New Delhi's winter mornings were always fog-drenched and filled with unspoken tension—especially inside the South Block. But for Tejas Kamble, this morning had tasted like long-delayed vindication.
At 31, he was already one of the rising stars of India's diplomatic corps. From the bustling campus of Fergusson College in Pune to the sleepless nights of UPSC preparation in Thane, to three failed attempts and finally, glory—his path to the Indian Foreign Service had been anything but easy. He had topped his cadre's diplomatic training at SSIFS after his initial grounding in public administration at LBSNAA, and he was now stepping into his first major international posting: Third Secretary at the Indian Embassy in Moscow.
But the world he entered was anything but peaceful.
It was February 2025. The Ukraine-Russia conflict had grown colder in the trenches and hotter on the global stage. Even a junior diplomat like Tejas couldn't avoid the political heat. His job, meant to be mostly internal documentation and consular matters, had suddenly expanded. In just months, he had found himself attending backdoor summits, gathering ground-level intelligence, and writing policy drafts that—surprisingly—made their way up to South Block.
And then came the shock.
One morning, his Ambassador summoned him with a serious expression. "Tejas, the Permanent Mission wants you in Geneva. The UN General Assembly is holding an emergency summit next week. The Foreign Secretary wants you to speak on India's position regarding humanitarian corridors and neutrality."
Tejas blinked.
He wasn't supposed to be the one speaking in Geneva. That was for the veterans. He had never even addressed a crowd beyond an embassy event. But he accepted, as any soldier of the state would.
And on that fateful day—clad in a navy blue Nehru jacket over a crisp white kurta, with a pocket square bearing the Indian tricolour—Tejas Kamble stepped onto the stage of international diplomacy.
He didn't stumble. He didn't freeze.He spoke—not just for the government, but for the people. About the children under bombs, the mothers waiting across closed borders, the cities turned to dust. He delivered India's stand—non-aligned, humanitarian-first, peace-driven—with dignity and moral weight that made even hardened diplomats pause.
Then… it happened.
Right as he stepped down from the podium, the entire hall darkened.
Not a blackout. Not a glitch.
A light, soft and golden, pulsed from the ceiling, like a living heartbeat. Time froze. Conversations halted mid-breath. Faces distorted as if in water. And then that light spiraled down, wrapping around Tejas like strands of divine silk.
The floor cracked under his feet.
And he fell—not downward, but outward, as if space itself had inverted.
Tejas Kamble awoke with a jolt, face pressed against damp earth.
His first breath was not of sterile UN air but of wild soil—muddy, sharp with rain, and laced with something metallic. He blinked rapidly. Trees swayed above him, tall and unfamiliar. The sunlight was golden, almost too golden, as if filtered through an ancient oil painting. There were no buildings, no lights, no Geneva.
No sound of conflict. Just birds… and somewhere nearby, a flowing stream.
His hands clutched at his chest, but the lapel of his Nehru jacket was gone. Instead, he wore a coarse, deep brown cloak. His boots were leather—real leather, not synthetic. His skin tingled. He scrambled to his feet and turned in every direction, heart racing.
Where was this? A dream? A hallucination?He knew disorientation. He'd handled shell-shocked refugees. This was different.
Just then, a snap of a branch behind him. He spun instinctively.
Two men stood nearby—no, not men. Knights? One wore full plate armor, polished to a dark sheen, with a deep blue crest on the shoulder: two golden hawks crossing talons. The other had a crimson cloak and a longsword strapped across his back. Both froze as Tejas stared at them in horror.
"Master Rayen?" the knight in blue whispered, lowering to one knee.
Tejas' throat tightened. "Who?"
"Master Rayen Langford… are you well?"
Tejas took a cautious step back. "Listen, I don't know who you think I—"
Before he could finish, a flood of memories not his own crashed into him like waves: a dimly lit manor… sword duels at dawn… a voice saying, "You are heir to the Langford Crest, Rayen…"
Tejas stumbled, gripping his temples. These weren't dreams. They were memories, embedded deep, as if someone had written them onto his soul.
"I… I don't…" he gasped.
The knight stepped forward gently. "My lord… I am Ser Caelis Ronmere, your sworn sword. You collapsed outside the woods after sparring practice. Please… tell me you remember."
Caelis' voice was thick with emotion, but restrained, measured.
Tejas's mind swirled.
This wasn't Geneva. This wasn't Earth. This wasn't his body.
He looked at his reflection in the stream behind Caelis—a sharp-featured young man with silver-streaked black hair, grayish-blue eyes, and a noble's angular jaw. This wasn't the face of Tejas Kamble.
His hands trembled.
He was in someone else's body.
"I… I think something's happened to me," he said at last.
Caelis raised an eyebrow. "You speak strangely, my lord."
"I'm not your lord. My name is Tejas. Tejas Kamble. I'm a diplomat. From a land far beyond this… this realm."
Caelis' hand instinctively hovered near his sword hilt. But his eyes didn't show fear—only wariness.
"You are… changed," he murmured. "Your voice, your stance. Master Rayen was always proud, temperamental. But you… are calm. Tired. Broken even."
Tejas nodded slowly. "I'm not the man you knew. But if you truly serve him, then maybe… maybe you can help me understand where I am."
Caelis hesitated for a long moment. Then, slowly, he bowed once more.
"I do not know what magic or curse has gripped you, Master Rayen. But if your soul has changed… my loyalty remains. Whether you are man or ghost. My blade is yours."
Tejas exhaled, relief coursing through him like a wave. He had an ally.
And in a strange world like this… that was more valuable than gold.
As the sun climbed higher, Tejas walked beside Ser Caelis Ronmere through the dense green woods, still trying to orient himself in this new reality. The birdsongs felt too clean, the air too pure. It reminded him of a time before concrete and cables—before modernity.
