The first thing Daniel noticed when he woke was the smell.
Not smoke, not sweat, not the sour stink of the cage.
Herbs. Broth. Clean linen.
He opened his eyes to the flickering light of a firepit set in the center of a wide hall. Shadows danced on the carved pillars, runes etched into the wood glowing faintly with an inner light. His body ached everywhere, but his wrists were no longer bound. A blanket covered him.
He was alive.
Barely.
Daniel sat up slowly, groaning at the protest of his ribs. Someone had wrapped them in cloth—tight, professional. His head spun with the memory of the grenade, the explosion, the monsters fleeing into fire. He remembered Kaelen's face above him, unreadable, before everything went dark.
Now, his rifle leaned against the wall within sight. His vest, knife, and the bent bolt cutters lay on a nearby table. Not returned to him… but not destroyed, either.
That alone told him everything.
He wasn't free.
But he wasn't a prisoner anymore, either.
The door creaked. Daniel's hand darted instinctively toward the rifle before freezing.
Lyra slipped inside, clutching a tray. She jumped at his movement, then smiled nervously, setting the tray near his cot. Steam rose from a bowl of broth and a hunk of bread.
Daniel's stomach growled so loud it hurt. He muttered, "Guess I'm predictable," before grabbing the bread.
"Daniel," Lyra said softly, tapping her chest.
He swallowed, then mirrored. "Lyra."
She smiled wider, then pointed at the bowl. "Vareth."
He raised a brow. "Soup, huh? Vareth." He mimicked, earning a delighted laugh.
Daniel forced a smile back. Her visits, her patience—she was the only thing keeping him tethered. But her presence also reminded him: not everyone wanted him alive.
Later that day, Kaelen entered. No tray. No smile.
The warrior's eyes were as sharp as his spear had been, his posture rigid with the weight of command. He spoke curtly, gesturing to Daniel's hands, then the memory of the grenade. The tone was clear: what are you?
Daniel shook his head. "I don't know. I didn't ask for this. I just… do it. And it nearly kills me every time."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. He muttered something under his breath, sharp as broken glass. Then he pointed at Daniel's chest, then at the door, then at the forest beyond.
A warning.
Daniel got the message loud and clear. He wasn't trusted. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But Kaelen hadn't run him through with a spear.
That was something.
By nightfall, Daniel began hearing the whispers.
Not from his head this time. From the villagers. Through the walls of the hall.
They gathered in groups, voices low but urgent. He caught fragments of the language he knew: human… demon… savior… cursed.
Their fear hung heavy, but so did something else.
Expectation.
Like they were waiting to see if he would burn them down… or save them again.
Daniel lay awake on the cot, staring at the ceiling beams. His body trembled with exhaustion, but his mind refused to rest.
He hadn't asked for this power. He hadn't asked to be dragged here, ripped from his squad, abandoned in a world that wanted him dead.
But he couldn't ignore the truth: every time he'd used it, it had changed everything.
The rifle. The lighter. The canteen. The grenade.
Every time, the world bent. Every time, he survived.
And every time, it drained him closer to the edge.
Daniel clenched his fists under the blanket.
This power's going to kill me… or it's going to keep me alive. Either way, I have to figure it out before it decides for me.
Just before dawn, the elder himself entered. His presence filled the hall, robes whispering across the stone. Kaelen shadowed him, hand never straying far from his sword.
The elder studied Daniel in silence for a long moment, silver eyes gleaming. Then he spoke a single word Daniel understood.
"Choice."
Daniel frowned. "Choice?"
The elder gestured at the forest, then the village. His meaning was clear enough.
Daniel could leave. Or stay.
But either way, his life was no longer his alone.
Daniel made his decision before dawn.
The elder's word—choice—echoed through his skull all night. Stay in the village, feared and worshiped in equal measure, waiting for their judgment to swing again… or take his chances in the unknown, where every shadow might hold claws.
Neither option felt safe. But one at least felt like his.
By sunrise, he had gathered what little they had allowed him: his uniform, battered vest, his rifle, his knife. The bolt cutters were gone, confiscated. He didn't complain. He had no right to.
But before leaving, there was one thing he had to do.
Lyra was waiting near the hall's door.
