A bowl of pottage, now only slightly warmer than the stiff wind, rested in Dimitry’s palm as he stumbled towards the alley he awoke in. The smell of assorted grains and beef stock was difficult to ignore. It tantalized him, begged him, implored him to abandon his ambitions in favor of eating it now. Urges he almost caved to.

However, overeating was lethal, and Dimitry’s plans for the Church’s charitable meal were greater than simple consumption. If successful, they would pay higher dividends than eating stale pottage ever could. He intended to trade it to thugs for information—the same two that picked his pockets when he arrived in this world.

His goal was simple: to learn the intricacies of this land.

Although Dimitry wished to avoid criminals, his misspent youth taught him that no one knew more about a city than its most unscrupulous citizens. A meager portion of food was a small price to pay for a consultation.

And yet a question remained: could he win the trust of two thugs with a bowl of pottage? Walking into an alleyway smelling of sun-rotten carcasses, Dimitry intended to find out.

Alerted by his footsteps, a familiar man’s head shot back, his thinning white hair flailing in the wind. “Oh, it’s just you. I didn’t expect you to actually bring it here.” His wrinkled hand moved away from the firepit and outstretched as if in anticipation of a gift.

“They lechya take the plates?” the younger thug hollered, holding his filth encrusted beard in shock. “They make me eat the whole thing right in front of them!”

Dimitry placed the bowl in the older man’s only hand. “The girl at the front was very understanding.”

“Don’t trust them for a moment, kid. Those bitches at the Church only pretend to be nice. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have to eat with this bowl between my legs.”

“Don’t be like that,” the younger one said. “They give us free food, they can’t be too bad. Besides, without ‘em, I’d probably be dead by now.” His gaze shot towards a bowl of pottage that quickly ran out. “Hey! Save some for me!”

“Yeah, yeah.” The older thug looked up. “Anyway, I’m Samuel, and the moron here is Arnest.”

Dimitry watched Samuel struggle to eat with a single hand. Losing control of one’s body was never easy. “You said you fought in a war?”

“I was a Zera’s Chosen, and we were sent to fight heathens in Mettingcrest. I lost my arm, and the Church left me to die. Nothing more to say than that.”

His words gave Dimitry pause. They reminded him of the story Milli told about her son, who was allegedly a Church knight. Perhaps the heathens got him before he could return to help his mother.

Arnest snatched the bowl of pottage from Samuel’s lap. “There’s barely any left!”

“Respect your elders, kid,” Samuel said with a triumphant smile.

Endeavoring to cash in on his food offering while the men were in high spirits, Dimitry asked about a word he had heard multiple times already. “What can you tell me about heathens?”

“How do ya not know what heathens are?” Arnest asked. “Did someone stomp your head in or something?”

Ignoring the younger thug, Samuel glanced at the stump on his torso where an arm once was. “Basically, they’re these… these things that come from the ocean. The Church says it’s their holy duty to wipe them out, but funnily they make everyone else do the fighting. Lucky for you, we’re far from the coast. You don’t have to worry about them.”

Arnest burst into laughter. “I still can’t imagine your old ass fighting anything, much less heathens.”

“Kid, I used to be the only one with an enchanted maul in my troop.” Samuel stood up. “I’ll kick your ass right now.”

“That’s what ya always say, but we both know ya can’t even square up with a faerie!”

Faerie? Dimitry’s gut sank further with every fantastical word he heard. They reaffirmed what he already knew, a truth he pushed away despite the overwhelming evidence this world threw at him: not only was he not on Earth, but he knew too little to know how little he knew. The culture, the social structures, the fauna, the very mechanism of worldly operation itself. Every seemingly mundane step was one into the unknown.

But that also gave rise to new possibilities. He stepped forward. “What do you two know about magic?”

“You’re asking the wrong people, kid.” Samuel sighed. “Do we look like the kind to be able to afford vol? I’ll be sure to tell you all about it when I become a wealthy merchant.”

Despite the appearance of a man in his early twenties, Arnest tossed aside the empty bowl and rocked as if recalling a long-lost memory. “We had a wizard in my village once. He told me it took him less than a year to learn illumina. Smartest man I’ve ever met. He’s probably still out there, enchanting tools and selling them on market day.”

Samuel shivered like old men in cold weather did. “Wish he’d make me an incendia blanket.”

“Like ya could ever save enough to afford that.”

“A man can dream.”

So magic did exist. It could be an invaluable tool someday, but at the moment, Dimitry didn’t know where his next meal would come from. He stacked the recently emptied wooden bowl onto the one he ate from some time ago. “Thanks for the information.”

