Awakening

The sky was white. Not grey, not cloudy, just white. Empty. The kind of white that didn’t belong to nature, but to a void. A nothingness that stretched in all directions, soft and silent, without wind or sound or warmth.

He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there. The last thing he remembered was the street. The light. That moment where everything slows down and you realize there’s no time left to move. The horn, maybe. Or just the sudden jerk in his chest as instinct kicked in too late.

He had died. That much, at least, was certain.

He blinked, and the white turned into a room.

Stone walls, uneven and cracked. Dust floating through shafts of light pouring from a small window. The air smelled like earth and parchment. There was a candle on a wooden table, and beside it, a bowl of soup, steaming gently.

He sat up. The bed creaked under his weight. His heart was beating. That, more than anything, confused him. He stared at his hands. Pale. No wounds. No blood. Not even a scar.

The door creaked open.

An old man stood there, wrapped in a robe too large for his frame. His eyes were clear, almost too clear, and when he smiled, it was not with kindness but with curiosity.

“You’re awake,” the man said.

The boy opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“You’ll remember how to speak in a moment,” the man continued, walking slowly into the room. “It happens to most of you. The shock of... arriving.”

“Arriving?” the boy managed to say. His voice sounded smaller than he expected.

“Yes,” said the man, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You died. But instead of vanishing, you were sent here.”

“Where is here?”

The man looked at him, thoughtful.

“We call it Orbis. A fractured world. Some say it was once whole, but then the powers came. Magic. Strength. Gifts, they call them. Not everyone has them. Those who do, rise. Those who don’t... well, they don’t.”

The boy frowned. “So I’m in a fantasy world now?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” the man said, and took the bowl of soup from the table, holding it out. “Eat. You’ll need strength.”

He took the bowl with trembling hands. The warmth felt real. The smell was real. Lentils and herbs. His stomach growled.

The man waited in silence as he ate. When the bowl was empty, he asked, “Why me?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

The old man tilted his head. “Some say the people who come here are chosen. Others say they are accidents. Misplaced souls. You can believe either, or neither. But you are here. That is what matters.”

The boy stared at the candle on the table. The flame danced slowly, steady, like it knew its purpose.

“I don’t have powers, do I?”

The man smiled again, softer this time. “No. Not yet.”

He looked up. “But I can get them?”

“That depends. Most people born without them stay that way. A few... awaken. Rarely. Through something difficult. Something honest.”

“Like what?”

“Pain. Reflection. Understanding. None of which can be given to you by someone else.”

The boy stood slowly, his legs unsteady. He walked to the window. Outside, a dirt path led to a small village. He saw rooftops, smoke, people moving. Children. Horses. Merchants. Nothing extraordinary. Just life.

“I thought it would be more magical.”

“It is,” the man said. “Just not where everyone can see it.”

The boy turned around. “So what do I do?”

“Live,” said the man. “Start there. The rest will come.”

He left him then, closing the door with a quiet click.

The boy sat back on the bed, his hands resting in his lap. He stared at the floor for a long time, trying to feel something. Grief. Confusion. Anger. But all he felt was a dull emptiness, like the white void he had woken from.

His name. That, at least, remained.

He whispered it aloud, just to hear it again.

“Lian.”

It felt fragile. Like something borrowed from another life.

He stood again, pushed open the door, and stepped outside. The dirt was soft beneath his boots. The sun was low in the sky, a red circle melting behind distant hills. The wind carried the smell of hay and smoke.

The village was close. He could reach it in ten minutes. Maybe less.

He started walking.

As he walked, he passed a sign nailed to a crooked post. The wood was cracked, but the carving was fresh. It showed a sword, crossed with a staff, above the words:

To protect and to prosper.

Below, in smaller letters, barely visible:

No power, no service.

He stopped.

Read it again.

The wind blew a little stronger.

A world where the strong were everything.

A world where the weak gave thanks for protection.

He kept walking, slower now, but with something new in his chest. Not fear. Not hope. Just a quiet, stubborn need.

To understand.

To endure.

To change something.