[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
06:00 a.m. - At Adventurers Guild, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (17 September 2025)
The guild door fills my whole world.
My hand pushes.
Wood booms against the wall. Warm air spills out beer, sweat, old smoke, ink. Heads turn. A few curses. Dice stop rolling.
I walk in.
My boots leave damp prints on the floor. Water from the Abyss still clings in the seams. My clothes are stained black in places that will never wash clean.
I raise my voice.
"WHERE ARE GIN, BARDEN, AND LYSS?"
The hall goes quiet, like someone just slit a throat.
There back left table, near the counter. Gin's half‑smile freezes around his mug. Lyss has a quill in hand over a parchment. Barden sits with his back to the wall, shield propped beside him, eyes half‑closed.
Lyss looks up first.
Her quill drops.
Her lips move. No sound comes out.
Gin turns slow, like his neck is rusted. His gaze runs over me once, doesn't find a broken bone, comes back to my face.
Color drains out of him.
Barden's chair scrapes. He twists, sees me, and all the blood leaves his thick neck at once. The big man lurches to his feet.
"...ghost," he whispers.
His knees slam the bench.
He goes over backward like a felled tree. Floorboards shake when he hits.
Someone barks a laugh, then chokes it off when they see Gin's face.
I don't smile.
I move. Straight line. Tables part. No one wants to brush against the dead man.
Gin finds his tongue first.
"You—"
"Surprised?" I stop two paces from their table. "Did you think the Abyss would keep me?"
Murmurs ripple out.
"Abyss?"
"Wasn't he the new F‑rank?"
Lyss forces a sound up her throat.
"You… climbed out. That's all. Fell on a ledge. Lucky."
I tilt my head.
"You tried to kill me."
My voice carries. I make sure of it.
A man steps from behind the lattice screens. Clean beard, guild seal at his throat, iron plates on his shoulders. Authority walks with him.
"What is this noise at dawn?" His eyes land on me. "Rank?"
"F," Gin answers fast. "Scavenger. He's confused, Master. Took a knock in his brain."
The guild master's gaze weighs me.
"Lower ranks don't stir trouble. If you have a quarrel, boy, file—"
"Sure." I cut across him. "I'll file one thing."
My hand slips into my torn tunic. Cool weight presses my palm. I bring it out and drop it on their table.
The shard hits wood with a clear chime.
Light spills out silver‑green, cold and pure, the same pulse as that cavern. It paints Gin's hands, Lyss's eyes, the guild master's armor.
Silence sucks in.
Then the room breathes in one hungry sigh.
"Star crystal."
"Whole vein?"
"Where?"
"Rune‑grade glow, look at it—"
A runesmith at the next table leans so far over his mug he almost flips.
"That's core quality. You pull that from the old mine?"
I raise my voice a notch.
"Deep shaft. Center path. Hall big enough to drown this place. Crystals everywhere. Walls, floor, ceiling. There's so much it could practically bury you to death."
The panic starts.
Benches scrape. A couple of C‑ranks are already on their feet, eyes wild.
"Guild master, if there's an unclaimed lode—"
"Guild contract, right? First discoverers get—"
The guild master's stare pins the shard.
"Why," he says, very soft, "was this not on your report, Gin of C‑rank?"
All eyes swing to the trio.
Lyss goes stiff.
"Our leader planned to… to confirm the value before—"
"Bullshit." I don't let her finish. "They planned to sit on it. Three shares split better than four, remember?"
Gasps. A few curses.
Gin's jaw clenches.
"You watch your tongue, porter."
"Porters don't get thrown into the Abyss."
The word lands like a dropped anvil.
I hold his eyes.
"You called me to the edge. You pushed. You heard no stone hit bottom and walked away. Then you came here to file the lode as yours."
The guild master straightens, face hardening.
"Attempted murder of a party member. Concealment of a major magical resource." His voice is flat iron. "Both hang by guild law."
The room explodes.