Samuel perked up. “Leaving already?”

“The priestess asked me to return these plates to her,” Dimitry said. “I don’t want to get on her bad side.”

“Smart. We should be getting back to work, too.”

“Now ya wanna go to the port?” Arnest moaned. “You were complaining about being tired and shit all morning.”

“Well, I’m full of energy now. Let’s go before Agatha finds out and kills us.”

“Whatever.”

Samuel stood up and stretched his only arm. “Kid, come see us again sometime.” There was an unmistakable mischievous smile on his face. “Especially if you’re interested in making quick money.”

Although Dimitry starved and lacked basic utilities, he couldn’t work with the same two men who tried to rob him earlier that day. Their blatant criminality reminded Dimitry of his youth, and his ignorance made it easy for them to take advantage of him. Street thugs were good for gathering intelligence and nothing more.

“Let me think it over.” Dimitry stepped past a broken jug as he walked towards a gravel-laden road. “By the way, have either of you ever seen a blue imprint on someone’s wrist before?”

Arnest frowned. “What are ya on about?”

“Don’t drink so much, kid. It’s bad for you.”

Dimitry dropped the topic. Perhaps the dark hall he saw was limited to him, and even if it wasn’t, singling himself out more than necessary was unwise.

The church’s dull gray stone stood like a monolith of fortitude among endless white-plastered wooden buildings. As if the ultimate destination of every passerby, it claimed a prime spot in the center of a three-way fork. All kinds shuffled through its entrance: women in gray vestments, dignified men in fur-trimmed cloaks, dirt-covered farmers. It seemed religion was the great equalizer in this world.

By its giant double doors waited a beautiful girl. Her blonde pigtails reflected scarce midday light as they twisted across her chest. Then, their movement stopped when the priestess’s head stiffened, her eyes hawking Dimitry as if at the sight of a long-awaited guest.

She nearly tripped over her robes when she jogged forward. “How is she? Is your friend all right?”

Her genuine concern for Dimitry’s imaginary friend elicited from him a pang of guilt, but desperation forced him to take advantage of any means of survival. He had to perpetuate the lie.

Dimitry placed the empty wooden bowls into her open hands. “Better now, I think. We’re grateful for your generosity.”

“I wish I could do more for her, but I’m afraid our kitchens are closed until morning.” The priestess looked around. “Is she not with you?”

“No. She’s too weak to move.”

“Can’t you carry her here?”

He raised his scrawny arms, which felt heavier than ever before. “Shameful as it is, I’m not fit to carry anyone right now.”

She frowned. “That is a shame. Just be sure to take care of her as best you can. It is, after all, your duty as a man to keep that young lady safe. Understood?”

Dimitry averted his gaze to conceal disgust. What right did an organization that left Milli to die after calling her fatal goiter a ‘Mark of Devotion’ have to lecture him about duty?

Icy air filled his nostrils when he took a calming breath. Now wasn’t the time to raise complaints. The misdiagnosis wasn’t the priestess’ doing: a bright and honest teenager like her lacked the capacity to orchestrate self-ingratiating falsities. Such malice was the domain of jaded adults. To admonish a young girl for her superiors’ transgressions was counterproductive.

More so when Dimitry relied on the Church to survive. They were his sole source of food. He unclenched his fist to match the rest of his composed posture. “I’ll do my best to bring her here safely.”

“Good.” The priestess smiled. “But be sure to care for yourself as well. Even if only we can hear the Voice of Zera, men are her children too. It’s our mission to rescue anyone going through tumultuous times. Bring your friend so Bishop Marianne can take a look at her wounds. Do whatever it takes to get her here.”

Even if Dimitry had an injured friend, he would never bring her here. To do so did not differ from murder. He nodded despite himself. “Right.”

“If only all men were as dutiful as you.” Her beautiful eyes gleamed. “I admire your zeal.”

“I live to serve.”

“That’s how it should be. I hope to see you both tomorrow.” The priestess lowered her head as if praising someone present but unseen before turning away to greet townspeople.

After watching her return to the church’s massive gray doors, Dimitry trudged down the street, gravel and dirt clumps crumbling beneath the soles of his calloused feet.

A man whose expression screamed disgust clamped his nostrils shut with two meaty fingers as he moved out of Dimitry’s way while a group of women wearing towel headdresses averted their gazes, leaving only a young boy biting into a holey apple to acknowledge his existence.

