Rain splattered against the windshield in relentless sheets, each drop distorting the glow of streetlights and neon signs that flickered through the gloom. The night was alive with noise—the blaring horns of impatient drivers, the screech of tires sliding over wet asphalt, and the low hum of his car's engine, struggling to keep pace. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale from the effort.
How had it come to this? His life, once so predictable and mundane, had spiraled into chaos in the span of a few months. He barely remembered the decision to get behind the wheel that night, let alone the events that had led him here. All he knew was that he couldn't stop. Not now. Not when the consequences were catching up to him.
The city skyline loomed in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the bruised sky. Lightning flashed, illuminating the darkness for a split second before plunging it back into obscurity. He felt a deep, gnawing ache in his chest—not physical, but emotional. Regret. A bitter taste of unfulfilled dreams and missed opportunities.
He had always been an observer. A reader of books. A viewer of shows. A dreamer who had spent countless hours imagining himself in worlds where heroes rose to meet their destiny. But in his own life, he had never been brave. Never been bold. He had played it safe, always standing on the sidelines while others took risks and made choices that mattered.
Now, staring into the oncoming headlights of a truck barreling toward him, he realized the truth: he was no hero. He was ordinary, forgettable. Just another thread in a tapestry too vast to notice his presence.
The collision was inevitable. The impact, deafening. Time slowed as the car crumpled under the force, glass shattering in glittering shards that danced through the air. His body lurched forward, the seatbelt cutting into his chest, and for a brief moment, the pain was overwhelming. Then it was gone. Everything was gone.
---
He woke to the soft whisper of leaves stirring in the wind. For a long moment, he lay motionless, his senses sluggish, as though he were swimming through molasses. His eyelids felt heavy, but eventually they parted to reveal a kaleidoscope of green and gold—the towering canopy of an ancient forest. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting a lattice of shadows and brilliance upon the ground.
His first sensation was the dampness of grass against his palms. His fingers curled instinctively, clutching the earth beneath him as if grounding himself in reality. Yet reality felt so distant, so impossibly strange. His breathing came unevenly, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. Where was he? How had he survived? The memories were fleeting—a crash, the sound of shattering glass, pain, and then... this.
He rose shakily to his knees, glancing down at his clothes. The familiarity of his jeans and t-shirt was unsettling, a stark reminder of the world he had come from—a world that should have taken his life. There were no wounds, no signs of the fatal collision that had ended his existence in the modern world. His body felt whole, unmarked. The only evidence of what had transpired was the uneasy tremor in his limbs and the frantic whirl of questions in his mind.
Pushing himself to his feet, he gazed around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The forest stretched endlessly in all directions, its trees ancient and gnarled, their roots tangled like veins beneath the earth. The air was fresh, clean, and earthy, carrying the faint scent of pine and wildflowers. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced—not even the wildest wilderness in his world could compare. Yet it was not the beauty of the place that struck him most; it was the feeling. The world around him pulsed with life, as though the very fabric of the forest had been woven into something greater, something infinite.
And then, it clicked.
His breath hitched as realization dawned. The descriptions, the imagery—it all matched. The ancient woods, the golden light, the quiet hum of existence. This was not his world. It couldn't be. Slowly, hesitantly, the words formed in his mind: The Two Rivers. He had read of this place, seen it come to life on-screen, imagined walking its paths and living its stories. Now, somehow, impossibly, he was here.
His mind reeled with possibilities. This was the Wheel of Time universe. But how? Why? He staggered forward, his boots crunching against fallen leaves, his thoughts a tangled mess of disbelief and recognition. Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Was this some kind of afterlife? The crash had been real, hadn't it? He had felt the pain, heard the deafening roar. But now he was standing, breathing, alive—and trapped in a world that shouldn't exist.
Shaking his head, he tried to focus. Panicking wouldn't solve anything. If he was truly here, truly part of this universe, he needed a plan. He needed to survive. But where would he begin? He had no provisions, no map, no idea what dangers lay in wait. And yet, deep down, he felt an odd sense of calm. It was as though the Pattern itself was guiding his steps, pulling him toward something—or someone.
The thought was both comforting and terrifying. Did this world recognize him as an intruder? Would it reject him, cast him out, or worse? He pressed onward, driven by instinct and the faint whisper of hope. If the forest around him truly belonged to the Two Rivers, then the village of Emond's Field had to be nearby. He just had to find it.