"YOU TRIED TO KILL A F‑RANK FOR COIN?"
"Over crystals?"
"Cowards—"
Chairs topple. People surge closer to see Gin's face, Lyss's shaking hands, Barden still sprawled on the floor.
Gin leans over the table, voice low, meant only for me.
"You'll regret this."
I smirk.
"No," I answer. "I don't regret what I did."
I tap the glowing shard once with my fingertip.
"Now it's your turn."
And the adventures of all three of them came to an end on that day.
After that, I was the only one who received a share of the guild mission reward an amount more than enough to start a business in this world.
---
07:00 a.m. - At Frosted Mug, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (17 September 2025)
I come back to the room, door slamming harder than it needs to.
Wood rattles in the frame. Dust puffs from the beam overhead.
The second bed is empty.
Blank blanket. No boots. No tall redhead pretending not to judge me.
I stand there a moment, hand on the latch.
"R—Right," I mutter. "O—Of course."
No note. No hairpin on the pillow. Just gone.
"Sera."
I cross to my bed and drop onto the mattress. Straw creaks.
I hate that feeling.
The frozen.
I'm chilled through, teeth chattering, after scrubbing off Abyss‑water grime in this world. I already loathed that exact sensation back home in winter when the water heater died, but here there isn't even a dial to turn—no hot shower, no basic comfort, just cold.
Nothing.
There isn't even a proper bathhouse here.
If you want to wash, you have to trek out to the river and throw yourself in. That might be tolerable in summer, but it's winter.
---
Muffled tavern noise downstairs. A cart rolls past outside.
I drag my phone from my pocket. The cracked screen lights up my face. Battery still fine. No bars. No Wi‑Fi. Same as always.
"Sigh." I say to the blank screen. "So, my power activates every seven days, and every seven days it brings me bad things. Is that it?"
"After I went down into the pit they call the 'Abyss', the house pulled me in again."
My anger eased with a decent cup of coffee and time to rest in my little space‑house.
Amazing and awful at the same time.
"So, I'm back.
"After chilling my nerves in that space‑house knockoff of a five‑star hotel, I got dumped straight back into the nightmare that passes for a fantasy world.
"I don't know if that pattern is even real. I just know there's always that '7 days' number on the desktop, and some bad event I have to live through every time it hits zero.
"Every seven days, I get three new options. I can't go back before that. That's the rule?"
Fine.
If I can't get back to Earth right now, then I just have to keep going.
I dig in my pouch. Coins clink—heavy, satisfying. The guild master's reward sits warm in my palm; more silver than I've ever held at once.
Enough to start.
"No mystery house," I mutter. "So the world becomes the lab."
I start thinking about what I need to do next and set some goals for what I want to achieve.
First, a proper bloomery. Taller stack. Side tuyere for the bellows. Pre‑heat channel. I sketch airflow arrows, mark where the hotter zones form, where slag drops. Next to it, a mold just for my pen nibs.
Clay, stone, charcoal, ore… etc.
I list them down the page.
Outside, Frosthaven wakes—vendors shouting prices, a distant bell, the low rumble of carts.
Inside, it's just the scratch of pencil and my own breathing.
"Sera's gone."
"The house on Earth is out of reach."
"The mystery power I can't really understand."
"But my brain still runs."
"Alright," I tell the empty room. "If I'm really stuck in this world with no real combat ability, no magic, and only this bizarre Authority that brings me back every seven days to pick two options to keep myself alive, then the only thing left is to build my own strength the slow way—through money and tech."
I underline the word FURNACE twice and start breaking the problem into smaller parts.
---
08:00 a.m. - At Murdock's Forge, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (18 September 2025)
The forge door fights me for a second, then gives. Heat slams into my face. Sweat, coal, metal.
Murdock stands over the anvil, arms swinging, hammer chewing sparks out of red steel.
"Back already, lad? Here to whine about your scribbler's toy?"
I hold up the rolled parchment.
