Ethan pulled his jacket tighter against the chill as he walked home. The city buzzed with its usual evening rhythm — headlights cutting through the dark, the murmur of strangers, the smell of fried food wafting from a late-night vendor.
It was a walk he'd taken dozens of times before: same shift, same tired feet, same shortcut between two looming office towers. The alley wasn't welcoming — too narrow, too quiet, too dark — but it shaved ten minutes off the trip. Ten minutes was worth it.
His sneakers slapped against damp pavement. He fumbled in his pocket for his earbuds, half-thinking about the leftovers waiting in his fridge, half-dreaming of the bed he longed to collapse into.
Then he noticed it.
The silence.
No hum of traffic. No distant horns. No footsteps but his own.
Ethan slowed, glancing back. The mouth of the alley seemed farther away than it should have been. Ahead, the passage stretched longer, darker, as if the buildings were shifting while he walked.
And then — light.
A circle burned itself into the pavement before him, lines twisting like veins, symbols flaring white-hot.
"What the—"
The glow surged. The ground dropped. Ethan's body snapped downward like a puppet pulled by unseen strings.
He hit stone hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The alley was gone.
Instead, he was sprawled in the center of a vast, black-stone chamber. Candles burned in iron sconces. Hooded figures stood around him, chanting in a language that scraped his ears raw. Chains of light snaked from the circle into his wrists and ankles, pinning him to the floor.
Ethan gasped for breath, panic flaring. "W-what is this?!"
One of the figures stepped closer, raising a jagged blade. "The vessel is delivered."
But before the knife could fall, another cultist drove his own dagger into the man's back. Blood sprayed across the stones. The chamber erupted in chaos — screams, fire, steel clashing.
Ethan thrashed against the glowing chains, heart hammering.
And then he heard it — a voice deeper than thunder, rattling the very walls.
From the shadows beyond the circle, two golden eyes opened.
A dragon, bound in chains thicker than trees, stirred and laughed.
"Run, mortal," it rumbled. "This world devours its own."
The dragon's words thundered in Ethan's skull, but his legs refused to move. The summoning chamber had become a slaughterhouse—hooded figures tearing at each other with blades, spells cracking the air like lightning.
He stumbled back, heart hammering, clutching the bloodied dagger he'd picked up. But when a cultist lunged at him, Ethan froze. His arm wouldn't move, no matter how he willed it. The blade came down—
—and never struck.
The man collapsed at Ethan's feet, an arrow jutting from his neck. Blood spread in a widening pool.
Ethan's breath caught. He hadn't killed him. Someone else had.
From above, a figure leapt into the fray with impossible grace. An elf—tall, silver hair flowing, eyes hard as emerald steel. She loosed arrow after arrow, each shot striking true. Within moments, the surviving cultists lay dead, the summoning circle broken.
Smoke curled upward. The chamber reeked of iron and ash.
The elf lowered her bow and looked at Ethan. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, as though she were already weighing his worth.
"So," she said coolly, "this is the one they dragged here."
Ethan's voice trembled. "What—what's happening? Who are you? Where am I?"
She ignored his questions and stepped closer, boots splashing through blood. She extended a gloved hand. "My name is Serenya. And if you value your life, you'll come with me."
The dragon shifted in its chains, molten eyes watching. "Careful, boy. Elves play games sharper than steel. You are nothing to them but a piece to move—or break."
Serenya didn't flinch. "Ignore the beast. It has been rotting in chains for a century." Her eyes flicked back to Ethan. "You don't belong here, but that's no concern of mine. What matters is that others will come hunting you. You won't survive an hour alone."
Ethan's chest tightened. Every instinct screamed not to trust her, but his legs shook too much to run, and the dagger felt useless in his trembling hands.
He swallowed hard and, against every instinct, took her hand.
Serenya's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Wise."
But her eyes, cold and distant, promised nothing safe.