The path ahead was uneven, roots twisting across the ground like obstacles placed by an unseen hand. His boots caught on them more than once, sending him stumbling forward, but he refused to stop. The forest grew denser, the sunlight dimming as the canopy closed overhead. Time passed in a blur as he trekked onward, his thoughts oscillating between awe and dread.
Every sound felt amplified—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of birds, the snap of a twig beneath his foot. Yet for all the natural beauty around him, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The forest, though vibrant and alive, carried a sense of quiet vigilance, as though it were aware of his presence and waiting to see what he would do.
He paused, leaning against the trunk of a tree to catch his breath. His muscles ached, his mind fatigued from the constant churn of questions. Closing his eyes, he tried to center himself, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing. Yet even as he sought peace, he couldn't ignore the truth that gnawed at his thoughts: he didn't belong here. He was an intruder, an anomaly in a world with rules and laws he could barely comprehend.
But the forest remained silent, as though accepting his presence—or perhaps biding its time.
---
The forest grew darker with every step he took. At first, he thought it was merely the thickening of the trees overhead, their branches interwoven so tightly that little sunlight could filter through. But as he moved deeper, the air grew heavy, oppressive, and cold, as though some unseen force was pressing down on him. The birds that had chirped merrily earlier were now silent, and even the rustling leaves seemed to have stilled, replaced by an eerie quiet that set his nerves on edge.
He stopped abruptly, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. He scanned his surroundings, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of what had caused the forest to shift so suddenly. The shadows around him seemed to stretch unnaturally, twisting and writhing as though alive. A shiver ran down his spine.
Then, it came.
"You do not belong here."
The voice was not loud, yet it filled every corner of his mind, as though spoken directly into his thoughts. It was smooth, almost gentle, but with an underlying malice that made his blood run cold. He froze, unable to move or even breathe. The presence was overwhelming, a tide of darkness that threatened to drown him.
"Who's there?" he whispered, his voice trembling. He didn't expect an answer, but the voice chuckled, low and sinister.
"You already know, child of another world. You have felt my gaze upon you, even before you stepped into my domain."
His stomach twisted as realization dawned. He had read of this presence, had seen its effects on those who dared to challenge it. The Dark One. The embodiment of chaos and destruction, the enemy of the Light. And now, it was speaking to him.
"You are an anomaly," the voice continued, its tone almost amused. "A thread in the Pattern that should not exist, yet here you are. The Wheel has woven you into its design, but it has not granted you purpose. You are adrift, powerless... unless you choose otherwise."
The shadows around him began to coalesce, forming a shape that defied description. It was neither man nor beast, neither solid nor entirely formless, but its presence was suffocating. He wanted to run, but his legs refused to move. He wanted to scream, but the words caught in his throat. All he could do was stare as the darkness pressed closer, encircling him like a predator stalking its prey.
"I offer you power," the Dark One said, its voice as smooth as silk and as sharp as a blade. "The True Power. It is not the One Power that the Aes Sedai wield, bound by their laws and limitations. It is raw, unbridled, and yours to command. With it, you can shape the Pattern itself, bend the Wheel to your will. You could do great things... if you have the courage to accept."
The offer hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and ominous. He had read enough to understand the dangers of the True Power. It was volatile, destructive, and deeply corrupting. Those who wielded it were forever marked, their souls tainted by the darkness. But as he stood there, trembling and afraid, he couldn't deny the temptation. The Pattern had brought him to this world, but it had not given him any of the skills or abilities needed to survive. He was just a man, ordinary and weak, in a world filled with dangers beyond comprehension.
"You fear what lies ahead," the Dark One said, its tone softer now, almost coaxing. "You fear that you will fail, that you will be nothing more than a forgotten thread in the tapestry. But I see your potential. I can grant you the power to make a difference, to shape your destiny and protect those you care about. All I ask is a simple task: guide the boy, the shepherd. Lead him to me, to the Last Battle, where our destinies shall collide."
He hesitated. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to refuse, to run, to fight the darkness with everything he had. But what did he have? Nothing. He was powerless, lost in a world he barely understood. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to help the people of the Two Rivers and protect Rand al'Thor, he needed power. He needed the True Power.
"I accept," he said finally, his voice trembling. The moment the words left his lips, the shadows surged forward, enveloping him completely. Cold fire coursed through his veins, burning him from the inside out. He screamed, the sound echoing through the forest, but the pain was relentless. It felt as though his very soul was being reshaped, twisted into something new.