Dimitry paid them no mind. He was desperately brainstorming a way to remain within the priestess’ good graces. Although she believed him today, tomorrow wouldn’t be so easy. The girl was adamant about meeting his nonexistent female friend, and retracting the lie wasn’t an option.

Even if Dimitry convinced the priestess that his friend disappeared somehow, he would get only one bowl of pottage a day instead of the two from this morning. A serving that small wouldn’t gain him weight, let alone prevent starvation. The Church’s alms alone weren’t enough for Dimitry to survive.

Assuming that seasons as he knew them existed here, the frigid winds blowing against his exposed legs and the low altitude of an alien sun hiding behind a sea of gray clouds hinted that winter fast approached. Dimitry’s scrawny frame wouldn’t fare well against malnutrition and exposure to cold weather. Pottage only helped so much. A thousand calories or so wouldn’t prevent him from losing his fingers, toes, ears, or nose to frostbite, nor would it stop the resulting blisters from getting infected and killing him before spring.

Dimitry needed more than food. He needed shelter, firewood, and clothes. Shoes for his bare feet, freshwater for hydration, a bed to avoid sleeping on a dirty street floor where unknown otherworldly vermin crawled and parasites thrived.

Simply put, he needed a job.

Ravenfall.

If the scarce signs on shop and fortification walls were anything to go by, that was the name of the city Dimitry found himself in. It was one of many discoveries he made while trudging through its streets, bearing the uninviting glares of residents at every crowded intersection. However, neither the civilians’ scorn, the soreness in his legs, nor the empty pit in his stomach prevented him from scouring this strange place for employment.

From warehouses beside a central river to bathhouses and stables, he kept a mental ledger of any establishment that might hire someone like himself. But menial labor wasn’t his goal. What he wanted most was an opening that suited an out-of-work surgeon. Dimitry could tolerate life here if he could work as a medical professional once more.

Unfortunately, finding employment wasn’t easy.

There was no clinic, hospital, or even a dentist anywhere. Not along the market streets, nor within a maze or cottages or a secluded neighborhood illuminated by obscure stones glowing with unnatural red light. Pondering whether that was the magic Samuel spoke of, Dimitry followed Ravenfall’s outer walls until reaching two massive archways.

They separated the flimsy wood-framed buildings littering most of the cityscape from an inner cocoon of impressive stone architecture, including spacious houses, a towering cathedral, and luxurious stores. Down a pristine central road was a group of women in brightly dyed dresses who flirted with men in ornate tunics beneath the roof of a central pavilion. Beyond was a castle more dilapidated than in any fairytale.

If there was employment for a skilled surgeon anywhere, it was here.

Dimitry approached for a closer look, to find at last the historic equivalent to a medical office where he could work, but a swathe of guards with glowing pikes warned off his advance with murderous scowls. One even raised a strange pipe-like weapon to their chest.

Their message was clear.

Bottom dwellers like him were unwelcome.

Limping on a foot whose sole burned with every icy gravel step, Dimitry heeded their advice. They would kill him before he could come close enough to explain his situation. Although life in this world hadn’t been easy, that didn’t mean Dimitry wanted it to end. The time he wasted in the oncology ward earned him an appreciation for the minutiae. Even staying upright on one’s own feet, no matter how sore they were, was to be savored.

Advancing careers would come later. Staying alive took priority.

Armed with a list of potential employers, Dimitry moved on to the next stage of his plan: preparing for job interviews. The most immediate goal was to attain a presentable appearance. Grime stained his odorous rags, and an overgrown dirty-blond beard mired his face. He didn’t have the funds to amend his appearance with clothes or to visit one of several barbers’ shops along the market streets, but fortunately, he had life experience.

Cradled in Dimitry’s arm were two large rocks: one long and purple, the other deep black and glassy. Rough corundum and obsidian. Both minerals formed near volcanoes, and for them to be worthless enough for a mason to dump them beside their cottage hinted that one lay nearby.

Dimitry would fashion his haul into crude shaving equipment.

His idea came from a surgeon co-worker on Earth who used obsidian scalpels. Being a natural glass, microscopically thin edges formed upon shattering. Further processing allowed for a sharpness hundreds of times greater than any stainless steel blade, resulting in clean surgical incisions.

Dimitry, of course, never had a use for obsidian blades. Although they sliced skin with ease, the mineral’s brittleness meant it broke with the slightest mishandling. The fear of leaving volcanic glass fragments beneath a patient’s skin during a routine procedure wasn’t worth the potential benefits, especially considering the superior safety of blunt dissection. Sometimes a gloved finger was all a surgeon needed to separate tissue.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times. Dimitry needed to shave his beard. Without money, rough obsidian ‘blades’ were his best choice, and without a sink, a river would suffice.