Her eyes were swollen from crying, though she tried to hide it behind a brave smile. She carried a satchel of food—bread, dried fruit, a flask of water. When she pressed it into his hands, she whispered, "Daniel… stay."
The word cut deeper than a blade.
Daniel swallowed hard. "I can't." He tapped his chest, then pointed toward the forest. "Daniel… go."
Her face crumpled. "Why?"
He exhaled, lowering to her level. Words tangled on his tongue, but he forced them out, clumsy and broken in her language. "Daniel… human. Daniel… find… people."
Her eyes widened.
"Not elf," he added softly. He touched her hand. "Like me."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She shook her head fiercely, clutching his arm. "Danger."
"I know," he whispered. His chest tightened painfully. "But I can't stay here, Lyra. You saved me. You gave me food, taught me words, made me human again when everyone else saw a monster. But I can't keep taking from you. If there are others… if there's a way home… I have to try."
Her lips trembled. Then she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his chest. For a moment, Daniel froze. Then he gently rested his hand on her hair.
"I'll come back," he promised, even though he wasn't sure it was a promise he could keep. "If I can. I'll come back."
When she finally let go, her small hands slipped away like a weight being torn from his heart.
Kaelen waited outside with two warriors, his expression unreadable.
Daniel tensed, half-expecting chains. Instead, Kaelen simply handed him a bundle: rope, a flint stone, a crude waterskin.
Daniel blinked, then nodded once. "Thanks."
Kaelen muttered something sharp, then jabbed two fingers toward his own eyes and back at Daniel. A warning: I'll be watching.
Daniel almost smirked. "Yeah, I got the message."
The elder stood a little farther off, his silver eyes glowing faintly in the rising sun. He raised a hand, not in blessing, not in curse—just acknowledgment.
Daniel returned the gesture, a soldier's nod. No more words passed between them.
And then he walked through the palisade gates, into the forest.
The wilderness closed around him like a living wall. Towering trees stretched into the sky, their silver-veined leaves whispering in the wind. Strange calls echoed through the canopy, some birdlike, others guttural.
Daniel moved cautiously, rifle slung across his chest, every sense alert. He marked his path with scratches on bark, his boots sinking into mossy soil.
The first day was easier than he'd feared. He rationed Lyra's food, found a stream, made camp beneath a fallen log. He forced himself to stay awake through most of the night, ears straining for the sound of predators.
The second day nearly killed him.
He stumbled into a clearing where a beast grazed—something between a deer and a reptile, its horns curving like scythes. Hunger gnawed at his gut. He raised the rifle, finger trembling on the trigger… then lowered it.
Wasting bullets on food was a rookie mistake. He'd learned that in training. So instead, he forced his body through drills, traps, patience. Hours later, he speared one of the smaller creatures with a sharpened branch. The meat was tough, bitter, but it kept him alive.
By the fourth night, his supplies were dwindling. The satchel Lyra gave him was nearly empty. His body ached, hollow from hunger.
And that cursed thought kept whispering at him: You could make food. You could make anything.
But he resisted. He remembered the grenade, the fire in his veins, the way his vision had gone black.
He couldn't risk it unless his life was truly on the line.
As he trudged through the endless forest, Daniel talked to himself just to hear a voice.
"Lyra… I'm sorry." His words were ragged, swallowed by the wind. "You gave me more than anyone else ever did here. You made me feel like I wasn't just some freak they wanted to burn. And I left you. Just walked out. Maybe that makes me a coward. Maybe that makes me selfish. But I can't… I can't stay locked in that cage, waiting for their fear to turn back into hatred."
He stopped, resting against a tree, his breath fogging in the cool night.
"I need to find out if I'm really alone here. If there are others like me—humans. Maybe I'll find nothing. Maybe I'll die out here. But if I don't try, if I stay… then I'll never know. And I can't live like that."
His voice cracked. He pressed his forehead against the bark. "I'm sorry, Lyra. I'll carry your kindness with me, no matter where I end up."
When he lifted his head, the forest was silent. Too silent.
Daniel's instincts prickled. He raised the rifle, scanning the trees.
And then he saw them—eyes gleaming in the dark, too high off the ground to be wolves, too many to be deer.
Shadows shifted between the trunks, circling. Watching.
