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- Herausgeber: Felix Seilerz
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Dr. Aris Thorne is an American astrophysicist. While investigating an anomaly in the fabric of time, he accidentally finds himself in the 10th century Viking Age. Found by a Viking clan, Aris struggles to communicate with them, but with the help of the Jarl's daughter, Freya, he survives and learns their language. Over time, he becomes a warrior himself and gains respect among the Vikings. Through an oracle, he learns that his sister, Elara, who has been following him, is also trapped in this time. Aris, along with a group of Viking warriors, embarks on a perilous journey to find Elara. Upon finding her, he discovers that she has been mentally damaged by the influence of temporal energy. A timekeeper spirit offers Aris the power to heal his sister and build a bridge connecting the two worlds. However, this will mean the destruction of the Viking world. Rather than destroy the new world he loves, Aris chooses to heal his sister in his own way and save his new home. Eventually, Aris and Elara adapt to Viking society and build a new life, becoming heroes who touch the history of the Vikings and write their own new legends.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1: The Rift in Time
Chapter 2: The Hall of the Serpent
Chapter 3: The Art of the Axe
Chapter 4: A Whisper from the Future
Chapter 5: The Journey to the Whispering Falls
Chapter 6: The Broken Echo
Chapter 7: The Lure of the Stone Circle
Chapter 8: The Price of Knowledge
Chapter 9: The Healer of Souls
Chapter 10: The New Saga
The Saga of a Lost American
Chapter 1: The Rift in Time
The Seattle rain was an old friend, a constant whisper against the window of Dr. Aris Thorne's study. He was a man of modern marvels, an astrophysicist whose mind danced with the elegance of quantum loops and the chaotic beauty of black holes. His life was a symphony of data, a world where the past was a fixed point and the future a predictable, if complex, equation. Yet, the past was about to become anything but fixed.
It began with a subtle anomaly, a hiccup in the gravitational field Aris had been meticulously mapping for years. He called his project 'Chronos,' a name that, in retrospect, was a bitter piece of irony. It was a theoretical exploration of temporal echoes, the faint energy residue left by massive events in history. Most of his colleagues dismissed it as academic folly, a beautifully complex but ultimately useless puzzle. Aris, however, was obsessed. He believed he was on the verge of proving that time, as they knew it, was not a straight line but a woven tapestry, and sometimes, the threads frayed.
That evening, the readings spiked. A massive, unprecedented spike that sent a jolt of alarm through his system. The signature wasn't a historical echo; it was a live event, a tear in the fabric of spacetime, and it was happening now, somewhere deep in the Pacific Northwest wilderness. Against every protocol, every rational bone in his body, Aris packed his equipment and drove into the night. His younger sister, Elara, a brilliant but cynical historian, would have called him a fool. But for Aris, this was not just science; it was a calling.
He found it in the middle of a dense, ancient forest, far from any hiking trail or logging road. The air was thick with static, the scent of ozone and something else, something primal and earthy. A shimmer hung in the air, a pulsing, iridescent tear in reality itself. It was a vortex of energy, a swirling maelstrom of light and sound that seemed to hum with the very song of creation. Aris, his heart pounding in his chest, set up his equipment. The readings were off the charts, but they weren't just energy; they were temporal coordinates. The vortex was a gateway, a window to another time.
He was so engrossed in his work, so lost in the numbers and the hum of his machines, that he didn’t notice the ground beneath him begin to tremble. The vortex pulsed violently, and a surge of energy, a pure, blinding wave of force, ripped through the air. Aris was thrown backward, the world around him dissolving into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. The last thing he saw was the terrified face of his sister, Elara, who had somehow tracked him down, and her hand, reaching for him, just out of reach.
The sensation was not a fall but a dissolution. His body felt as if it were being unmade and reassembled, atom by atom. The air was thick, suffocating, and then, with a lurch that stole his breath, he landed. The world had gone silent, the hum of the vortex replaced by the gentle lapping of water. He lay on his back, a muddy bank pressing against his spine. The air was cold, damp, and smelled of salt and pine.
He pushed himself up, his head swimming. The forest was different. The trees, gnarled and ancient, were not the same species as those in the Pacific Northwest. The light was strange, a different kind of sun filtering through the canopy. And then he saw it. A longship, its great serpent head carved with brutal, elegant detail, bobbed gently on the river. A group of men, tall and broad-shouldered, stood on the bank, their faces a mixture of surprise and suspicion. They were clad in animal hides and woven tunics, their beards braided, their hair long. Their axes and swords glinted in the strange, unfamiliar light. They weren't speaking English. Or any language he knew. It was a guttural, harsh tongue that sounded like the crack of ice and the roar of a storm.
Aris scrambled to his feet, his mind racing. This couldn't be real. This was a hallucination, a strange, vivid dream induced by the energy shock. But the cold was real. The fear was real. The glint in the eyes of the men was very, very real. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice a tremor. "Hello! Do you speak English? I'm sorry, I'm lost."
His words were met with blank stares. A tall man with a scar running down his cheek and eyes the color of a winter sky stepped forward. He hefted his axe, the polished stone head catching the light. He said something in that guttural language, a question, a demand. Aris shook his head, a desperate, futile gesture.
"I don't understand," he repeated. "I don't understand."
The man grunted, a sound of frustration and perhaps a touch of contempt. The others began to close in, their hands on their weapons. Aris felt a surge of panic. He was not a fighter. He was a scientist, a man of thought, not of action. He had nothing to defend himself with. He was a fish out of water, a man from a future of satellites and smartphones, standing before men who lived by the axe and the sword. He had fallen through the tapestry of time, and he had landed in the unforgiving, brutal world of the Vikings. His life, and his understanding of reality, was about to be unmade and remade, not by the elegance of physics, but by the cold, hard logic of survival.
