The next morning dawned with pale gold light filtering through the barrier, painting the camp in soft hues. Smoke from the dying fire curled lazily upward, and the freed captives stirred slowly, rubbing their eyes, stretching stiff limbs. For the first time since I had found them, they weren't waking to chains or fear, but to safety. Fragile, yes—but real.
I moved among them quietly, offering simple greetings. One by one, I began learning their names. A beastfolk girl named Rena who had once lived in a riverside village where her clan hunted elk. An elven boy named Thalan who had been torn from a hollow where children played under ancient trees. A young human lad named Corrin, whose voice shook when he described the dusty crossroads town he longed to return to. Each name, each memory, was like a scrap of cloth stitched into a torn tapestry.
They began to ask me questions as I listened. A curious human child tugged my sleeve, tilting her head up.
"Who are you really?"
I crouched to meet her gaze, resting a hand over the skull‑like mask.
"I… don't remember much of who I was before. Only fragments, like shadows. What I do know is that I woke here, alone."
Around the circle, heads tilted closer, whispers passed between them. Some looked relieved, others uncertain—but none backed away.
"Then we can really stay here?" a small boy asked, his ears flicking nervously.
"Yes," I said, my voice steady. "This is your sanctuary as much as mine. The collars are gone. The traders are gone. You are free."
Their silence broke into cautious laughter. Relief rippled outward like the warmth of the morning sun.
Soon after, more questions bubbled up. A young elf raised his hand timidly. "How long have you been here?"
"A few months," I answered softly. "I woke alone in this forest, and for a long time I had no one to speak with. Only Nyx and the silence."
A beastfolk teen frowned, tail twitching. "Then… how old are you? You don't look older than us, but you fight like someone who's lived twice our years."
I hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of my mask. The truth sat on my tongue. My status screen had told me once—I was thirteen in this body. But they didn't need to know that, not yet. They needed someone steady, not a child.
"I am 13, that is one thing i do know" I said.
Nyx padded close, pressing his massive head near me. The children giggled. One boy asked, "Can Nyx talk?"
I smiled faintly beneath the mask. "Not with words. But his eyes, his steps, the way he lowers his head—I can guess what he means. He has been my only companion until now."
"What powers do you have?" another child asked, wide‑eyed.
"Magic creation," I explained, opening my hand so threads of shimmering light formed a tiny wooden bird. Gasps and laughter filled the air. "I don't fully understand it myself—it seems when I learn new things, I can make new powers. Like the barrier that protects us, or the way the forest moves when I call it. But knowledge—your knowledge—is just as powerful. If you share your abilities with me, I can grow stronger too. That is why we will share."
I looked around at them all. "Tell me. What do you want to learn? What do you wish to have here in camp?"
Rena spoke first, ears flicking nervously. "I want to learn to hunt again. Properly."
Thalan added quickly, "I want to grow stronger with magic, so I can protect others."
Corrin bit his lip, then whispered, "I want tools. Something that feels like home."
Their answers stirred something inside me. Hope, fragile but burning. I nodded. "Then we will make it so—together."
The day filled with life. The beastfolk took others into the trees, teaching them to track animal trails, to listen to the rhythm of the forest.
The elves gathered the younger ones and showed them how to sense the faint hum of mana and guide it gently, like water flowing through roots.
The humans demonstrated how to lash sticks into frames, knot cord, and shape tools from what they found around the camp.
I supported them as best I could, weaving my magic creation into the work—fashioning spears, blades, and warm cloaks. Each time shimmering light sparked between my hands, their eyes widened, not in fear but in wonder.
That look—it filled me with a warmth I hadn't realized I was starving for. I had been alone for so long, surviving day to day. Now, laughter and voices filled the air. People looked to me not as a monster, but as something steady, someone to trust. The loneliness I had carried like a weight began to lift.
At midday, I gathered them together.
"The barrier protects you while you're inside. Beyond it, I cannot keep you safe, not yet. If you go out, you do so at your own risk."
My words were quiet but firm. They listened, solemn. Some nodded gravely; others clutched hands or tails of siblings. No one protested.
Later, natural leaders began to emerge. A tall beastfolk man with striped fur, Kael, moved with easy confidence during hunting lessons, his scarred muzzle marking him as a survivor. An elf woman, Elenya, gentle and calm, guided children with patience until sparks of mana danced like fireflies in their hands. I didn't name them leaders, but the group had already done so in their hearts, and I let it stand.
That evening, as firelight painted the camp in flickering orange, a small beastfolk boy bounded up to me. He tugged on my cloak, his grin wide.
"Shadow," he said proudly. "You're like a shadow—scary, but you protect us."
The name spread like wildfire. At first whispered, then spoken with grins, then shouted in laughter.
"Shadow."
Again and again, until the word wrapped around me like a cloak I hadn't asked for but realized I wanted. At first, I didn't know how to feel. But when I saw their smiles, I knew it wasn't a name born of fear. It was theirs—born of trust and comfort. And I accepted it.
Later, after food was shared and bellies were full, the conversations turned to home. They spoke of villages in the mountains, hidden elven groves, bustling human towns. Their eyes shone as they spoke of what they missed, even through the ache of longing.
I admitted quietly, "I don't know this world well. If I am to help you return home, I'll need your guidance too."
One of the elves, Elenya, placed her hand gently on my arm.
"Then we will guide you, Shadow. Together."
A murmur of agreement followed. Heads nodded, eyes brightened. Plans began to form in the warmth of the firelight—gathering supplies, training, preparing.
As laughter and stories rose into the night, I found myself smiling behind the mask. For the first time since I had arrived in this world, I wasn't just surviving. I wasn't just hiding. I was part of something—a circle of people bound by survival, trust, and hope.
And as the children curled up close to the fire and the barrier shimmered faintly overhead, I let myself close my eyes. Happiness bloomed in my chest, fragile but undeniable. After so long alone, I was no longer in silence. I belonged.