Daniel's heart hammered. He tightened his grip on the rifle, whispering under his breath:
"Guess the honeymoon's over."
The forest held its breath.
Daniel crouched low, rifle raised, his finger brushing the trigger. The eyes gleamed back at him—too many, scattered in every direction, red pinpricks in the gloom. His gut clenched. Wolves again? No. The spacing was wrong. These things were bigger. Taller.
A branch cracked behind him.
Daniel spun, sight up. A shape loomed in the dark—seven feet tall at least, its body draped in shadows that clung to it like mist. Its limbs were long, ending in claws that shimmered faintly, like steel dipped in moonlight.
The eyes blinked once. Then it lunged.
Daniel fired. The shot cracked through the night, muzzle flash blinding. The round tore into the creature's chest, but instead of blood, wisps of smoke hissed from the wound. The thing staggered, snarled—and kept coming.
"Not good," Daniel muttered, pivoting, firing again. Another hit. Another wisp of smoke. Still not down.
The monster swung. Daniel dove, rolling through damp leaves as claws carved a tree trunk where his head had been. Bark exploded, showering splinters.
Two more shapes emerged, their glowing eyes closing in.
"Shit, shit, shit."
He sprinted, weaving through trees, rifle kicking against his shoulder as he fired blind bursts to slow them down. Each hit staggered but didn't kill. They were shadows, half-real, feeding off the night itself.
His clip clicked empty.
Daniel skidded behind a fallen log, heart hammering. He ejected the mag with shaking hands, slammed in a fresh one. His breath tore through his lungs. His muscles screamed.
"This isn't sustainable," he hissed. "I'm burning ammo on ghosts."
The shadows crept closer, circling. Their growls were low, guttural, vibrating through the ground.
Daniel's fingers tightened on the rifle. He could make something—something to finish this. A flare, a light, something to burn the shadows out.
But the cost.
He remembered the grenade. The hollow agony. The way the world had nearly gone black.
He didn't have that kind of strength left. Not yet.
Survive with what you have, he told himself. Adapt.
He yanked the flint stone from the bundle Kaelen had given him. Not much. But enough.
Grabbing a strip of cloth from his kit, he wrapped it around a fallen branch, doused it in the oil he'd saved from a food pouch, and struck the flint. Sparks caught, flame licking up the makeshift torch.
The shadows recoiled instantly, hissing. Their smoky bodies writhed, their eyes narrowing to slits.
Daniel bared his teeth. "So that's your weakness, huh? Light."
He shoved the torch into the dirt, flames spilling wide, and fired another burst through the glow. This time, when a round tore through one creature's head, it didn't just stagger—it screeched, unraveling into mist that dissolved on the wind.
"Got you."
The others shrieked, lunging. Daniel swung the torch wide, driving them back, his rifle barking in counterpoint. One dissolved, another scattered into mist with a final howl.
The clearing fell silent. Smoke drifted where the creatures had been, fading like a bad dream.
Daniel collapsed against the log, chest heaving, torch guttering low.
"Jesus Christ." He dragged a hand down his face. "This world does not want me alive."
When the torch burned out, he forced himself to move. He gathered his spent casings, checked his rifle, and scavenged what he could from the clearing. Nothing useful—the creatures left no bodies, no blood. Just emptiness.
But the lesson was clear: his bullets could wound them, but light finished the job. Fire, sun, maybe even the stars. He'd have to test it, refine it.
"Adapt," he muttered again, staggering to his feet.
He limped back into the trees, making camp as best he could in a hollow beneath exposed roots. He lit another small fire, feeding it carefully, and curled beside it with rifle across his chest.
His eyes drifted shut despite himself.
The dreams returned.
Not of Earth this time, not of his squad or his mother.
Of the shadows. Endless, stretching across the land, consuming villages, devouring forests. He stood at the center, his hands burning, weapons spilling from his palms in a torrent of steel and fire. The shadows recoiled before him—afraid, screaming, fleeing into the night.
And behind him… figures. Human. Armored. Watching him with awe.
Daniel reached for them. His chest burned. His knees buckled.
And then the fire consumed him, dragging him down.
He woke with a gasp, sweat soaking his uniform, heart hammering like he'd just sprinted a mile.
The fire was dying. The night was still.