"Came to upgrade your life."
That gets him. The hammer stalls mid‑swing. He quenches the bar with a hiss, tosses it aside, and snatches the parchment from my hand.
"Talk big for a twig."
He unrolls it on the anvil.
His eyes narrow.
I watch his gaze crawl over the cross‑section. Taller stack. Side tuyere. Pre‑heat loop. Slag tap. I've redrawn half his world.
His fingers trace the air channels.
"By the deep veins…" He leans closer, beard almost brushing the charcoal lines. "You're pushing more breath through than three bellows, but the fire still climbs. This chamber here—it keeps the heat penned in."
"Hotter core, cleaner bloom, less trash in the iron."
I lay out the steps.
"And these little pens?"
"Nibs. I need fifty or sixty per mold."
Murdock lets out a rough laugh.
"Got it!" he says.
He straightens, eyes bright.
"Three days, if I drag every useless apprentice I own."
"Three days works." My chest feels wired, light. "We light this thing, your blades cut through the enemy. My pens cut through half this city's paperwork."
He grunts, still staring at the plan.
"World's gone strange enough already. Word came in last night." He reaches for tongs, then thinks better of it and keeps reading. "Belmara marched against Drakensvale. Old Malakar himself at the front, they say. Empires biting each other's throats."
"Yeah?"
I shift the parchment so the airflow arrows line up clean.
"Good for them."
Murdock snorts.
"Not your worry, eh?"
"I've got a furnace war to win."
Murdock taps the anvil once, like a seal on a contract.
"Start here," he says. "The rest follows."
---
02:00 p.m. - At Merchant Guild, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (18 September 2025)
The Chamber of Commerce hums the same as last time. Quills scratching. Coins clinking. Low arguments about grain and tariffs.
I hover just inside the door.
(Okay. Time for the first isekai exam result. Please don't let it say "congratulations, you're an idiot.")
Ellara looks up from her ledger.
Her eyes light.
"Mr. Ryan." Her voice brightens. "Perfect timing."
That can't be good.
She reaches under the counter and slides a sealed parchment toward me. Red wax, stag sigil pressed in deep.
"Your merchant‑skills examination," she says, resting her fingers on it. "The results came in this morning."
My stomach does a small flip.
"If this is a polite way of saying 'go back to farming'…" I pinch the parchment.
"Open it."
The seal cracks loud in my ears. I unfold the sheet.
The script curls fancy, but the numbers jump out clear. A column of scores. At the bottom, a line in heavier ink.
"Total: 100 out of 100. Ranking: Perfect."
I blink.
"…Huh."
Ellara leans over the counter, braid sliding off her shoulder.
"We rarely see perfect scores. Almost never on a first attempt." Her smile is pure pride. "Your grasp of math principles is exceptional, Mr. Ryan."
"Good," slips out. "I was half‑sure I'd just invented a new way to fail in Avarnith languages."
She laughs, soft.
"The Guild Council has confirmed you as a full member. This," she taps the parchment again, "is your certificate. With it, you gain several rights."
Her quill is already moving in the big ledger.
"You may deposit coin or goods in our vault as security—if they are lost under our care, we repay up to a limit of 1,000 gold coins. You may rent a stall in the Kingdom of Aurelthorn under guild protection, without extra city fees. You may register a trade name so others cannot copy it inside the Kingdom of Aurelthorn. And," she glances up, "you may apply for guild loans. Small at first, but larger as your record grows."
My hand tightens on the paper.
"I want to register a company."
Her eyes spark.
"Oh? Already?"
"Technologia."
The word hangs between us.
She tastes it once. "Tech‑no… logia." Her smile widens. "Bold. Sounds foreign. I like it."
Her quill dances. A fresh page. My name. The company name.
"Field of trade?"
"Research and development. Technology. Tools. Later… other useful things."
"That fits under 'crafted goods and instruments'." More scratching. "And for capital… were you wishing to apply for a starting loan, Mr. Ryan?"
