There was no clear moment of waking. No dream, no voice, no bright light to pierce the dark. Just a slow unraveling, like mist pulling back from the edge of a mountain. Something old moved through the silence—a breath, a whisper, a choice being made far beyond Eli's understanding.
He wasn't dreaming, not exactly. But images flickered in the stillness. Leaves red as blood falling through endless black. A sound like distant waves crashing under stone. Faces—not human, not animal—watching from behind the trees, carved from bark and shadow. None of it made sense. It wasn't a memory. It wasn't a vision. It was a feeling, as if the world itself were turning its gaze toward him.
He felt it before he saw it: something reaching inward, measuring, weighing, and then… choosing.
A pause. A breath.
Then cold.
Real cold.
A sharp jolt shot through his toes. His fingers stung. Air burned against his cheeks, and his body shivered. Eli's eyes cracked open, reluctant and heavy, his breath curling upward in pale clouds.
He was lying on snow.
Above him stretched a pale grey sky, and around him—nothing but white and trees. The scent of pine and earth was sharper than anything he remembered. He blinked, struggling to sit up.
A warm pressure leaned against his side. Alive. Breathing.
He flinched instinctively and rolled slightly away. Snow scattered under him. His heart kicked against his ribs.
Beside him stood a large animal—muscular and still. A wolf. Black-furred, thick-coated. Its breath steamed from its nostrils as it exhaled.
Eli froze.
His first instinct was fear, sharp and primal. The wolf turned its head slowly and looked at him.
Its eyes were watchful, curious—but not threatening. It didn't snarl. It didn't bare its teeth. It simply… waited.
He blinked at it, heart hammering.
"…Hi," he whispered. His voice cracked in the cold.
The wolf stepped forward, cautiously, and touched its nose gently to his arm.
He didn't move.
Then slowly—cautiously—he sat up. Snow clung to his sleeves and shoulders. A thick coat was wrapped around him, heavy with fur lining. Beneath it, he wore woolen clothes he didn't recognize. The weight of everything pressed down on his small frame.
Small.
His hands… his hands were too small.
Panic surged in his chest. He scrambled to his feet—unsteady—and looked down. His boots were too large. His body too short. He felt wrong.
"What—" He touched his face. His cheekbones. His hair, tangled and falling to his shoulders.
He didn't know this body.
"I… what happened to me?" he murmured.
He turned in place, slowly.
The landscape around him was unfamiliar. Thick snow blanketed the ground. Trees rose tall and silent—ancient and strange. Not like the ones from home. There were no familiar pine groves. No fences. No rusted tools half-buried in mud. These trees were older, darker. Their branches creaked in the wind like old bones.
He wrapped his arms tightly around himself. Even with the heavy furs, the chill gnawed at him. His breath stung in his throat.
"This isn't North Dakota," he whispered.
The wolf stepped beside him and tilted its head.
He scanned the area. In the snow nearby, half-buried, was a leather satchel. He stumbled over to it and tugged it open.
Inside were a few supplies: a wrapped bundle of dried meat, a small pouch of silver and copper coins with markings he didn't recognize, a flint stone, and a cloth-wrapped knife.
He ran his fingers over the coins. They were heavy. Cold. Ancient.
"This isn't home."
The realization sank in like stone.
He looked up. And then he saw it.
Behind him, partially hidden by the trees, was a white trunk streaked with red.
A weirwood tree.
Its face was carved into the bark—eyes closed in a solemn expression. Blood-red sap dripped slowly from the eye sockets.
Eli stared.
"I know this," he breathed. "From stories… from shows…"
His mind reeled.
"This can't be real," he muttered, backing away. "This can't—this is impossible."
But the snow bit at his feet. The trees loomed. The wolf breathed.
He looked back at the weirwood.
It didn't feel threatening. In fact, it felt… calm. Like it was watching, but not judging. He should have felt afraid. Overwhelmed. But instead, a strange peace settled in his chest.
Still, he shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. "This isn't real. I hit my head or something. I'm dreaming."
But he knew better.
The cold wouldn't let him pretend for long.
His limbs trembled. The snow numbed his toes. Even with the coat, the frost crept in.
"I can't think about this right now," he whispered. "I need shelter. Food. Warmth."
The wolf barked once—softly—and tugged at his sleeve. Then it stepped away, glancing back.
"You know where to go?" Eli asked, voice brittle.
The wolf waited.
Eli looked once more at the weirwood. The red eyes. The pale bark. A feeling stirred in his chest, but he pushed it down.
"Later," he whispered. "I'll deal with all this later."
He pulled the strap of the satchel over his shoulder and trudged forward.
The wolf led the way.
The snow whispered beneath their feet, and the trees closed in around them.
He didn't know where he was. Or what he was now. But he would find out. One step at a time.