The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the quiet after a storm or the hush of a sleepy evening. This silence was heavy. Dense. It pressed down on everyone like invisible hands squeezing our lungs, forcing us to breathe slower, shallower, like making too much noise might wake something ancient and cruel.
No one spoke.
Not really. There were a few stifled breaths. Muffled sobs. A strangled whisper or two. But mostly, it was stillness. Shell-shocked stillness, the kind you see in war movies when the bomb's already gone off and the ringing won't stop.
And then—
Something moved.
Not in the crowd, not on the plains around us, but inside. Deep inside our skulls. A thrum of pressure at the base of my brain, like a thought that didn't belong to me trying to force its way in. My ears popped. My eyes watered. Then, all at once, I understood.
Words.
But not from a voice I could see. Not even in English, not really. Just... meaning. Injected directly into my thoughts. I glanced to my left. A man in military gear—mid-forties, squared jaw, that stiff posture that said he was used to giving orders—muttered something under his breath in a language I didn't recognize. Except I did.
I understood every word.
Then I looked right. Two elves, tall and graceful with armor that shimmered like moonlight, whispered something to each other in their own tongue. One of them glanced toward the humans with narrowed eyes. Their words should've sounded alien. Instead, they slipped straight into my brain, clear as if they'd spoken them in my ear.
I wasn't speaking their language. They weren't speaking mine. We were just... understanding.
And that's when people started to freak the hell out.
"What the hell did it do to us?!"
"Are we cursed?!"
"This is an abomination!"
"Shut up!"
The crowd exploded like someone had lit a match in a room full of gas. Shouts, screams, arguments, threats—voices rising over one another in a mess of panic and raw emotion. Some people pushed forward. Others backed away. Elves stood rigid, clearly unsettled but trying not to show it. The dwarves were already huddling, murmuring in low tones, their eyes flicking between the humans and the terrain like they were planning a fortress. The orcs? They just stood there. Watching. Arms crossed, faces unreadable, like this whole thing was an amusing inconvenience.
And then—
"Enough."
The voice sliced through the noise. Firm. Cold. Unyielding. And unmistakably human.
The chaos froze.
All heads turned.
A woman stepped forward from the cluster near the center. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't have to. Her presence alone did the work. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark brown hair tied back into a braid streaked with silver. Late twenties, maybe, but her eyes were older—sharp and cold and calculating. Eyes that didn't ask for respect. They demanded it.
She wore hiking boots, cargo pants, and a torn tactical jacket patched with strange fabric I didn't recognize. Armor of necessity, of survival, stitched together from two worlds.
"Lydia," someone whispered behind me.
I knew that name. Lydia Reyes. She wasn't just some soldier or survivor—she was the Lydia. Former UN peacekeeper, viral warzone correspondent, and the face of a global movement that once rallied millions to protest the last oil wars. She'd been on magazine covers, podcasts, newsfeeds—hell, even some of my classmates had a crush on her. If she was here, standing in the middle of this nightmare, then things were somehow even worse than I thought.
Lydia let the silence stretch as she scanned the group. Her eyes landed on the elves, the dwarves, the orcs, and finally swept across the humans like a teacher judging a room full of unruly students.
"You can panic. You can scream. You can argue about who's in charge. But it won't change where we are."
She turned and gestured outward.
"Look."
And for the first time, I really did.
The city was gone. No buildings. No cars. No roads. Just an endless stretch of natural beauty that had no business being real. Plains stretched out in every direction, broken only by thick forests and distant mountains. The air was crisp. Clean. The kind of clean you didn't realize you missed until it filled your lungs for the first time.
Above us, the sky had softened into that perfect blue you only ever saw in untouched nature documentaries. No smog. No satellites. No planes. Just a faint glow at the horizon where the light touched strange celestial shapes I couldn't name.
"This is our world now," Lydia continued, her voice steady. "We were taken. Chosen. Saved. Whatever you want to call it, it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that we're here—and the angel said we have six months."
A murmur moved through the crowd. People remembered the message.
"Six months," Lydia repeated, louder now. "Until those things come back. Until they reach this world. We don't know what they are. We don't know what they want. But we do know what they did to our last one."
I swallowed.
"So," she said, glancing from group to group, "are we going to spend that time fighting each other over who gets to sit on a pile of dirt? Or are we going to actually do something useful?"
Silence.
Then, predictably:
"Yes."
And just like that, the yelling resumed.
Hours passed. The sun crawled across the sky, and people did what people always do—they argued. Some shouted about safety. Some demanded weapons. The humans wanted their own space. The elves refused to kneel to anyone. The dwarves wanted territory, resources, and written treaties. The orcs? Still watching. Still silent. Still unreadable.
Lydia pushed for unity. She fought to make us one people, one front against the coming threat. But in the end, we weren't ready. No one was.
So the divisions began.
By the time the sun reached the horizon, the map was drawn:
Humans would take the Northwest—open fields and lakes, plenty of space to build, far from the others.
Elves claimed the Northeast—deep forests, strange ruins, lands that felt familiar to them.
Dwarves settled in the Southeast—rocky cliffs, caves, and raw resources.
Lydia and her followers moved Southwest—a mixed region of hills, rivers, and opportunity. A melting pot of everything. Risky, but with potential.
And in the center: the orcs and reptilian folk. A neutral zone, untouched, unclaimed. A place where deals could be struck—or wars could start.
The first nations of this world were born from necessity, not trust.
As the groups started to move, I just stood there.
Watching.
Frozen.
Where was I supposed to go?
The humans were technically my people, but every word they said made my skin crawl. Power-hungry. Scared. Proud. Ready to repeat the same mistakes that brought Earth to its knees.
Lydia's group felt chaotic. Messy. Unstable. But also... open. Like maybe, just maybe, something new could be built there.
My feet didn't move.
"Where are you going?"
The voice snapped me out of my daze.
Lydia stood beside me now, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
I blinked. Looked around. Everyone was walking. Leaving. Choosing their futures.
And I was still here.
"I... I don't know,"
My voice barely made it past my lips.
She studied me for a long second.
Then nodded, like that was answer enough.
And in that moment—
The sun set.
And the sky turned red.