The trail stretched on forever.
At first, he thought maybe it was just his imagination — a narrow line pressed into the wildflowers by some passing animal. But the farther he followed it, the more certain he became that it was a path. Not human-made, exactly, but worn enough that something used it often.
The world around him was almost too beautiful. Multicolored flowers swayed on either side, tall grass glittered faintly as if dusted with stars, and the air was so fresh it almost hurt to breathe. Cicadas droned overhead, the sound oddly comforting despite how strange everything else felt.
If not for the memory of the gunshot still ringing in his head, he could have pretended this was a dream.
He rubbed his chest again. Smooth. No scar, no wound. He still remembered the flash, the weight of the necklace in his hand, that final stupid "oh." His jaw clenched.
"This isn't heaven," he muttered. "Too nice for hell, though. Figures I'd land in the weird in-between."
The sarcasm helped, a little. Anything to push back the rising panic gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After what felt like an hour of walking, hunger hit. Not the deep, gnawing hunger of days without food, but the sharp emptiness of a stomach that wanted answers as badly as his mind did. He scanned the trail.
Bushes heavy with berries clustered near a tree. They were a vibrant red, glossy and almost glowing. He crouched down, plucked one, and held it close.
"Okay. Strange world. Strange body. Probably poisoned fruit. On the other hand…" His stomach growled. "…better than starving."
He sniffed it. Sweet, almost intoxicating. Against his better judgment, he popped one into his mouth. The juice burst across his tongue, tart and floral. He waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. No collapse, no frothing at the mouth.
"Edible. For now," he said, plucking a handful and stuffing them into his pocket.
Further along the trail, he found a stream. The water was so clear he could see pebbles at the bottom, shining like gemstones. He knelt, cupped his hands, and drank. Cold, crisp, perfect. He splashed his face, shivering as droplets traced down his obsidian skin.
For a moment, he just stared at his reflection again. That same stranger with fiery braids and magma eyes stared back.
"This really is me, huh," he whispered.
The stranger didn't answer.
—-------------------------------------------------
The Hinterland wasn't silent.
At first, he thought the buzzing of cicadas and chirping of unseen birds would be all he heard. But then, the underbrush rustled. Heavy. Something big.
He crouched instinctively, pressing low to the ground. Through the grass, he caught sight of a creature moving between the trees.
It was like a stag, but wrong. Its antlers twisted into spirals that glowed faintly gold at the tips, and its body shimmered with scales instead of fur. Every step left the flowers beneath it wilting, as though it drained the life around it.
His heart hammered. Beautiful, terrifying, and utterly alien. He stayed still until it passed, his breath shallow.
"…Okay. Note to self. Nature here wants me dead."
He moved more carefully after that. Every sound, every flutter of wings, every rustle of grass made him pause. He wasn't used to this body yet. Child-sized, fragile, and yet his skin had shrugged off sharp twigs and thorns without a scratch. He didn't know what he was capable of, or what he wasn't. That was the worst part.
—---------------------------------------------------------------
By nightfall, the air grew colder. The flowers still glowed faintly, but the warmth of the day faded fast. He gathered a few dry stalks, muttering to himself.
"Great. First day in fantasyland and I'm already camping. What's next, fighting dragons with a stick?"
He piled the stalks together. His hands hovered above them. He remembered the flowers turning to ash at his touch. He hesitated.
"…If I can burn plants, maybe I can light this."
He pressed his palm against the stalks, focused, tried to remember that tiny surge of heat. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then a spark. A faint glow. The stalks blackened, then smoldered, then burst into flame.
He jerked his hand back, nearly falling over.
"…I'm a lighter. That's… actually useful."
The fire crackled softly. He warmed his hands, staring into it, and for the first time since the shot, he felt something other than panic. A strange, fragile sense of control.
—----------------------------------------
The next morning, he followed the trail again. The forest thinned. The flowers grew denser, as if guiding him. Then, through a veil of mist, rooftops appeared.
A village.
Small, hidden among the trees, its houses built of wood and stone. Smoke curled faintly from a few chimneys, and in the center stood something impossible to miss: a massive tree, its trunk twisted with both bark and flesh, as if something had grafted itself into it.
Figures moved between the houses. Women with blindfolds tied across their eyes. Children trailing behind them. Their movements were graceful, deliberate, almost otherworldly.
For a moment, hope surged. People. Finally, people.
But as he stepped from the trees, their heads turned. Whispers rippled through the village. Fear. Scorn. Hands lifted to make warding signs. Children clung to their mothers.
He stopped cold.
"…Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "Figures. I finally find civilization and I'm the monster at the gates."