«Have I lost my mind?»
He'd asked himself that question at least ten times since getting into that foul-smelling Kuber, its stubborn scent of garlic clinging even to the fabric of the doors. The driver, a man with a raspy, off-key voice, bellowed the first act of Pagliacci at full volume, as if he were performing at La Scala in Milan and not behind the wheel of a battered Fiat.
Giotto raised his hand, studying it carefully, frowning. In the time it took to blink, he could count every hair on his forearm. Every single one.
Suddenly, he remembered the neural networks course he'd taken back at university. Along with it came the sour stench of a second-string football player who used to sit beside him, the scratchy texture of the seat, the lifeless, weary voice of a professor who clearly despised his job. Everything so vivid, so precise.
It was absurd. But he couldn't help it. Everything felt so sharp, so meticulous, that his own body was starting to seem foreign.
"Pagliacci!" the driver screeched, jolting him from his thoughts.
"Here," Giotto called out, gesturing with his hand.
The car stopped two blocks short of the square. He'd have to walk the rest of the way.
His phone read 12:30. The sun beat down mercilessly on the uneven tiles. The street was packed, and weaving through the crowd was tricky even for a local. Yet something felt different. Giotto felt… light. As if he were floating. The exhaustion was still there, but changed. His steps felt steady, almost detached from effort.
The usual gray despair he carried after each day's grind was gone. For some reason, he felt different, as though his body had learned to breathe in a new way.
He was still tired, but it was a different kind of tired. His chest rose and fell quickly, though not with its usual ragged wheezing.
"Sorry," he mumbled, bumping into a man passing by.
The stranger shot him a look of contempt, rubbing his arm as though he'd been shocked.
A tingling. On his left wrist.
Giotto quickened his pace. Luckily, his building wasn't far. He crossed a few more streets and turned right down a grimy alley: boxes stacked against a graffiti-scarred wall, garbage bins by the entrance, and a strange, foul-smelling black liquid pooling over the pavement.
An itch prickled on his left hand, right where the mark was. It wasn't intense — more like a mosquito bite — but he couldn't help scratching at it as he held his keys.
He pushed open the building's door and bolted up the stairs. The key slid perfectly into the lock on the first try, which was rare for him, and he burst inside.
The apartment was a modest studio: a kitchen crammed into one corner, an unmade bed in the other, a narrow door leading to the bathroom, and a couch he still didn't understand how he'd managed to haul up the stairs.
His body moved on its own, collapsing heavily onto the bed.
He was grateful the office had given him the day off.
For a moment, in that apartment heavy with the stench of garbage drifting through the open window, staring at the damp, gray ceiling, he tried to close his eyes — but the darkness had eyes of its own. Oddly, he didn't feel afraid. It was something else. A sense of change, unpleasant and unsettling, like the day his dog died.
He got up and headed for the small bathroom. He turned on the tap and let the water run over his hands before splashing his face.
The water swirled down the sink in perfect spirals. Giotto held his breath. Among the drops, he saw the reflection of a city of glass, a violet sky…
"This isn't real," he muttered, yanking the faucet shut.
The knob snapped in two.
In the mirror, his face was twisted in terror.
He tugged the tap again. It cracked like baked clay. He gasped. Stared at his reflection. His own eyes returned a strange, glassy, dilated stare. He punched the mirror in a desperate attempt to regain control.
The glass shattered. A rain of fragments fell to the floor.
But when he lowered his hand… no cut. Just intact skin streaked with red.
He staggered out of the bathroom, the door slamming against the wall. Grabbed his keys and, without thinking, flung open the apartment door. He needed to get out, to clear his head. Pain hammered in his skull, his eyes blurred, and for a moment he felt about to collapse.
"Ah!"
He collided with a massive bookshelf. Dusty notebooks and ancient scrolls toppled onto his head. He looked up. A gray room, windowless, doorless. Only that enormous shelf, and at the far end, a circle of light suspended in midair.
«No… I…»
The mark on his wrist burned. A sharp stab directly into his brain. Images overflowed.
He felt his nose bleed. Dropped to his knees. A convulsion. Saliva mixed with blood. White foam coated his lips. Entire worlds flickered through his mind. Centuries of alien knowledge. Unchecked power. Moral decay. A life of unimaginable pleasures. And in every vision, one constant remained: the same man he'd tried to help the night before… The Traveler.
When he woke, silence.
He coughed, spat dry blood. His breathing ragged. And then — laughter. Low at first, cracked, then unrestrained. He laughed until no air was left in his lungs.
And then, nothing. Silence again.
Giotto wiped his face, drenched in sweat. Stood up. Looked at the bookshelf. Dozens of ancient tomes, untitled codices, and journals from his own memories.
"I need… proof," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Slowly, he brushed the dust from his clothes — though not a speck of dust existed in that dimension — and approached the circular portal that served as the gateway to that pocket world.
He turned to the portal. Hesitated. Then stepped forward. Another step. And crossed through.
His apartment greeted him with its sour scent of dampness.
The portal closed behind him.
Without wasting a second, Giotto locked the door and drew the curtains to keep out any prying eyes.
He took a deep breath.
"I have to try…"
He focused. Closed his eyes. Imagined how to tear through the air. And did it — using the only form of travel he'd inherited from the Traveler.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his apartment.
The sun slammed down on him. He looked around. Tall trees lined the horizon, birds screeching among the branches.
Giotto retched up water onto the damp soil.
"Damn it…" he panted — right before feeling something sharp press against his back.
"Witch!"
Giotto froze at the word, turning slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves.
In front of him, a man in metal armor, sword leveled at him. Behind him, tied to a tree, a beautiful white horse grazed beside an improvised camp. The man shifted his sword to aim for Giotto's throat, readying for a swift decapitation.
"I'll give you one chance, witch," the man barked, "Tell me who you are."
Fortunately, the language wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Giotto had learned English at university and spoke it reasonably well, though the dialect and accent were utterly alien.
"A thousand apologies, sir, if I've caught you at a bad time," Giotto exclaimed in clumsy, heavily accented English, bowing awkwardly.
"At least you've manners. Tell me, peasant — where in the hell does that accent of yours come from?"
Giotto stared at him, unsure what to say. So, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"Rome..."
"Rome?" the man asked, amused. "Boy, Rome fell a long time ago."
A knot tightened in Giotto's stomach. He tried to summon what little courage remained in his voice.
"If you don't mind my asking… where am I?"
The man let out a sharp snort before answering, never lowering his sword.
"At this moment, sorcerer, you stand in the lands of Duke Oswald, in the north of Britain. And you, witch, are coming with me."