Sleep found Ronan late into the night, but it was not the kind of sleep that offered peace. His body gave in, but his thoughts churned restlessly, clawing at the edge of something forgotten… something unresolved.
And then—
He was no longer in his cramped apartment.
He was in a house. A warm one. Big, glowing with the golden haze of morning sun pouring through clean windows and curtains that swayed gently with the breeze. Hardwood floors beneath his feet. Paintings on the walls. The scent of toast and eggs wafted in from another room.
Ronan blinked.
"What… is this?"
The sound of footsteps came before a familiar voice.
"Ronan?" a soft voice called.
He turned.
His mother stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Her smile, kind and tired, was something he hadn't seen in years—not in this world, not in any memory that didn't ache.
"Mom?" he whispered.
She stepped forward and gently touched his cheek. "You've grown. Taller than your father now."
His knees went weak. "But… you're not…"
"I'm not supposed to be here?" she smiled sadly. "This place isn't real, sweetheart. But the message is."
He turned, heart thundering. "If you're not real, then what is this? Why now?"
"To remind you," she said softly. "Of what runs in your blood. Of what your father stood for."
The mention of him froze Ronan in place.
"Your father didn't run when the choice came," she said. "He accepted who he was. He bore the weight even when it broke him. You are your father's son, Ronan. Or should I say—"
She paused.
"…Velrion."
The name echoed like a bell inside his chest.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered.
"No one ever truly does," she said. "But running doesn't make it disappear. It only delays the inevitable."
"Why me, though? Why not someone stronger? Someone willing?"
His mother placed a hand over his heart. "Because this heart has both the burden and the courage. You've only scratched the surface of who you are."
She leaned close, her voice almost a whisper.
"Stop hiding in a world that never tried to understand you. You don't belong in the shadows, my son."
Then she began to fade.
"Wait!" he cried. "Don't go—please—"
Her final words lingered in the air:
"Find your truth, Velrion. Before someone else does… and uses it."
Ronan's eyes snapped open.
He was back in his dimly lit apartment. The silence felt heavier than usual. It took a moment for the dream to unravel from his skin, like mist leaving a field.
But something was wrong.
His apartment wasn't empty.
There, sitting cross-legged on his table, was a boy no older than him—hooded, smirking, dressed in strange layered garb that shimmered between cloth and scale. His boots were muddy, as if he'd just stepped out of a forest.
Ronan shot up, startled. "Who the hell are you?!"
The boy raised a brow and bit into an apple. "Relax. If I were an assassin, you'd already be dead."
"That's not comforting!"
"Didn't mean it to be."
Ronan's eyes darted to the dagger hidden under his mattress. The boy rolled his eyes.
"Oh please, sit down, Velrion. If I wanted a fight, I wouldn't have picked your kitchen table."
He froze. "…You know that name?"
"I know lots of things," the stranger said, tossing the apple core aside. "Like how you were supposed to be the big damn hero. Yet here you are. Whining. Sleeping. Almost crying."
"You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" the boy said, leaning forward, his eyes now glowing faintly. "You came from another world, ran back here thinking you'd find comfort. But all you found was hunger, bullies, and broken ceilings."
"…Who are you?" Ronan whispered.
The boy smiled wider now.
"A messenger. A reminder. Maybe even a warning."
Ronan's hands clenched the blanket. "Why now?"
"Because," the boy said, standing up and brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "Things are moving fast. And others know who you are now. You're not the only Borrowed with a legacy, Velrion."
He walked toward the window, gazing out at the blinking city lights.
"Soon, you'll have to choose. And there won't be a 'back' anymore."
Ronan stayed quiet, mind spinning.
"Get your act together," the boy added casually. "The war doesn't wait for the reluctant."
And with that, he vanished into thin air—no portal, no magic flash, just a flicker of space and the soft rustle of wind.
He sat for a long time in the silence that followed.
Then, slowly, he stood. He crossed the room, stepped to the mirror. His reflection stared back—tired eyes, messy hair, a seventeen-year-old who had seen two worlds and belonged to neither.
He breathed.
"Enough running."
He reached under his bed, pulled out the dagger he'd brought back from the other world. The blade pulsed faintly, sensing something. The moment he touched its hilt, a current of power sparked across his skin.
He wasn't Ronan anymore.
He whispered to his reflection:
"Velrion."
The world around him began to ripple.
Lights dimmed. Air thickened. The windows vibrated as though a great pressure pushed inward. The dagger in his hand glowed blue at the edges.
The doorway to the other world opened again, right there in his apartment—quietly, like a breath held too long.
No grand portal. No trumpet of destiny.
Just his choice.
And he stepped forward.
The world greeted him.
A golden sky. Floating leaves caught mid-air. Towering trees that shimmered with light. Creatures moved in the distance—some birdlike, some far stranger. Everything smelled rich, alive, ancient.
He wasn't in a dream.
He was home.
A breeze danced across his face. Somewhere far away, something stirred, as if sensing the return of a long-awaited name.
And in the hushed air of a reborn world—
Velrion had returned.