"Yeah. I'll need startup money."
Her brow lifts.
"How much?"
I run fast numbers in my head—furnace materials, labor, stall fees, food, ink, paper. Then I aim high.
"10 gold."
She actually pauses.
"For a newcomer with no guarantor, ten gold is the top of our modest line." Her lips press, then soften. "But with this score, and a registered trade, it is acceptable."
That word warms me more than the forge did.
She pulls a narrow sheet, already printed with tight script.
"This is a promissory note. You receive ten gold today. You repay over twelve moons, with one silver in interest each moon. If you miss payment, the guild may claim goods equal to the debt and suspend your stall. Do you agree?"
I skim the lines. No hidden soul‑selling clauses. Just money.
"I agree."
She turns the sheet toward me. "Sign at the bottom."
My old Earth signature curls across the parchment. Her eyes linger on it, amused.
"Very… unique."
She stamps over it with the guild seal. THUNK. Ink and wax bite in.
From a locked box under the counter she counts coins, one by one. Each gold disk lands with a soft, heavy sound.
"1, 2, 3… 10."
They shine in a neat stack, stag emblem winking up at me.
"Congratulations, Mr. Ryan." She pushes the pile, then a small wooden plaque marked with the guild sigil. "Technologia is now a recognized company in the Kingdom of Aurelthorn. This token lets you set up a stall in Aurelthorn under guild guard. Present it to the city watch if there is trouble. And if you wish, we can hold part of that gold in our vault for safety."
I gather coins, plaque, certificate. The weight in my hands feels unreal.
Ellara rests her chin lightly on her fingers.
"If I may ask… what will Technologia's first venture be?"
"Innovation."
Her brows lift.
"More precisely?"
"A pen that doesn't snap the way a feather does." I tuck the gold away. "Then everything that follows from that."
She laughs again.
"I look forward to seeing them."
I turn toward the door, pockets suddenly very, very real.
Merchant. Company. Capital.
Achievement Completed: Build a first company.
---
04:00 p.m. - At Frosted Mug, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (18 September 2025)
Snowball's breath steams in the cool air behind the Frosted Mug, each exhale a little cloud.
I lean into his shoulder and thump his neck.
"Day 1 of Technologia, buddy. We are officially not broke."
He swings that massive head, antlers catching the light, and bumps my chest hard enough to rock me back.
"Yeah, yeah. You did the walking, I did the paperwork, it's a team effort."
The stable boy from yesterday—mop of straw-colored hair, hands full of grain—eyes the bulge of coins at my belt.
"Didn't take you long to climb, mister merchant."
"Speedrun," I grin. "Can you give him extra feed? Good stuff, not sweepings. I'll cover it."
Two copper pieces change hands. The boy's whole posture perks.
He pours grain, then starts brushing Snowball's flank in long, careful strokes.
"Your beast likes you," he mutters. "Don't usually see that quick."
Snowball leans into the brush, eyelids drooping.
"Smart judge of character," I pat his neck. "Watch him for me. Couple days of running around. Guild work. Forge work. Brain work."
"Long as the coin's right, he'll be fat and happy."
"Same for me."
I rest my forehead against Snowball's warm hide for a breath.
"My childhood dream was to have a pet," I whisper into his fur. "And that dream has come true right here."
He flicks an ear like he approves of the "right here" part.
I step away, give him one last slap on the shoulder, then head for the inn door and the smell of stew and smoke, mind already on the next target.
Knowledge.
---
08:00 p.m. - At Library, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (19–20 September 2025)
The city library squats against the inner wall like a stone barn for thoughts. Iron lattice over the windows, heavy oak doors, two bored guards.
One lowers his spear to bar my chest.
"Library's shut to common folk."
I tap the stag seal on my hand.
"Merchant Guild member. Ellara Brightmire cleared access for ledgers and trade records."
They trade a look. The older one grunts, lifts the spear.