It was the same river he passed twice while exploring Ravenfall. By cutting across the city diagonally, it divided the city into two.

Dimitry passed an arched bridge and a modest port to kneel by the water’s edge. A blue and clear beauty under overcast skies. While biological waste tainted the river, an absence of modern technology meant that the water here had fewer industrial contaminants than on Earth.

Dimitry wondered about the parasites hidden within its depths. His immune system was accustomed to Earth’s microbiology, and just like the Aztec civilization crumbled under an onslaught of foreign germs, he could die from the ones here. Or was his biological makeup too alien for this world’s pathogens to harm him?

While exploring, he came across people with unique phenotypes like azure hair and magenta irises—traits unheard of in humans. Were they the result of mutant alleles or the most groundbreaking cases of convergent evolution in existence? Perhaps all intelligent life was preordained to evolve a humanoid body.

Dimitry leaned forward to gaze into the river’s pristine waters. His reflected face had an uncharacteristic youthful vigor to it. Setting aside the clumps of dirt entwined in his beard and hair, the man who was in his mid-thirties now appeared as he did in his twenties.

Why was Dimitry young?

What the hell happened to him in the dark hall?

Would he ever return home?

He ignored the questions that sought to be answered and a sensation of something sinking within his stomach—the realization that he would never see his family or friends again.

Dimitry was alone.

Shaking his head to clear his mind of superfluous thought, he dug a mud pit and fit the obsidian chunk within such that it couldn’t move. His right hand tightened around the corundum stake while the other grasped a nearby piece of basalt. The poor man’s hammer and chisel were ready.

Dimitry’s jaw clenched as he aimed the makeshift corundum chisel towards the obsidian. He shifted away his vital organs to avoid penetrating trauma from ejected volcanic shards.

Cold air rushed into his nostrils as the echoes of shattering glass sliced the air.

Dimitry examined his hands and torso for breached skin. There was none. Exhaling a relieved breath, he cautiously searched the glassy debris for the straightest obsidian shard before burying the rest beneath layers of stone and dirt to avoid having an unwitting passerby accidentally step on them.

Makeshift razor clenched between two outstretched fingers, Dimitry edged closer to the river. The crystal waters would suffice in place of a mirror. He rinsed his face to remove stiff grime from his beard, then brought the sharp obsidian to his face, focusing on his reflection in the slow-flowing water. Although he didn’t sharpen the dark purple blade, its edge was more than capable of slicing hair and skin.

The sideburns went first. Then the hair on his cheek lines, mustache, and his chin. Finally, it came time for what concerned Dimitry most—the neck.

A bit of pressure was the difference between clean-shaven and severing one of two carotid arteries before promptly bleeding to death. Even with all the surgical advancements on Earth, the prognosis often led to unconsciousness and death long before a physician reached the patient.

But Dimitry’s hands were steady. Thankfully, his time-honed muscle memory transferred to this world alongside a youthful physique. Swathes of beard hair fell into the river and drifted away until a young man’s reflection remained.

There was an unexpected satisfaction that came with freshening up despite his obscure situation. No. It was because of Dimitry’s situation. A lack of resources couldn’t prevent him from getting a job. He would use the income to end his reliance on the Church and fund a clinical practice that would revolutionize medicine forever. As his wealth grew, Dimitry could investigate these twisted lands for other Earth refugees and a way home.

It wasn’t the life he had ever envisioned for himself, but it was better than laying semi-conscious in a hospital bed.

The exhilaration of another chance.

He would use this one well.

Wearing a slight grin, Dimitry buried his obsidian razor deep within the dirt. Now came the last step before he applied for a job. A preemptive chill crawled down his spine as his foot stepped into the river’s icy waters. Although he risked hypothermia by bathing, now was his best chance—midday was warmest and the weather would only grow colder every day he waited.

The gunk coating his ‘clothes’ dispersed in a calm current, revealing different colored cloth scraps layering over what was once a simple, white robe. Tears and loose string covered the rugged fabric.

Although not the suit and tie one would wear to an interview, fortunately for Dimitry, only the wealthy had pristine clothes. Warehouse workers hauling sacks and crates along Ravenfall’s pier wore similarly torn apparel. Some didn’t even have shirts.

Dimitry submerged the mismatching cloth rags into riverside mud to avoid hauling wet trash to every interview, then marked the burial spot with piled rocks. Spare cloth always had a use.