When it was over, he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. The shadows retreated, their presence lingering like a bitter aftertaste. The True Power coursed through him now, dark and potent, filling him with a strength he had never known. But it came at a cost. He could feel it already—the gnawing exhaustion, the faint ache in his chest, the sickly pull of the darkness within him.
"Do not fail me," the Dark One's voice echoed faintly as the shadows dissipated. "The Pattern has granted you this opportunity. Use it wisely."
---
The forest was quiet once more, as though the encounter had never happened. Yet everything had changed. He sat on the cold, damp ground, trembling and broken, but alive. The True Power lingered within him, dark and volatile, a constant reminder of the deal he had made. He clenched his fists, determination hardening his features.
He would use this power, but not for the Dark One's ends. He would protect Rand and the others, even if it meant defying the darkness itself.
The forest was quiet now, its earlier ominousness replaced by a strange stillness that felt neither welcoming nor hostile. He sat against the trunk of a tree, his breathing uneven, his body trembling. The encounter with the Dark One had left him shaken, the memory of shadows and whispers still vivid in his mind. But more than the fear, there was something else—an unfamiliar sensation coursing through him, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
The True Power.
It was dark, volatile, and potent, like electricity crackling beneath his skin. He had agreed to wield it, had accepted the burden it carried, but now that it was his, he didn't know what to do with it. He flexed his fingers, staring at his hands as though expecting them to glow or spark. Nothing happened. For a moment, he wondered if it had all been a dream, some cruel trick played by his mind to make sense of his impossible reality.
But as he focused, willing himself to feel the power, something stirred. It was faint at first, like a whisper at the edge of hearing, but it grew stronger with every passing second. Shadows began to curl around his fingers, barely visible against the dim light. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying, as though he were holding a fire that could consume him at any moment.
He clenched his fists, extinguishing the shadows, and stood shakily. The forest stretched before him, its paths winding like veins through the earth. If the Pattern had brought him here, and the Dark One had tasked him with guiding Rand to the Last Battle, then he had no time to waste. He needed to reach Emond's Field, to find Rand and the others before the wheel of events began to turn.
As he walked, he tried again to summon the True Power. This time, he focused his thoughts on something small—a fallen branch lying in his path. He reached out with his mind, willing the shadows to lift it. The darkness responded eagerly, curling around the branch like tendrils, but the moment it began to rise, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He gasped, clutching his shirt as the shadows dropped the branch and dissipated. The ache lingered, faint but insistent, a reminder of the cost of wielding such power.
It wasn't just physical. He could feel the strain in his mind, the toll it took on his thoughts and emotions. The True Power wasn't just a tool—it was a burden, one that threatened to consume him if he wasn't careful. He had read of the dangers, had seen them play out in the books and the show, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely.
Still, he pressed onward, determined to understand his abilities. He couldn't afford to waste them, not when the fate of the world hung in the balance. As he walked, he experimented with small tasks—lifting stones, creating faint flashes of light, even healing a shallow cut on his hand. Each success was followed by exhaustion, the ache in his chest growing sharper with every attempt. Yet he couldn't stop. He needed to push himself, to learn his limits.
The forest seemed to change as he moved deeper into its depths. The trees grew taller, their trunks thicker, their roots winding across the path like obstacles placed by an unseen hand. The air grew cooler, the light dimmer, and the sounds of nature seemed more distant. It was as though the forest itself was testing him, challenging him to prove his worth.
He paused near a stream, kneeling to scoop up a handful of water. The cold liquid refreshed him, washing away some of the fatigue that had settled into his bones. As he drank, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water—his face pale, his eyes shadowed, his expression haunted. The True Power had left its mark on him, even if it wasn't visible to the villagers he would soon meet.
The thought of Emond's Field brought a flicker of hope to his heart. He had read so much about the village, had seen its depiction on-screen, but now he would stand among its people, live their stories, and become a part of their lives. Rand, Mat, Perrin, Egwene—they were no longer characters in a tale, but real people whose destinies were intertwined with his own.
But the hope was tempered by fear. How would they react to him? Would they trust him, or would they see him as a threat? The True Power was not the One Power, and its dark nature was evident in every shadow that curled around his fingertips. He couldn't afford to reveal it, not yet. He needed to gain their trust, to prove himself as an ally before the truth of his abilities came to light.
