You had gone walking alone in the mountains. The sky was clear, the air sharp against your lungs. A very, very old stone house was resting, abandoned between the wild, yellowishlandscape. Then the tremor came.

The earth split with a violent crack beneath your boots. The ground shook so hard it knocked you off balance. A ringing filled your ears. The world seemed to twist inward. You fell. When you woke, the silence was wrong.

There were goats nearby. And a man.

He stood a few paces away, gripping a wooden staff tightly in his calloused hand. His clothes were rough wool and linen, patched and worn from labor. His boots were mud-stained. His dark hair fell loosely around his face, wind-tangled.

His eyes were sharp. Suspicious. He stared at your clothes like they were unnatural.

“…Ye fell from the ridge?”

His voice was low, wary — rural, unpolished. He stepped closer, slowly.

“I heard the earth split.” His gaze hardens. “What are ye wearin’?” The goats shift nervously behind him.