Chapter 1: A Thief’s Mistake

Alaric had always found that darkness was his best companion. It hid his movements, masked his intentions, and, most importantly, swallowed his guilt whole. For a master thief whose reputation was built on precision and finesse, guilt was an inconvenient thing to carry. Tonight, it was especially crucial to leave it behind.

The museum’s grand rotunda loomed overhead like the silent jaws of some ancient beast, its marble walls whispering forgotten secrets. Alaric weaved through the shadows, his footsteps softer than a cat's breath. He took in every detail of the room—pressure-sensitive tiles, motion-triggered laser grids, and cameras that rotated with the rhythm of a metronome. It was a symphony of security, and Alaric conducted it all with a smirk and a dash of arrogance.

He approached the display case at the center. The Zeton sat inside, unremarkable at first glance. Just a small, round disc of tarnished metal with a pattern of grooves carved into its surface. Hardly the kind of treasure worthy of Alaric's skill. Still, the client had paid in advance and handsomely, and Alaric had learned long ago not to question easy money.

With a flick of his wrist, he deployed his custom glass cutter, an invention of his own design, and carved a perfect circle around the case’s lock. As he reached inside, a whisper of air escaped the opening, and he carefully lifted the Zeton from its velvet perch. The object was colder than he’d expected, and something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

He rolled the Zeton between his fingers, studying the grooves and the faint, almost imperceptible hum it emitted. What a peculiar thing, he thought. But before he could consider it further, a sound from behind him made him freeze.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" A voice cut through the silence like a dagger.

Alaric’s heart leapt into his throat as he spun around. A man stood in the shadows, half-obscured, wearing a dark, weathered coat and a wide-brimmed hat that cast a veil over his features. There was no time for hesitation. Alaric tightened his grip on the Zeton, but the stranger held up a hand.

"I wouldn't run if I were you," the man said. His voice was deep, laced with an eerie calmness.

Alaric’s instincts screamed at him to escape, yet his curiosity pinned him in place. "Who are you?" he demanded, edging slowly backward. His fingers brushed the smoke bomb strapped to his belt.

The man tilted his head, a small, humorless smile playing at his lips. "Just a traveler with a keen interest in... history." He gestured toward the Zeton. "That artifact belongs to time itself. Do you have any idea what you hold in your hands?"

Alaric wasn’t one to fall for theatrics. He had a job to do, and the client hadn’t paid him to listen to ominous warnings. "Sorry, but I don’t buy into ghost stories," Alaric replied with a mocking grin.

The stranger's eyes glinted, and in that moment, Alaric could swear he saw a flicker of something otherworldly. The air grew heavier, almost tangible, as if time itself had taken notice. "You’ll learn soon enough," the man murmured, almost to himself.

Enough of this. Alaric wasn’t about to let some costumed interloper ruin his getaway. He released the smoke bomb, and a cloud of thick, choking mist enveloped the room. In the ensuing chaos, Alaric bolted, darting through the maze of artifacts and exhibits with the Zeton clutched tightly in his hand.

The museum's exit was only a few heartbeats away. Alaric sprinted down the marble corridor, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins. But as he neared the door, a strange sensation coursed through his body. The Zeton grew hot, and a brilliant light erupted from its grooves. Energy crackled and spiraled around Alaric, lifting him off his feet. The air tore open with a deafening roar, and he felt himself being pulled through a vortex of color and light.

The world twisted, bent, and then shattered around him.

Alaric hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. Dust and the smell of burning wood filled his senses as he pushed himself up, groaning. He was no longer in the museum. Around him, thatched-roof cottages stood in a circle, illuminated by the flickering glow of oil lanterns. Villagers clad in medieval garb gaped at him, their eyes wide with equal parts terror and awe.

"Where am I?" Alaric muttered, his voice raw with confusion. His mind struggled to catch up with what had just happened. The Zeton, now dim and cold in his hand, had clearly done something extraordinary. But this... this was beyond comprehension.

One brave soul, a young man with a pitchfork, stepped forward. "Who goes there?" he demanded, voice trembling.

Alaric's mind raced. His modern attire marked him as an outsider, and his sudden arrival surely painted him as some kind of demon or wizard. He had to think fast. "I... am a traveler," he replied, mimicking the stranger’s words from earlier. "Lost, as it seems."

The villagers didn't look convinced. A middle-aged woman muttered a prayer, and a stout blacksmith with arms like tree trunks brandished a hammer. "Lost, aye? More like a cursed sorcerer, dropped here by dark forces!" the blacksmith accused.

Alaric took a careful step back, eyeing the growing mob. "Let's not do anything drastic, alright?" he said, hands raised in mock surrender. He could feel the tension in the air, the palpable fear and suspicion that threatened to boil over into violence.

"Seize him!" someone yelled.

The crowd surged forward, and Alaric’s instincts screamed at him to run. He spun on his heel, dashing toward the narrow alleyway between two cottages. The villagers gave chase, their footsteps thundering behind him. Alaric weaved through the twisting paths of the village, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around him was a blur of torchlight and shadow.

He turned a corner and skidded to a halt. A dead end. His heart hammered in his chest as he spun around, only to find the villagers blocking his escape, pitchforks and hammers raised. The blacksmith stepped forward, his eyes cold and resolute. "No more running, sorcerer," he growled.

Alaric’s grip on the Zeton tightened, and it pulsed once in response. The same light he had seen in the museum began to shimmer along its grooves. He could feel the energy building, a force that defied explanation. Please work, he thought desperately.

Just as the villagers closed in, the Zeton released another burst of energy. The light swallowed Alaric whole, and the world fractured around him once more. The villagers’ shocked faces melted away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds.