The forest stretched endlessly, a maze of twisted trees and whispering shadows. Moonlight barely pierced the canopy, casting silver streaks across the damp earth. Every step crunched with fallen leaves, and the air smelled of moss, bark, and distant danger.
Elira stumbled over a root for the third time in five minutes.
"I swear," she muttered, brushing dirt off her soaked pajamas, "if I trip one more time, I'm going to sue gravity."
Lucan didn't respond. He walked ahead, silent and sharp, his black armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. His sword hung at his side, ready. Always ready.
Elira jogged to catch up, panting. "Do tyrant kings not believe in breaks? Or snacks? Or basic human decency?"
Still no answer.
She groaned dramatically. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. My feet are wet. My soul is damp. And I'm ninety percent sure I just stepped on something that hissed at me."
Lucan stopped.
Elira bumped into his back. "Ow. Okay, rude."
He turned slowly, his silver eyes narrowing. "You complain more than a dying bard."
"I'm not dying," she snapped. "I'm just emotionally unstable and underfed."
Lucan's gaze lingered on her face, unreadable. "You speak as if I owe you comfort."
"You dragged me into this forest," she said, arms crossed. "You tied me up. You threatened to kill me. The least you could do is offer a granola bar."
Lucan blinked. "A what?"
She sighed. "Never mind."
They resumed walking, the silence stretching like vines between them.
After a while, Elira spoke again, softer this time. "Are we going to rest soon? Or do I have to collapse dramatically and hope you feel guilty?"
Lucan didn't stop walking, but his voice came low and cold. "You may rest when I decide it's safe. And if you collapse, I'll leave you for the wolves."
Elira rolled her eyes. "Charming. Truly."
But despite her sarcasm, her steps slowed. Her legs ached. Her stomach growled. And though she hated to admit it, the fear never left her—not with Lucan so close, not with his sword always within reach.
Still, she kept walking.
Because if she stopped, she wasn't sure she'd ever get up again.
The path narrowed, winding between crooked trees that looked more like claws than branches. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a long, mournful sound that made Elira's spine stiffen.
She glanced nervously at Lucan. He didn't flinch.
Of course he didn't.
"I'm starting to think you want me to collapse," she muttered.
Lucan stopped again. This time, he turned fully toward her, his silver eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight.
Without a word, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a length of enchanted rope—dark, braided, and pulsing faintly with runes.
Elira's eyes widened. "Oh no. No, no, no. What is that? Why are you looking at me like I'm a misbehaving goat?"
Lucan stepped forward and tied one end of the rope around her wrist. The knot tightened with a magical hiss.
"Hey!" she yelped, trying to pull away. "You're leashing me?! Like a dog?!"
Lucan wrapped the other end around his gauntlet. "You wander. You complain. You slow us down. This ensures you stay close."
"I'm not a pet," she snapped, tugging at the rope. It didn't budge. "This is medieval-level humiliating."
Lucan's voice was calm, almost bored. "You are in a medieval world."
She glared at him. "You know what else is medieval? Manners."
He turned and resumed walking, dragging the rope gently behind him.
Elira stumbled after him, fuming. "I swear, when I get out of this forest, I'm writing a scroll titled 'How Not to Kidnap a Saintess'. Chapter One: Don't leash your hostage."
Lucan didn't respond.
But after a few more minutes of walking, he slowed.
Ahead, nestled between two massive trees, was a small clearing. Moonlight spilled into it like silver wine. A fallen log sat near the edge, and the ground was dry—miraculously free of thorns and roots.
Lucan gestured toward it. "Rest."
Elira blinked. "Wait... seriously?"
He didn't answer. He simply sat on a nearby rock, sword across his lap, eyes scanning the trees.
Elira collapsed onto the log like a dying squirrel. "Oh thank the stars. I thought you were going to walk me into the afterlife."
Lucan didn't look at her. "You're not worth killing. Yet."
She flopped back dramatically. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all day."
The clearing was still.
No wolves. No monsters. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl that sounded far too judgmental.
Elira sat on the fallen log, arms wrapped around her knees, the enchanted rope still tethered to Lucan's gauntlet like a cruel reminder. He sat nearby, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the trees as if daring them to blink first.
She didn't speak. Neither did he.
And in that silence, her thoughts began to spiral.
How did I get here?
She remembered the book. The one she'd been reading in bed, curled under her blanket, sipping lukewarm tea. It had been about a tyrant king—Lucan. A cruel ruler feared across kingdoms. She'd hated him. Mocked him. Even rolled her eyes at his dramatic speeches.
And then... the silver lake.
The cold.
The moon.
The sword at her throat.
She shivered, pulling her knees tighter to her chest.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination. I'm here. I'm really here.
She glanced at Lucan, who hadn't moved. His armor gleamed faintly in the moonlight, his sword resting across his lap like a sleeping beast.
He was fiction. He was supposed to stay in the pages. So why am I sitting next to him in a cursed forest, tied like a prisoner?
Her heart thudded.
What if I never go back? What if this is it?
She bit her lip, trying to hold back the rising panic.
I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose this. I'm not the Saintess. I'm not anyone.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something older—something ancient.
She looked up at the sky, at the strange purple moon that hung like a watchful eye.
And finally, she whispered the question that had been clawing at her chest since the moment she arrived:
"How do I get back to my world?"
Elira stamped her feet, her soaked pajamas clinging to her legs, her hair tangled with twigs and frustration.
"Is this where I end up?" she snapped, arms flailing as she paced the clearing like a storm in slippers. "Dragged through a cursed forest, leashed like a magical mutt, and babysat by a medieval warlord with zero empathy?"
Lucan didn't respond.
She kept going, talking as if he weren't there—or maybe hoping he wasn't.
"Ugh! I'm not a Saintess! I don't glow! I don't summon light! I don't even know how to use a sword! I cry during sad commercials and burn toast!"
Lucan finally turned, his silver eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight.
"It's not for you to decide," he said, voice low and sharp. "It's up to me to know whether you are the Saintess or not."
He stepped closer, the rope between them taut.
"And if you are," he continued, "this might be exactly where you end up."
Elira froze.
His words hung in the air like frost.
She looked around—the twisted trees, the endless shadows, the cold that clung to her bones—and suddenly, the weight of it all pressed down on her.
What if this is it? What if I never go back?
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want to go home…"
Lucan said nothing.
But his gaze lingered on her longer than usual. Not with cruelty. Not with suspicion. Just... silence.
Then, without a word, he turned away.
He walked back to the rock where he'd been sitting, his armor creaking softly with each step. He lowered himself onto it, sword across his lap, and closed his eyes.
Elira watched him, confused.
No threats. No commands. Just quiet.
And for the first time since she'd arrived in this strange, terrifying world, the forest didn't feel like it was closing in—it simply waited.
The forest was quiet.
Elira had drifted into sleep at last, curled awkwardly on the log, her wrist still tethered to Lucan's enchanted rope. Her breathing slowed, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion. For the first time since arriving in this strange world, her mind stopped racing.
She dreamed of warmth. Of her bed. Of the soft hum of her fan and the smell of old books.
Then—
Yank.
The rope snapped taut.
Elira jolted awake with a gasp, nearly falling off the log. "Ow—what the—?!"
Lucan stood over her, already armored and alert, his grip firm on the rope.
"Get up," he said flatly.
She blinked, still groggy. "What time is it? Is there even time here? I was literally dreaming about pancakes."
Lucan didn't answer. He turned and began walking, dragging the rope behind him.
Elira stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping over her own exhaustion. "You could've said please. Or maybe good morning. Or hey, I'm about to ruin your life again."
Lucan didn't slow. "We move now. The forest shifts at dawn. If we stay, we'll be hunted."
Elira groaned, rubbing her eyes. "I'm already being hunted. By you."
He glanced back, silver eyes sharp. "Not hunted. Claimed."
She stopped mid-step. "That's somehow worse."
But she followed.
Because the forest was waking too—leaves rustling, shadows stretching, and something distant growling beneath the earth.
And as much as she hated Lucan, she hated the idea of being alone here even more.
He might be a terrifying tyrant king—but this forest, with its whispering shadows and unseen dangers, was worse. For now.
Lucan kept dragging her forward like a tethered animal, the enchanted rope pulling tight every time she slowed. His strides were long, relentless, and utterly indifferent to the fact that she was stumbling behind him in soaked pajamas and aching feet.
"Can you not yank me like a disobedient goat?" Elira snapped, tripping over another root. "I'm a person. A human. Ever heard of treating someone with respect?"
Lucan didn't even glance back. "Respect is earned."
She groaned. "You kidnapped me! What do I have to do—slay a dragon and bake you a pie?"
He stopped abruptly, turning just enough for his silver eyes to catch hers.
"I am not interested in pies," he said coldly. "Only truth. And blood."
Elira recoiled slightly. "Wow. That's... comforting."
Lucan resumed walking, dragging her along once more.
She stumbled again, nearly falling face-first into a patch of thorns. "You know, for someone who thinks I might be a divine Saintess, you treat me like a cursed stray."
Lucan's voice came low and sharp. "If you are the Saintess, then you are a threat. If you are not, then you are a mistake. Either way, I do not coddle."
Elira clenched her fists, breath ragged. "You're a tyrant. A cruel king who desires only blood and power."
Lucan didn't deny it.
He didn't have to.
His silence was confirmation enough.
And yet, despite everything—despite the leash, the threats, the cold—Elira kept walking.
Because somewhere deep inside, she knew: surviving this world meant surviving him first.
The forest had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Elira trudged behind Lucan, her wrist still bound by the enchanted rope, her feet aching, her breath fogging in the cold morning air. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crunch of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig.
Then the wind shifted.
It wasn't just colder—it was wrong. It carried no scent, no sound. Just emptiness.
Lucan stopped.
Elira bumped into him again. "Seriously? You need to start announcing when you—"
"Run," he said sharply.
She blinked. "Wait, what?"
Lucan turned, his silver eyes flashing. "Run. Now."