"Keep your hands clean and your tongue down. No copying war maps, no damaging pages."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Inside smells like dust and ink and dried glue. Shelves climb up into shadow. Candle bowls hang from chains, light pooling over reading tables.
Behind a high desk, a thin man with ink-black nails watches me over a pair of wire-framed lenses.
"Guild token," he snaps his fingers.
I set the plaque on his desk.
His gaze softens a fraction.
"Trade stacks there. Histories there. Maps…" his eyes cut to a locked iron cabinet, "…for crown, mages, and captains. Not for merchants."
"Right. No maps." My jaw tightens. "I need something else. Primer for Common script. And… prices. Grain, iron, cloth. Across Aurelthorn."
"At last, a merchant who remembers that numbers decide wars." His mouth twists. "Wait."
He shuffles off between shelves.
I turn away from the cabinet, force myself not to stare at the rolled charts behind its glass. No smartphone pics. No quick scan. Just brain, eyes, and time.
The librarian returns with two volumes. One thin, one thick.
He drops the slim one into my hands.
"Letters of the Heartland Tongue. For children. Or foreigners."
No lie detected.
The thick book lands beside it with a thud.
"'Royal Schedules of Tithes and Tariffs, Reign of Aldric.' Prices, weights, duties. You may read at that table. Books stay here."
"I only need my eyes."
I haul them to a corner table.
The primer opens on big, careful letters. Curved strokes, arrows for direction, little drawings. Ox. River. House.
I grip the quill they give me and start copying. My lines wobble. Ink blobs. My wrist burns fast.
"Come on," I mutter. "I should bring a pencil next time."
By midnight my head throbs, but symbols start to stick.
This hook-shape. That sound.
Next night, I drag myself back. The tariff book waits where I left it, a brick of tiny script.
I trace a heading slowly, lips moving.
"Da…wn… spi…re."
Dawnspire.
Rows of numbers follow the word. Grain levies. Harbor fees. Road tolls.
Capital city. Confirmed.
I grin at the page.
"Got you," I whisper.
Letters. Prices. Names.
No maps. Not yet.
But the code of this world starts to crack open, one stroke at a time.
---
08:00 a.m. - At Murdock's Forge, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (21 September 2025)
Three days of ink and headaches sit behind my eyes.
Letters march in neat lines whenever I blink. Tariff numbers float up if I stare at a brick too long. My fingers still remember the drag of the quill, the way my wrist cramped copying words.
Now heat hits me instead of candle smoke.
The forge door swings open and the usual wall of fire‑breath rolls over me. Hammer blows ring. Bellows wheeze. Sparks spit across the floor.
And in the back corner, where the old squat furnace used to sulk, something new squats and hums.
Not a stove.
A tower.
Stone and clay stacked taller than me, throat narrow, crown thick, side tuyere jutting like a lung ready to inhale the whole world. Copper pipe loops from the exhaust back toward the intake—my pre‑heat idea—dark with a first coat of smoke. The air around it shimmers.
I grin before I reach it.
Murdock peels away from the anvil, beard clotted with coal dust, eyes bright through it.
"Well then, lad? Will it do?"
I press my palm to the outer wall. Warm, not scorching. Heat stays where it should. Joints tight. No obvious leaks. Someone cared.
"It's beautiful."
He snorts, but his chest lifts.
"Took the brats two nights cursing me name to lay the shell. Near burned off my lashes testing her."
"Worth it."
I nod at the side table.
The mold waits there. Two halves, smooth cavities running in rows, each tiny channel ending in the slit of a nib point. Clean work.
"Ready to move from theory to production?"
Murdock's teeth flash.
"About damn time."
We work.
Charcoal, layer by layer. Ore lumps. A scoop of crushed flux dust I begged off an alchemist. Apprentices heave at the bellows, air hissing through the tuyere. The roar inside climbs past red, past orange, toward that hard white glare that makes metal forget it was ever solid.
