Silence was a rare phenomenon in Chicago, found in liminal stillness while the city slept. Dawn crested Lake Michigan’s frozen surface, spilling over ice skiffs and igniting the gleaming skyscrapers stacked along the shore like organ pipes.

Seagulls soared above the sands patrolling for scraps and small fish. The birds scattered in frenzy of wings, crying as sudden, air-splitting chord—like a war horn’s bellow—shook the beach. Snow and sand whipped into a blinding cyclone, spiraling higher and higher, crackling with lightning.

A flat pop of air pressure released, and the chaos stilled. Particles rained down, settling quietly over a dark figure laying still at the center of the impact site, steam snaking off his body.

He wore a black hunting coat and tight riding breeches suited for warmer climates. The well-made and obviously expensive clothes were mud-caked and torn, exposing flesh mottled with blood and shaded with bruises.

Curious, the birds returned to circle the newcomer; one brave gull even daring to peck his beard. The man jolted to life, sending the birds wheeling skyward with a screech.

His muscles protested as he pushed himself upright. The lake stretched before him like a slab of cold blue steel. He squinted against the dawn with one good eye, straining his senses for signs of familiarity—the rolling hills and shimmering rivers of the farmlands, the stalwart Semaphore of the Western Dominance, the tolling of harbor bells. His was a gentle sun; a friend who kept him warm and in good spirits on long rides. This cold star washing the shore in its indifferent light was no friend of his and offered only proof of the severity of his situation–proof of his failure.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

That is not my sun. This is not my home.

He sat for a long time—rocking with his arms wrapped around his knees— silent and shivering. A lake-born gust rattled through his ribs. Mist tickled his face and licked his wounds.

“What am I to do?" he whispered. No answer came. His gods were silent—or too far away to hear. His chest sagged as hope drained out of him.

He roared—a raw, primal cry that carried over the azure expanse, more beast than man. He screamed until his throat filled with fire. Spent, he sagged like a popped balloon.

Where am I?

His fingers dragged against damp sand. He forced them one by one into a fist.

            The gods have not forgotten me. They have left me the strength to rise.

            And he did. Slowly. Every muscle protested, every wound throbbed, but he forced himself upright, scanning the shoreline for shelter, for answers–for any path leading away from the dreadful vastness of this forsaken beach.

"Blessed Rahasy, guide me in this strange land. Let me master its ways, find allies to champion my cause, that I might gaze upon my daughters' sweet faces once more."

His body ached to the bone, but he walked, nonetheless—marching toward the distant towards abutting the lake.

Somewhere in this metropolis is a way home. Stay strong, my loves. Hide yourselves well, look after each other, and, above all, do not let him find you.