truman Show meets Dungeons and Dragons meets some twisted alien social experiment."

A bark of laughter escapes Atlas, quickly stifled as he glances towards the hovel. "So what now?" he asks, his voice low.

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I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. "Well, today I'm supposed to marry Erik and move into his cottage. Maybe I can learn more about this world from him."

Atlas's jaw drops. "Marry? But you're..." he trails off, gesturing vaguely at my childish form.

"Different times, different customs," I say with a shrug, keeping my voice light and childlike. "I'll teach you more about it, or maybe you'll learn from Oisin or Aislin or Maeve."

Atlas snorts, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh yeah, I'm sure they'll be great teachers. Can't wait."

I lean in close, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That's not even the craziest part. Eventually, we're going to leave Ireland for Norway and meet - wait for it - Ragnar Fucking Lothbrok. He's Erik's father, if he's still alive and hasn't died of old age."

Atlas's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Ragnar Lothbrok? The Viking guy? But... isn't this like, way after his time?"

I can't help but chuckle at his confusion. "Oh, it gets better. Brian Boruma is the current High King."

Atlas shakes his head, bewildered. "Look, I'm not exactly a history buff, but even I know that sounds... off. Ragnar Lothbrok and Brian Boru living at the same time?"

I shrug, a sardonic smile playing at my lips. "Nothing in this realm makes sense. I'm pretty sure that's by design."

I turn to Atlas, my eyes narrowing as I consider how much to reveal. "There's a lot more I need to tell you," I say, keeping my voice low. "But it would take ages to explain everything."

Atlas furrows his brow, his blue eyes clouding with confusion. "What do you mean? How much more could there possibly be?"

I ignore his question, instead asking one of my own. "Do you have military training?"

He nods, a flicker of pride crossing his young face. "Da, I was Spetsnaz."

"So you have military training AND MMA experience," I muse, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "You know how to fire a gun and handle CNC machinery. That's great, but..." I pause, eyeing him critically. "I reckon you've never trained with a sword or fired a bow in your life, have you?"

Atlas's eyes widen in surprise. "No, I haven't. Why would I need those skills?"

I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Because you're going to need them! D'oh. I'm going to need your help to keep Fionn and Nuada safe when they grow up. This world... it's much more dangerous for men than for women."

Atlas scoffs, his childish features twisting into a sneer. "That's ridiculous. Men are stronger, better fighters-"

I cut him off with a sharp laugh. "Oh, you sweet summer child. Sure, women get raped in corners and killed by drunken men like Oisin. But men? They get mauled to death by everything out there. Wolves, bears, bandits, rival clans... not to mention the supernatural horrors lurking in the shadows."

Atlas's brow furrows, his expression a mixture of confusion and indignation. "Why are you talking about Oisin that way? He seems like a decent man so far."

I can't help but scoff, rolling my eyes dramatically. "That's only because Sean - Aislin's twin brother - beat him up good and taught him a lesson. You have no idea what he was like before."

Atlas leans forward, his childish curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

I fix him with a steady gaze, my voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Oisin was a drunken wife-beater. He was raping Aislin and beating me almost every two days or so. And get this - Maeve? She's Aislin's sister too. So Oisin has one wife and one slave."

Atlas's jaw drops, his eyes widening in horror. "That's... that's monstrous! How can you speak of it so calmly?"

I chuckle darkly, shaking my head. "Oh, it gets better. By modern standards, Oisin deserves nothing less than at least 40 years of jail time. Maybe more, considering he impregnated Aislin when she was around 11 years old."

Atlas looks like he might be sick, his face pale and drawn. "That's... I can't even... How is this possible?"

I shrug, my lips twisting into a bitter smile. "Yeah, told you. Different times, different customs. Welcome to the dark ages, my friend."

I turn to Atlas, curiosity piqued. "So, when did you first 'awaken' to your memories of your past life?"

Atlas furrows his brow, thinking. "I was about three, I think. It was like waking up from a dream, but the dream was this life."

"Three?" I exclaim, feigning childish surprise. "That's much earlier than me. I didn't awaken until I was four, and even then, I didn't have memories of my past life, only the knowledge I amassed. Those only came back after Dumitra tattooed me."

Atlas's eyes widen. "Tattoo? What kind of tattoo?"

I glance around, making sure we're alone, then lean in conspiratorially. "It's some sort of weird implement that heals and treats diseases. Dumitra used it on me, and suddenly, everything came flooding back."

"Huh," Atlas muses, scratching his chin. "Sounds a bit like the nanotech we had in our past lives, doesn't it?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Yeah, it does have pretty much the same effect. But get this - it's way better than nanotech. I mean, nanotech would heal you in a few hours, right? These tattoos? Minutes. Just minutes."

Atlas lets out a low whistle. "That's... that's incredible. The implications of that kind of technology..."