And for the first time since leaving the village, Daniel realized something.
The monsters weren't random.
They were hunting him.
Daniel didn't bother trying to sleep again.
The dream had left his skin crawling, his gut twisted. He kept the fire stoked through the night, every crackle a reminder of the creatures' weakness. His rifle lay across his lap, and though his body begged for rest, his mind refused.
By dawn, exhaustion had settled deep in his bones. But he forced himself onward.
The forest stretched endless, silver veins glowing faintly in the leaves above. Streams cut across his path, sometimes clean, sometimes reeking with strange algae. He rationed what food remained from Lyra's satchel, each bite a reminder of her kindness—and the guilt of leaving her behind.
On the third day since leaving the village, Daniel found something new.
Tracks.
Not wolves. Not the towering shadow-creatures.
Boot prints.
He froze, crouching low to examine the impressions in the mud. Too wide to be elven slippers, too uniform. The tread was faint, worn, but unmistakable.
Military boots.
His breath caught. "No way."
He traced the print with shaking fingers. It wasn't recent—maybe days, maybe weeks—but it was human. Not fantasy, not elves. Human.
His chest tightened. He wasn't alone. Somewhere out here, someone like him was walking this nightmare.
Or had been.
Daniel followed the trail, heart hammering.
The tracks led into a ravine. Steep cliffs rose on either side, shadows pooling between the rocks.
Every instinct screamed trap.
But hope dragged him forward.
Halfway down the ravine, the air shifted. Cold. Heavy. The same wrongness he'd felt before the shadows attacked.
Daniel raised his rifle. "Not again."
The ground trembled. Figures emerged from the rocks, not shadow this time but solid, armored in jagged bone and metal. Their bodies were twisted mockeries of soldiers—helmets fused to skulls, blades grafted to arms. Eyes burned with the same crimson glow.
Five of them. Blocking the path.
Daniel's heart dropped. He pressed against the ravine wall, calculating angles, cover, ammo. Too many. Too strong.
"Adapt," he whispered. "Always adapt."
He fired. The first round shattered through one's skull, dropping it in sparks and smoke. The others advanced without flinching.
He sprinted, weaving between rocks, firing controlled bursts. Two staggered, one collapsed. But the others closed fast, claws scraping stone.
One swiped—Daniel ducked, the blade tearing a groove in the cliff where his head had been. He slammed the rifle butt into its chest, fired point-blank, and watched it disintegrate.
The last loomed behind him, too close.
Daniel spun, knife flashing. He plunged the blade into its throat, sparks hissing as it crumbled into dust.
Silence.
Daniel collapsed to one knee, panting, sweat soaking his face. His rifle smoked, his hands trembled. He'd survived—but barely.
And then he saw it.
Amid the dust and shattered armor lay something small.
A patch.
Daniel picked it up with shaking hands. The fabric was singed and frayed, but the design remained clear:
A circle split in half diagonally—one side dark blue stitched with tiny silver dots like stars, the other side crimson with a jagged black line running through it. At the center, the halves overlapped in the shape of an open eye.
Daniel frowned, breath catching. It wasn't military, not any unit insignia he'd ever seen. It wasn't elven, either—the stitching was too uniform, the thread too refined, the geometry too deliberate.
This was human work. He knew it. No elf, no beast, no villager could have sewn something this precise.
He turned it over, heart hammering. The cloth was thick, durable, designed for wear. The symbol… it meant something. A group. An identity. A purpose.
Not from Earth. Not from here either.
But from someone like him.
Daniel clutched the patch to his chest, his eyes burning with raw emotion.
"I'm not alone," he whispered, voice shaking. "Someone else was here."
That night, he made camp high in the cliffs, fire burning bright against the dark.
The patch lay beside him, folded like a relic. He stared at it long into the night, every flicker of flame catching in the embroidered eye.
Lyra's face haunted him. Kaelen's warning echoed in his ears. The elder's word—choice—still burned in his skull.
But the choice was already made.
He wasn't just wandering anymore. He had a direction.
Somewhere out here, others had walked before him. Humans who had carved their mark into this impossible world. Maybe survivors. Maybe leaders. Maybe a threat.
Daniel Mason would find them.
And God help anything that tried to stop him.