"What is this place called?" Tejas asked, stepping over a moss-covered log.
Caelis looked over. "We are in the southern edges of the Duchy of Eloran, along the borders of the Langford estate, my lord. The lands your late father governed."
Tejas stopped mid-step. "My father?"
Caelis nodded. "Duke Albrecht Langford. He passed two years ago from the Stone Rot, and you… well, you were never the same after."
More phantom memories surfaced—formal dinners, fencing tutors, a heavy ledger opened under candlelight, a distant father whose voice echoed like thunder.
It was as if Tejas had been dropped into the role of a nobleman in a Shakespearean world. He had always trained for the complexities of realpolitik, the intricacies of international law, the unspoken language of diplomacy—but this… this was something far more primal. More brutal.
"Are there cities?" Tejas asked.
"Cities, yes," Caelis replied. "Castles, kingdoms, empires… and chaos. The Age of Fracture never ended. War lingers between borders. Magic has grown unstable. Bandits roam freely, and the gods no longer answer prayers."
Tejas digested every word with a diplomat's instinct.
"Do you have a map?" he asked.
Caelis removed a scroll from his satchel, and together they laid it over a flat stone. Tejas studied it carefully. Unlike any cartography he'd seen—no latitudes, no longitudes, just symbolic sketches of rivers, citadels, and strange territories like Voldareth, Iskar Moor, and The Blighted Reach.
And dead center, circled in gold ink, was Langford Keep.
"Do people respect nobles?" Tejas asked, without looking up.
"In theory, yes," Caelis answered cautiously. "But in practice, might and magic often matter more than title. Even a duke's son must earn his fear—or his favor."
Tejas nodded.
This wasn't just a monarchy. It was feudalism carved in blood. And he, a man of negotiations and policy papers, would need to navigate this world of swords, magic, and shadowy politics without losing his identity—or his life.
"Take me home, Caelis," Tejas finally said.
"To Langford Keep?"
He hesitated, then nodded. "If I'm going to survive here… I need to learn everything about who this Rayen Langford was. His allies, enemies, power, weaknesses. And… I need a reason to stay."
Caelis gave him a long look, then slowly unsheathed his sword—not in threat, but in ritual. The polished steel reflected sunlight onto Tejas' borrowed face.
"Then know this, my lord," Caelis said solemnly, kneeling. "Whatever soul you now carry, you are Rayen Langford in flesh. The people will look to you for guidance, and the enemies of your house will look for weakness."
Tejas swallowed. The weight of this world began to press on his shoulders.
But he had carried his country's expectations once.
He would carry a kingdom's if he must.
Langford Keep rose like a shadow out of the golden plains—massive, aged, and grim. Surrounded by stone walls blackened from ancient fire, it stood upon a sloping hill, overlooking a small village nestled in its shadow. Smoke curled from the chimneys below; peasants bustled around carts and wells, their clothes ragged but faces alert. Some stopped to stare as Tejas and Caelis passed on horseback—two riders, one known as their young lord, and the other his mysterious, loyal knight.
Tejas—now Rayen—observed everything with analytical precision.
Even in this world, body language spoke volumes. The peasants didn't cheer. They bowed, yes, but not with reverence—with fear. Rayen Langford, he realized, had not been a kind noble. Whispers clung to him like smoke.
"A tyrant?" Tejas murmured.
Caelis glanced at him. "You were... harsh, my lord. After your father's death, something in you cracked. The taxes increased. Punishments grew frequent. You fought duels without provocation. The people obey you… but they do not love you."
Tejas inhaled sharply. "Then this is a second chance—for both of us."
Caelis didn't answer, but his silence held a flicker of hope.
Inside the Keep, marble columns and dark velvet curtains loomed. Servants froze as Tejas entered the hall, confusion flashing across their faces as they whispered among themselves. He moved differently. He looked—calmer. More focused.
One old steward stepped forward, eyes wary. "Welcome home, Master Rayen. Shall I prepare the East Wing for your comfort?"
Tejas nodded, saying nothing.
By evening, he had secluded himself in the estate's vast library. Dust coated most of the tomes, but there were books about everything—lineages, politics, sorcery, warfare. He read like a starving man, determined to learn what this world ran on: titles, alliances, currency, etiquette, bloodlines, and something terrifying called Essence Arts—a form of magic tied to emotion, sacrifice, and history.
As he absorbed these truths, something shifted inside him.
In this world, he wasn't bound by the limits of protocol or red tape. Here, he had power—dangerous, raw, and malleable. His diplomat's mind surged with possibilities.
He could rebuild House Langford into a just dominion. He could end the horrors of feudal exploitation. He could negotiate with tyrants, dismantle slavery, manipulate corrupt dukes, and if needed—yes—even topple empires with nothing but strategy, truth, and timing.
A knock broke his thoughts.
Caelis entered, carrying a bundle of scrolls. "Messages from your vassals. And news from the northern trade route—three caravans raided, survivors enslaved."
Tejas's eyes darkened.
"Slavery?"
Caelis nodded. "Legal in the northern provinces. Condemned in the south, but rarely enforced."
Tejas stood slowly, a fire igniting in his chest.
"No more," he said. "Send word. Rayen Langford is not the man he once was. And we will start with the north."
Caelis looked stunned, but something proud flickered in his eyes.
"And Ser Caelis," Tejas added, walking to the window, watching the distant villagers return to crumbling homes, "I don't know how or why I'm here… but until I find a way back, I'm going to reshape this world."
"For justice?"
"For balance," Tejas said. "Through diplomacy if I can. Through fire if I must."
And as night fell over Langford Keep, the winds carried a whisper through its darkened halls: the cruel noble was gone.
A diplomat had taken his place.
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