Sweat crawls down my spine. My tunic clings. I don't care.
Murdock hauls the crucible out with tongs, arms bunching. Inside, the steel turns to a slow, silver whirlpool.
"This much heat for a bloody pen," he mutters, though the corner of his mouth fights a smile.
"Not a pen," I say, watching the surface smooth. "A thousand contracts. Ten thousand ledgers. Every clerk in Dawnspire cursing your name because their hand cramps first, not their quill."
He huffs.
"Talk like that near a priest, they'll burn you for prophecy."
"Hahaha. Good joke."
We tilt.
Molten metal spills in a shining ribbon into the mold mouth. It hisses, spits little ghosts of steam. The stone tabletop vibrates.
My throat tightens.
(First casting run in Aurelthorn. First real product line.)
We wait. Murdock cracks the mold open with the care of a man handling dragon eggs.
A row of tiny teeth gleam along the clay. Slender, perfect, each tip tapering sharper than any goose feather could dream of.
I pick one up with blackened fingers.
It catches the forge light, slender shoulders, neat slit, smooth underside where it will ride the holder.
"Hello, first product of Technologia," I whisper.
Murdock turns one over on his thumb.
"Never seen steel polished this fine for words."
"That's the point."
I roll my shoulders, brain already sprinting.
"Now we write it on paper, fix whatever sucks, then… mass production."
He barks a short laugh.
"You mean this was the easy part?"
I flick the nib between my fingers, metal ticking on nail.
"Can you make a thousand?"
His hammer arm pauses halfway to the rack.
"A thousand, is it."
The apprentices go quiet.
I meet his stare.
"One nib is a toy. A thousand is a market. We hit the guild scribes in Dawnspire. If we don't flood the stalls, someone copies the idea dirty and beats us there."
Murdock's eyes narrow, weighing that.
"You supply steel, flux, coin for my lads. I shape the fire. When the last of those thousand nibs leaves this forge…" his voice goes rough, "I probably won't have much time to go to Dawnspire. I'll recommend a friend of mine who can help you. He might like it if you sell him the way to make this kind of smelting furnace."
"You don't want to monopolize this technology anymore, do you?"
Murdock looks at the furnace.
"I once owed a debt to this friend of mine. This is one of the debts I want to repay. And I like that you're not possessive about the technology—like you already see the next step past this. I'm excited to work with you."
"Okay, let me get to the point. What's your friend's name?"
"Bromar. Bromar Ironbeard."
"Deal."
"People will want these. Once they try them, quills feel like garbage," one of the apprentices says.
A couple of them shiver like a draft just walked through stone.
Murdock grunts.
"Then let the bastards want. OI! YOU LOT!" he roars at them. "STOKE HER PROPER! WE'RE FORGIN' SOMETHING CALLED METAL NIBS NOW!"
The boys scramble, laughing, cursing, feeding the new furnace till it growls.
I slide the first nib into my pocket, feel its small weight against the guild plaque, the coins, the folded tariff notes.
Iron supply. Holder workshop. Ink that doesn't clot in metal. Scribes to bribe for first trials.
Road to Dawnspire.
My own little war.
---
[POV Third-Person Omniscient] [Tense: Present]
09:00 p.m. - At Frosted Mug, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn (21 September 2025)
Ryan lies on the narrow tavern bed, boots shoved under the frame, guild plaque and coins stacked on the table beside a guttering candle.
His eyes half-close.
"Dawnspire, Technologia, monopoly, product billboard…" The words slur together, dragged down by sleep. His breathing evens. Shoulders sink. Numbers and furnace diagrams smear into soft, formless light behind his eyelids.
The room settles.
Wood creaks. Someone laughs downstairs, dull through the floor. The candle burns low, flame tunneling into a crater of wax.
Outside, something clings to the inn wall.
At first it could be a knot of shadow, a smudge of night the lamplight forgot. Then it moves.
