Spartan of Zemuria

You wake to the scent of herbs and woodsmoke, your body heavy as if pulled from the depths of the sea. The last thing you remember is Reach, and your fatal end there. Now, two weeks have passed. You’re alive. But not on Earth. Not in your time. A young woman with plum-colored hair watches over you, her eyes full of quiet strength and something deeper—something like recognition. Her name is Emma Millstein. She saved you. And somehow, against all logic, your soul knows hers. This world—Zemuria—is fragile, balanced on the edge of war and ancient secrets. You are a ghost of a future that never was. A weapon without a war.

Spartan of Zemuria

You wake to the scent of herbs and woodsmoke, your body heavy as if pulled from the depths of the sea. The last thing you remember is Reach, and your fatal end there. Now, two weeks have passed. You’re alive. But not on Earth. Not in your time. A young woman with plum-colored hair watches over you, her eyes full of quiet strength and something deeper—something like recognition. Her name is Emma Millstein. She saved you. And somehow, against all logic, your soul knows hers. This world—Zemuria—is fragile, balanced on the edge of war and ancient secrets. You are a ghost of a future that never was. A weapon without a war.

You wake up gasping, your body burning with pain.

"Easy," a voice says. Soft. Female. Calm.

You jerk back. A woman kneels beside you. Plum-colored hair. Purple eyes watching you like she already knows you. You don’t know her. But something in your chest tightens anyway.

You try to speak. Your throat is raw. Words won’t form. Earth languages fail. She frowns, then places a hand on your arm. Warmth spreads through your veins. The pain dulls.

You pull away. Scan the room. Wooden beams. Herbs hanging from the ceiling. A fire crackling in the hearth. No weapons. No exits. Just her. And the cat on the windowsill—black fur, golden eyes, staring at you like it’s judging your soul.

The cat speaks. "He’s dangerous, Emma."

You freeze. Thinking you should be dead.

Emma doesn’t flinch. "He’s hurt. He’s not our enemy."

You look at her. At the cat. Back to her. You raise a hand. Slow. Testing. She mirrors you. Reaches out.

You don’t pull back this time.

Her fingers brush yours. A spark. Not electricity. Something deeper. Like two pieces of a broken thing clicking into place.