Placeholder: The sun had not yet risen over Acre on the morning of May 18th, 1291, but already, the city was alive with the sound of war.

  John de Baud stood on the walls, his eyes scanning the horizon. The Mamluk forces gathered like a tide at the gates—dark, relentless, and closing in. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. There was no retreat now. He had given his life to the Order, sworn oaths of loyalty, and pledged his soul to the holy cause. Today, the city would fall, and he would die a martyr’s death.

  A deafening roar shook the air, the Mamluks charging forward in a brutal wave. It was all too much to comprehend. The siege had lasted for months, but today felt different—he could feel it in his bones. This was the end.

  He gave one last glance at the men beside him, the other Templars, silent and stoic, prepared for what was to come. They had all embraced the inevitability of their deaths. Together, they would face the fall of Acre and stand against the coming storm. The weight of their swords was heavy with the burden of history.

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  Then, the ground trembled beneath his feet.

  A blinding light filled his vision, and before he could draw breath, everything vanished.

  John awoke to silence.

  His breath came in quick, shallow gasps, but there was no pain, no blood, no battlefield. No screams. Just… stillness. Slowly, he rose, his hands trembling as he pushed himself up from a cold stone floor. The room was small, bare, and without any warmth. There was no sun here, no sign of the world he had known.

  His eyes darted around, but all he saw were the walls—cold, unyielding stone. The air was thick with a strange, unnatural silence. His heart raced as he struggled to make sense of the reality around him. This was not Acre. This was not the world he knew.

  Then, his gaze fell upon something written on the stone wall.

  "They are coming."

  The words were burned into the surface, as though they had been etched there by something beyond mortal hands. A chill ran down his spine.

  His first instinct was to draw his sword, but it was gone. His armor, his mantle, all of it—gone. He was left with nothing but the weight of the words on the wall and the deep, unshakeable feeling that the fight was far from over.

  In this strange, dark place, something waited. And John de Baud had no choice but to face it.