Zean followed the faint glimmer of light through the dense snowfall, his breaths shallow and uneven. The cold gnawed at his skin, a constant reminder of his fragile state. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he pressed on, driven by the need for warmth and answers.

As he drew closer, the light resolved into the warm glow of windows. A modest building emerged from the swirling snow, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive oak tree. Its structure was humble, the kind of place that offered solace rather than splendor. Above the door, a wooden sign creaked in the wind, though its text was obscured by frost.

Zean hesitated at the threshold, peering through a cracked window. Inside, a few children huddled near a fireplace, their faces flushed with warmth and laughter. An old woman in a thick shawl shuffled between them, her presence gentle yet commanding.

But it wasn’t the children or the woman who held Zean’s attention. It was the man in black standing near the far wall, his posture rigid and his gaze cold. His attire was impeccable—a long, dark coat adorned with subtle silver accents, and a badge pinned to his chest. Zean squinted at the emblem: a horse soaring through the clouds.

The man’s voice, low and precise, carried through the room.

“We need a few more. The church is short on recruits.”

The old woman’s reply was tinged with resignation.

“Take whoever you need. These children deserve better than this place.”

Zean’s heart sank. The church? His mind raced as he pieced together the implications. They’re taking children? For what purpose? The man’s cold demeanor and the old woman’s tone hinted at something sinister.

Realizing he couldn’t stay any longer, Zean backed away, careful not to make a sound. He slipped into the shadows and hurried down the path, his thoughts a whirlwind.

Who was that man? What kind of church takes children like this?

The questions burned in his mind as he navigated the unfamiliar terrain. The snow began to thin, revealing a graveyard sprawled across a nearby hill. Rows of tombstones jutted from the ground like jagged teeth, their inscriptions weathered and worn. Zean averted his gaze and quickened his pace, unwilling to linger.

The path eventually led him to a bustling town, its cobbled streets alive with activity despite the late hour. Houses and shops lined the roads, their windows glowing with warm light. The sound of chatter and the clinking of tools filled the air, a stark contrast to the desolation he had just escaped.

Still shivering, Zean wrapped his arms around himself, his breath forming misty clouds. His unusual appearance didn’t go unnoticed. People glanced his way, their expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion. His pale skin and striking golden hair made him stand out, but they quickly returned to their routines, dismissing him as an oddity.

As Zean wandered the streets, an elderly woman approached him. Her kind eyes, a brilliant shade of blue, softened her weathered face. She wore a thick cloak and carried a basket laden with bread and cloth.

“Young man,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm, “you look like you’ve been through quite a storm. Are you alright?”

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Zean hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. “I... I’m fine. Just cold.”

The woman studied him for a moment, then reached into her basket. “Here,” she said, handing him a loaf of bread and a bundle of clothes. “You’ll need these more than I do.”

Zean stared at the offerings, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” he managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The woman smiled warmly. “Eat and rest, child. You’ll find strength again.”

After she left, Zean found a quiet corner to sit. He tore into the bread, savoring its warmth and simplicity. The clothes—a plain black shirt and a coat of black and white—fit him well, shielding him from the cold.

Refreshed, he continued exploring the town. The marketplace was a kaleidoscope of wonders. Stalls displayed vibrant potions that shimmered like liquid jewels, artifacts that pulsed faintly with energy, and ancient items inscribed with runes. Zean marveled at the unfamiliarity of it all, feeling like a child in a world of endless possibilities.

But his awe was short-lived. A sharp cry echoed from a nearby alley, pulling him from his reverie. Zean hesitated, then followed the sound, his heart pounding.

In the dim light of the alley, he saw a man dressed in a black robe, his face obscured by a hood. He loomed over a young boy, who lay crumpled on the ground, his body marred by wounds.

“Please... don’t...” the boy whimpered, his voice weak.

Without a word, the robed man raised his hand, a dark tendril snaking out from his skin. The whip-like appendage struck the boy’s head with sickening force, silencing him forever.

Zean froze, his mind a cacophony of fear and rage. What just happened? He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn’t move.

As the robed man turned away, Zean’s body acted on instinct. He charged forward, his fists clenched. “You monster!”

The man turned, his hood falling back to reveal a pale, expressionless face. With a flick of his wrist, the dark tendril lashed out, striking Zean and sending him sprawling. Pain exploded in his chest, but he forced himself to stand.

“What... are you?” Zean demanded, his voice shaking.

The man’s lips curled into a faint smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

The tendril struck again, this time with lethal intent. But instead of succumbing, Zean remained standing. The impact hurt, but it didn’t kill him.

The man’s composure faltered. “Impossible...”

Before Zean could react, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the alley. Town guards rushed in, their weapons drawn. The robed man vanished into the shadows, leaving only the boy’s lifeless body and an unconscious Zean behind.

---

Zean stirred, his head pounding. His surroundings were blurry, like a half-remembered dream. A figure loomed in the distance, seated on an enormous throne. Its features were indistinct, shrouded in darkness, yet its presence was overwhelming.

“Who... are you?” Zean whispered, his voice barely audible.

The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it raised a hand, and the world dissolved into nothingness.

Zean woke with a start, his heart racing. He was in a small room, its furnishings simple but comfortable. A wooden bed, a small table, and a chair were all that filled the space. The walls were painted a soft cream, and a window with heavy curtains faced the bed.

Where am I?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. Crossing to the window, he pulled the curtains aside, and his breath caught in his throat.

The sky was a tapestry of color, dominated by seven moons. One glowed a deep crimson, while four were stark white. A blue moon shimmered like a sapphire, and a yellow moon radiated a warm, golden light.

Zean’s mouth fell open. “Seven moons...” he murmured, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief.

The reality of his situation pressed down on him, heavy and inescapable. This wasn’t his world. Whatever had brought him here, it was beyond anything he could comprehend.

But one thing was certain: he wasn’t the same man he had been. And this strange, dangerous world had only begun to reveal its secrets.