Chitin rasps stone. Tiny hooked legs test each gap in the boards, patient as a clock. Its body is the length of a man's thumb, segmented and slick, the color of old blood under oil. A pair of translucent wings lie folded tight to its back, useless here.
It finds a crack by the shutter.
The head flattens. Plates flex. With a slow, obscene give, its body squeezes through where no living thing that size should fit. Wood whispers against shell; dust powders down in a faint gray veil.
Inside, it clings upside-down to the inner beam.
It stays there a long moment, utterly still.
Many-faceted eyes catch the candle's last shiver of light and break it into a thousand dead sparks. Mandibles work once, twice, tasting the air.
The flame gutters.
For an instant the wick glows red, a lone ember in a bowl of melted fat.
Then it dies.
Dark folds over the bed.
Silence thickens. The only sound is Ryan's slow, even breath.
The insect lets go.
It drops to the floor without a sound, landing soft as a falling eyelash. Segments ripple, legs flexing in perfect, mechanical rhythm. It turns once, like a needle finding north, and then it moves.
Across the rough boards.
Up the bedpost.
Onto the blanket.
It flows over the rise of his calf, the hollow of his knee, the slope of his thigh. Each tiny foot presses, grips, releases, leaving no mark. The weight is too small to wake him; the body too cold to feel.
Ryan shivers anyway.
In his dream, an ink line runs across a map of Avarnith, perfectly straight, and then splits, spidering into a dozen wrong directions.
The creature reaches his chest.
It pauses over his heart, feelers quivering, drinking in warmth, sweat, the faint iron of blood underneath. Then it continues, unwavering, up the column of his throat.
Across his jaw.
It stops at the cup of his ear.
Mandibles spread.
Flesh resists, at first. There's a tiny tension in his sleeping face, a crease between his brows, as if some buried part of him feels the pressure and wants to turn away.
The insect pushes.
Skin gives with a soft, wet sound.
Cartilage flexes and grinds. The ear canal was never meant to admit anything but sound, but the creature has done this before. Its head wedges in, chitin scraping bone, and then the rest of it follows, plates compressing, legs folding tight to its body.
Ryan's fingers twitch on the blanket.
In his dream, the straight ink line on the page buckles like something alive, then drills down through the parchment, vanishing into blankness.
Inside the ear, the insect pulls itself deeper.
Nerves flare.
For one heartbeat, Ryan's whole body jerks as if someone touched hot iron to his spine. His mouth opens on a breath that never becomes a sound. Then whatever part of his mind screamed is shoved down under a great, heavy dark.
It reaches the thin, soft barrier at the end of the canal.
It bites.
There is no sharp pain, no clean moment of injury—just a deep, crushing pressure inside his skull, as if invisible fingers are slowly pushing his brain away from its own bone.
It burrows.
It slides between boundaries no one should cross, through membranes that have never known air. Warmth wraps it. Pulses drum around it, huge, slow, ocean beats.
It finds the place it wants: a cradle of folded tissue, a branching of nerves, an electrical crossroads.
And there, where Ryan's thoughts spark and leap and become him, it bites down.
Its proboscis sinks into living gray.
It begins to feed.
Not on flesh alone, but on the silent lightning running through him. A thin, colorless flood seeps from its body into his, soaking into synapses, rewriting things no hand will ever see.
Outwardly, there is almost nothing.
A slight, final jerk of Ryan's head on the pillow.
A hiss of breath between his teeth.
Then he lies still again.
His chest rises, falls. Eyes twitch in rapid eyes movement. On the table, the dead candle leans and collapses into its own wax.
In the hollow of his skull, a new, quiet presence curls itself around his thoughts and waits.
---
Morning light spills through the shutter gap, painting bars across the ceiling.
Ryan blinks awake. His head feels… thick, like he slept too hard. A dull ache presses behind one eye, then fades when he blinks again.
He rubs grit from his lashes and swings his feet to the floor.
"Dawnspire day," he mutters.
His voice sounds normal.
He starts packing.