The pale light of dawn crept through the thick canopy, painting the leaves with streaks of gold. Dew clung to every blade of grass, dripping slowly into the damp earth. Ethan stirred awake, his head heavy, his body aching as though he'd been wrung out and left to dry. The exhaustion from the night before still clung to his bones; every breath reminded him of how much energy it had taken just to conjure those simple things—a torch, an apple, a fragile shield.
He sat up and instinctively felt for the stylus. It was still there, warm and pulsing faintly as though it were alive. Small though it was, it carried an unbearable weight, like it held the secret of the world itself.
"Still here," he muttered under his breath. "Great. Magic pen of doom is officially not a dream."
His stomach twisted in hunger, growling so loud it echoed in the clearing. That apple he'd conjured yesterday might have fooled his senses, but it hadn't fed his body.
"I need food. Real food," he whispered to himself, pushing up onto shaky legs.
The forest stretched endlessly before him—roots coiled around trees like serpents, shafts of sunlight spilled in uneven patterns, and strange birds sang songs that didn't belong to Earth. For a fleeting moment, Ethan felt as if he'd stumbled into one of his own fantasy illustrations: breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure.
Then came the sound.
Snap.
A branch breaking under deliberate weight.
Every nerve in his body went rigid. Ethan's grip on the stylus tightened, the golden glow at its tip flaring brighter. He half expected crimson eyes to emerge from the dark again—the Warden, back to finish what it had started.
But instead, from the shadows, a girl stepped into view.
She moved carefully, a hunter's grace in her every stride. A bow was drawn in her hands, the string taut with a shimmering arrow ready to fly. Her hair, black tied into a loose braid, caught the faint light of dawn, and dirt smudged her cheeks as though she had been in the forest for days. Her eyes locked on Ethan, sharp and suspicious.
"Don't move," she ordered. Her words were foreign—yet somehow, impossibly, he understood them. The language pressed itself into his mind, like the world itself wanted them to communicate.
Ethan froze, raising his free hand slowly in surrender. "I—I'm not your enemy."
Her gaze narrowed. The bowstring drew tighter. "You're not from here. Your clothes, your stance… you don't belong."
Ethan swallowed hard. "I don't even know how I got here. I just—"
A low growl interrupted him.
The ground vibrated beneath his boots. From the thickets, three beasts crawled out—wolf-like creatures, their fur black as smoke, eyes glowing an unnatural green. Drool dripped from their fangs, sizzling against the forest floor.
Ethan's blood ran cold. The girl cursed under her breath, quickly shifting her bow. "Shadow Hounds," she hissed.
Her first arrow shot clean through one's shoulder. It shrieked but lunged anyway. The others fanned out, circling. The girl's eyes darted to Ethan, urgency flashing in them. "If you want to live, do something!"
His heart slammed in his chest. The stylus burned in his grip, light spilling out uncontrollably. Panic clawed at him, but somewhere inside the fear, instinct rose. Shield. Make it stronger this time. Don't break.
He slashed a circle into the air. Golden lines spun together, weaving into a large shield that shimmered like metal but pulsed as if alive. He barely managed to raise it as the first hound leapt.
CRASH!
Claws scraped across glowing light, sparks scattering like embers. The impact rattled through Ethan's arms, forcing him back a step, but the shield held.
The girl's eyes widened at the sight, but she didn't pause long enough to question. Another arrow whistled free, grazing the second hound.
Ethan clenched his teeth, lifting the stylus again. Lines of light formed in front of him, swirling together into the shape of a spear. When it solidified in his hands, cold and heavy as real steel, his breath caught.
"Please work," he muttered, and thrust forward.
The spear pierced the second hound. Light burst from the wound, and with a scream like tearing metal, the beast dissolved into smoke, scattered by the wind.
The last hound lunged at the girl, fangs snapping. But she was ready. Her arrow flew, sinking deep into its throat. It gurgled, stumbled, then collapsed into ash.
Silence fell.
Ethan stood panting, the shield and spear in his hands flickering before shattering into shards of light, fading into nothing. His knees buckled, and he dropped onto the damp ground, breath ragged.
The girl lowered her bow, chest heaving. She didn't look relieved, though. Her eyes were locked on him—on the stylus in his hand, still glowing faintly.
"What… did you just do?" Her voice was sharp, demanding.
Ethan raised the stylus weakly. "I… I draw. And what I draw… it becomes real."
Her face flickered with disbelief, awe, and fear all at once. She stepped closer, kneeling slightly to study the stylus. Her lips parted.
"Impossible," she whispered. "That's the power of the Imaginari. But that art… that gift… it was lost to legend ages ago. And now a stranger wields it?"
"I don't even know what that means," Ethan admitted, shaking his head. "I'm not some chosen one. I'm just… an artist. Back home, I drew pictures. That's all."
The girl was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, she stood and slung her bow over her shoulder.
"My name is Lyra," she said at last. "If you want to survive the Asura Woods, you'll follow me."
Ethan looked at her, then at the stylus pulsing gently in his palm. His heart still raced from the fight, but more than fear, there was now a spark of something else—possibility.
He didn't know who this girl was, or where she was taking him. But he knew one thing for sure.
He wasn't alone anymore.
And as he stumbled to his feet and followed Lyra deeper into the woods, faint golden traces shimmered behind him—lines of destiny beginning to take shape.