---
The forest opened slowly, as if reluctant to release him from its grasp. The dense canopy began to thin, allowing more sunlight to filter through and warm his skin. The oppressive stillness gave way to the distant murmur of life—voices carried on the breeze, the bleating of sheep, the rhythmic thump of a hammer against wood. He crested a small hill and stopped dead in his tracks.
There it was. Emond's Field.
The village lay nestled in a shallow valley, its thatched-roof houses clustered around a central green where children played and villagers moved about their daily tasks. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys, and fields stretched out to the horizon, dotted with workers tending to crops and livestock. It was exactly as he had imagined, yet so much more. Seeing it with his own eyes, breathing the same air, he felt a strange mix of awe and fear.
For a moment, he hesitated. He was an outsider, a stranger with secrets that could damn him in an instant. The True Power lingered just beneath the surface, a dark presence he couldn't entirely suppress. How would the people react to him? Would they see him as a threat? Worse, what if they looked too closely and discovered the truth?
He forced himself to move. Whatever doubts he carried, the Pattern had brought him here for a reason. If Rand and the others were the key to the Last Battle, then this was where his journey had to begin. He adjusted the straps of his pack—a simple bundle of supplies he had scavenged from the forest—and made his way down the hill.
As he approached the outskirts of the village, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It was rich and earthy, a blend of fresh-baked bread, tilled soil, and livestock. It was a stark contrast to the sterile, processed air of the modern world, and he found himself breathing deeply, savoring the difference. The second thing he noticed was the noise. Unlike the cacophony of the city, the sounds here were softer, more harmonious—the buzz of conversation, the bark of a dog, the creak of a wagon wheel. It was the sound of life, unhurried and uncomplicated.
A farmer passing by with a cart of hay gave him a curious glance but didn't stop. It was clear that strangers were a rarity here, but the people weren't unfriendly. He nodded politely and kept walking, his boots kicking up small clouds of dust on the dirt road. The closer he got to the heart of the village, the more nervous he became. Every step felt like a test, as though the Pattern itself were watching to see how he would handle his role.
When he reached the central green, he paused to take it all in. The villagers moved with a rhythm born of familiarity, their lives intertwined like the threads of a tapestry. He spotted the Winespring Inn, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. That would be the best place to start, he decided. If Moiraine and Lan were destined to arrive here, then the inn would be the focal point of their plans. Perhaps he could find work there, something to keep him close to the action without drawing too much attention.
As he approached the inn, he caught snippets of conversation from nearby villagers. They spoke of the harvest, the weather, and the upcoming Bel Tine festival. It was surreal to hear these familiar topics discussed as though they were real, and he had to remind himself that they were real now. These were not characters in a story; they were people with lives, hopes, and fears.
He stepped onto the wooden porch of the inn and hesitated. This was it—the first step in his new life. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior was warm and inviting, with a large fireplace crackling in the corner and the rich scent of stew wafting through the air. A few patrons glanced up at him curiously but quickly returned to their drinks and conversations.
The innkeeper, a stout man with a kind face and a hearty laugh, approached him with a welcoming smile. "Well now, you're a new face! Welcome to the Winespring Inn. What can I do for you?"
For a moment, he struggled to find the words. The warmth of the inn, the kindness in the man's eyes—it was overwhelming in its simplicity. Finally, he managed to say, "I'm new to the area. Looking for work, if there's any to be had."
The innkeeper's smile widened. "We can always use an extra pair of hands, especially with Bel Tine coming up. The name's Bran al'Vere. And you are?"
He hesitated, the question catching him off guard. What was his name now? The name he carried from his old life felt distant, almost irrelevant. After a brief pause, he offered the first name that came to mind. "You can call me Kael."
"Well then, Kael," Bran said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Welcome to Emond's Field. Let's see about getting you settled."
As Bran led him to the back of the inn to show him his quarters, Kael felt a strange sense of relief. For the first time since his arrival, he felt like he belonged, even if only temporarily. But as he followed the innkeeper, a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, a reminder of the power that now resided within him. The True Power was still there, waiting, watching, and it would not let him forget the price he had paid to stand here.
He had taken the first step into the Pattern, but the journey was far from over. Rand, Mat, Perrin, Egwene—all of them were here, their lives intertwined with his own. And though he couldn't see the full weave of the Pattern, he knew one thing for certain: his role in this story was just beginning.
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