I can't help but chuckle. "Oh, you have no idea. This world is filled with alien tech parading as medieval fantasy tech. Take Sean's spellsinger, for instance."

"Spellsinger?" Atlas asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"It's this sword Sean has," I explain, my eyes lighting up with excitement. "I saw him use it once. He just flicked the hilt, and a parchment was cut clean in half. No blade contact, nothing. Just... poof!"

Atlas's jaw drops. "That's... that's not possible. Is it?"

I nod vigorously. "Oh, it's possible alright. It's definitely advanced alien tech, but I need to find out more about how these things function. There's so much potential in this technology. If I can understand it, I could revolutionize machinery beyond anything we could have imagined in our past lives."

"How much better are we talking?" Atlas asks, leaning in closer.

I pause, considering. "Honestly? I have no idea. The basic concept of 'can't make something from nothing' can't be broken, of course. But if very efficient transmutation is possible with this alien technology, then..."

Atlas's eyes widen as he catches on. "If such a thing exists, then surely there are eldritch level beings on this planet, right?"

I can't help but laugh at the thought. "Oh, if such a thing exists, I'll capture it and use it to generate energy. Can you imagine how incredibly valuable that would be?"

Suddenly, Aislin's voice rings out from inside the hovel. "Lile! Atlas! Come inside for morning prayers!"

Atlas turns to me, his face a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "Wait, you mentioned the name Gwenhwyfar earlier. We pray to this... thing?"

I smirk, standing up and brushing off my dress. "We're basically praying to a machine god. Welcome to the dark ages, indeed."

Atlas sighs heavily as he gets to his feet. "This is going to take some getting used to."

Together, we make our way back into the hovel, the weight of our shared knowledge hanging heavy between us.

As Atlas and I cross the threshold of our wretched hovel, a searing pain rips through my abdomen. It's as if a white-hot blade has been plunged into my gut and twisted with savage glee. My vision blurs, the world tilting on its axis as my knees buckle beneath me. I crumple to the dirt floor, a strangled cry escaping my lips.

"Sweet Jesu! What's wrong, child?" Aislin's voice cuts through the haze of agony, her words tinged with panic.

I hear the rapid patter of feet as Maeve scurries over, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Fionn's high-pitched voice pipes up from somewhere to my left, "What happened to her? Did she get bit by a snake?"

Atlas, bless his quick-thinking soul, jumps in with a plausible excuse. "She's just tired from playing. We were running around a lot."

"Fionn, Atlas, off with ye now," Aislin commands, her tone brooking no argument. "Go play outside for a spell."

Another wave of pain crashes over me, more intense than the last. It feels as if my insides are being shredded by a thousand tiny claws. Tears spring unbidden to my eyes, and I can't hold back the sobs that wrack my small frame. Christ on a fucking cracker, is this what childbirth feels like? If so, I owe every woman who's ever pushed out a watermelon-sized human an apology and a stiff drink.

"Come now, lass," Aislin coos, her calloused hand smoothing back my sweat-dampened hair. "Let's get ye to the sleeping area. Ye need to lie down."

I try to push myself up, but my arms feel like overcooked noodles. "I can't," I whimper, hating how pathetic I sound. "It hurts too much."

Maeve lets out an exasperated huff. "Ye're exaggerating, girl. 'Tis just a bit of monthly discomfort. No need for such dramatics."

Oh, you insufferable twat, I seethe inwardly. If I weren't currently being eviscerated from the inside out, I'd show you 'dramatics.' How about I shove a red-hot poker up your arse and see how you like it?

"Hush now," Aislin chides Maeve. "Help me lift her. We need to get her to the straw."

As they reach down to hoist me up, another spasm of pain tears through me. I let out a wail that would put a banshee to shame. "I'm dying," I sob, beyond caring how childish I sound. "This is it. Tell Erik I always thought his beard was stupid."

Maeve has the audacity to laugh, the sound grating on my frayed nerves like sandpaper on an open wound. Together, she and Aislin manage to half-carry, half-drag me to the sleeping area. Just as they're lowering me onto the straw, a cramp hits that steals the very breath from my lungs. For a terrifying moment, I can't inhale, my chest locked in a vice grip of agony.

"She's suffering something fierce," Aislin mutters, worry etched into every line of her face. "We need to fetch Erik. He'll know what to do."

"Please," I gasp out between ragged breaths. "Someone go. It feels like I'm being butchered from the inside."

Another wave of pain crashes over me, and I curl into a tight ball, willing it to end. Maeve lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Fine, I'll go fetch the healer. But mark my words, she's making a mountain out of a molehill."

"With any luck, he'll be at home," Aislin frets. "Though knowing Erik, he could be off gallivanting about the village."

"I'll ask around," Maeve says, already heading for the door. "The womenfolk usually know where he's at."[...]