The real world welcomed him not with warmth, but with cold cement, city dust, and a cracked ceiling above the thin mattress he called a bed.
Ronan Winter was back.
The world had not changed while he was gone. No magic, no whispers of fate, no ancient prophecy chasing him. Just the same stale air, flickering hallway lights of his apartment building, and the loud arguments echoing from the next room.
His stomach grumbled as he sat up. The grocery list he scribbled yesterday was now pointless—he didn't have the money. He stared at the dusty coins on his counter, barely enough for cheap bread. A sigh escaped him.
He wasn't Velrion anymore. He wasn't the chosen one, or the borrowed soul. He was Ronan Winter, the orphan. Seventeen. Alone. And apparently, now a runaway from destiny.
The streets were just as brutal as before. Cold eyes. Loud cars. Cheap perfume and exhaust smoke. Ronan kept his head down as he made his way past the corner shop, then took a left through an alley shortcut. He didn't make it far before the familiar sound of mocking voices reached his ears.
"Well, look who it is," said a sneering voice. "Still wearing that same jacket from three years ago?"
Three boys stood blocking his path—sons of rich families who had nothing better to do than flex their money through cruelty. The middle one, Grayson, had his perfectly gelled hair and smug grin polished for public humiliation.
"Thought you died," Grayson said, leaning forward. "Or maybe you were just too busy begging somewhere else."
Ronan didn't flinch. Not this time. He stepped around them without a word.
"Hey!" One of the boys shoved him hard. Ronan stumbled but didn't fall.
"You're too proud to beg, huh?" Grayson said. "Too good for us? You live in a dump. Don't act like some silent samurai."
Ronan's fists clenched. If they only knew where he had been, what he had seen...
But they didn't. And he wasn't about to explain.
He walked on.
Back at home, he stared at his ceiling again. His ribs ached—not from battle, not from magic, not from fighting monsters—but from being seventeen, broke, and hungry. No food. No power. No glory. Just the bitter taste of escape.
Maybe this was better. Maybe all that hero stuff was a fever dream. Maybe destiny didn't suit someone like him.
He closed his eyes.
Two days passed. Then three.
He took odd jobs. Cleaning windows, packing boxes in the back of dusty shops, even sweeping for a meat vendor who paid him in leftovers.
The rhythm was dull but familiar. Wake up. Survive. Sleep.
He was walking home one evening when he heard her voice.
"That's him, right? The kid who disappeared?"
A girl stood by a mural, arms crossed. Her hair was tied up messily, paint stains on her sleeves. She looked maybe a year older than him, her expression unreadable.
"You don't know me," Ronan said quickly, brushing past.
"No, but I know what you are."
He stopped.
"What did you say?"
"I know your type," she said, stepping forward. "You were one of them. A Borrowed. You've seen the other side, haven't you?"
His heart skipped. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"You were there," she said. "And now you're here, wasting away in some broken place, hiding from whatever scared you. You ran away from it."
Ronan's hands went cold. "Shut up."
"Why? Because it's true?" she said, almost laughing. "You're a coward. You were chosen, and you backed out. You think surviving here makes you strong? This is hiding."
"Who even are you?"
"Someone who didn't run," she said. "Someone who stayed and fought. I saw your face when you first arrived in the other world. You looked... lost. Like someone torn out of place."
Ronan stared at her. "You were there?"
She nodded. "Only for a while. Got pulled back. But I didn't quit."
He looked away. "You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think," she said, voice lower now. "It's scary. The weight of it. The prophecy crap. But you think being poor and bullied is harder than saving people who are dying? You think this,"—she waved around—"this life you call freedom... you think it means anything?"
Ronan said nothing.
She leaned in slightly. "There are others like us. Scattered. Broken. Some went mad. Some turned evil. Most of us didn't choose to be there. But we stayed."
Her words burrowed into his mind like thorns.
He stayed silent as she turned to leave. "You'll see eventually," she said. "No one escapes the calling forever."
That night, Ronan lay awake, eyes wide open. The ceiling was still cracked. The city still buzzed.
But his mind wasn't here.
He was back in that world—in dreams.
The skies were violet and blue. The mountains sang with wind. The world shimmered like an endless painting. The stars pulsed above glowing forests. And his name echoed through the wind.
Velrion.
It didn't sound like a title anymore. It sounded like a memory.
Maybe he had made a mistake.
He sat up slowly.
What if there were others like him out there? Lost. Chosen. Alone.
What if the girl was right?
Ronan closed his eyes, the images flooding back. The book. The ghost. The old man. The first steps he took into that dreamlike land. The way the people looked at him. The fear. The hope.
He had left them behind.
But he wasn't sure if they had ever left him.