I sit up in my bed, the satin bedsheets sliding off my shoulder as I blink against the soft, amber morning light. My bedroom looks exactly how I left it: my old wooden dresser, overflowing with unfolded clothes; the leaning tower of books by my bed, still promising adventures I haven't taken; and the full-length mirror in the corner, catching glints of sun that warm the floorboards.

  Home.

  It feels so real I could cry.

  Maybe it was all a nightmare. The monster. The forest. The blood. I could still be safe in my boring little life—the one I used to complain about, but now crave like oxygen.

  Downstairs, I hear the comforting clatter of plates and the low hum of my parents' voices. I follow the scent of lavender and bacon to the dining room, where they sit at the table—laughing, whole, untouched by the horror I just escaped.

  "Mom?" I whisper.

  She looks up, but her eyes don't meet mine. They pass right through me.

  I glance at the fourth chair. Empty.

  I try to speak again, louder this time, but the sound dies in my throat. My feet won't move. My voice won't work.

  Panic spikes in my chest.

  "Nothing good comes from dwelling in the past," a voice murmurs—not from anyone at the table, but from inside my skull.

  The scene fractures like glass.

  My mother fades to mist. The sunlight warps into firelight. I feel the ground shift beneath me.

  I'm falling.

  My eyes shoot open, straining against the sudden light. Fire flickers lazily on a pile of dried wood. I lift a hand to brush a loose strand of hair from my face—and pain stabs through my stomach like a knife.

  I gasp, wincing. The shock of it floods through me.

  "Maybe stay put," says a voice. Deep. Calm. Not entirely human.

  I freeze. "Who are you?"

  The fire throws light in a tight circle. Stalagmites rise from the ground like crooked teeth. Water drips from the ceiling in steady rhythm. I'm in a cave. Alone.

  "You're gonna live," the voice says.

  "Thanks for the update," I mutter. "Now tell me who the hell you are."

  "You're a rude little thing. Maybe try some gratitude—I did keep you from being a monster's midday snack."

  "Right. Ended up a skewer instead." My voice shakes, but I push the words out anyway.

  A low huff echoes from behind a rock—maybe a tunnel. A way out.

  "Why are you hiding?" I ask. The realization clicks in slowly. I'm talking to a voice with no body. No face. No proof it's anything but another nightmare. But it's real. The pain is real.

  Brilliant.

  I start feeling around the floor, searching for anything to defend myself with.

  "You're panicking," he says.

  "No, I'm not."

  "I can hear your heartbeat, tiny human. Don't lie to me." His voice dips, all gravel and threat. "I don't take kindly to liars."

  I stop moving, fists clenched. "Then show yourself. How am I supposed to trust just a voice?"

  He laughs—a deep, amused sound that curls in the dark. "Trust? You couldn't even look at the Wreh without collapsing. What if I'm worse?"

  My breath catches. My mouth opens, then shuts again. I hadn't considered that. What if he's an also a monster? What if this is all just another trap?

  Tears sting my eyes. I bite them back. Deep breath. I need to think. I already almost died once—if he wanted me dead, I'd be gone by now.

  "Just the thought of me being worse, and you're panicking again," he says softly, too amused.

  I curl in on myself, trembling, trying to hold back sobs that keep threatening to break loose. He says nothing else. Just lets the silence stretch.

  Then—crack.

  A sharp sound from deeper in the cave. I flinch.

  "What are you?" I ask, forcing steel into my voice. I don't care if it's fake. "If you're going to kill me, just do it. Otherwise, talk."

  "Let's start with the important questions," he replies.

  "Like what?"

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  "Like why you're here."

  We end up talking for hours—mostly about me.

  Every time I ask a question, he answers with another one. It's like playing chess with a shadow. Every move I make, he's already ten ahead. I still don't know his name or what kind of creature he is. But I do learn about this world—this strange, beautiful, terrifying world I've been dropped into.

  He tells me its name: Thalaxus, a realm born from the whispers of a celestial being, shaped long before time ever meant anything. The being is known only as the Weaver of Realms, and its voice stitched the very air into existence, threading magic through the bones of the world.

  At first, Thalaxus was a place of raw creation, wild and untamed. But it didn't take long for war to take root—first among mortals, then among creatures far older and stronger. The lust for power spread like wildfire. Kingdoms rose and fell. Gods descended. Demons emerged. And caught in the middle were humans—too weak to survive on their own, too stubborn to vanish entirely.

  So the Weaver came again. This time, it didn't bring peace. It brought power. Not weapons—those had already failed—but something far more dangerous: magic.

  The kind that sings through blood and bone. The kind that rewrites the laws of the world if you're strong enough to wield it.

  But not everyone could.

  Only a few humans were able to harness the gift. Those who could became legends. Leaders. Warriors. Rulers. They formed the First Nations, carving order out of chaos, building strongholds where the wild couldn't reach them. Peace, real peace, followed. Fragile, but alive.

  As the centuries passed, the most powerful bloodlines united. They named their kingdom Thalassia, claiming the northern lands and building a shining capital called Nuvira—a city perched on the edge of the world, where the cliffs bleed into the sea. It takes four weeks to walk there from where I am now. Not that I'm planning a hike anytime soon.

  In Nuvira, magic is everything. The more you have, the more the world bends to you. Magic secures good jobs, arranged marriages, land rights, even clean water. Those who lack it? They're pushed to the outskirts—southern provinces riddled with poverty, hunger, and creatures that thrive in darkness.

  And I'm not just in some random forest.

  I'm in the Forest of Navahrir—the most dangerous place in Thalassia. A cursed woodland filled with tangled roots and darker things. Legends say no one who enters ever leaves. But that's not the worst part.

  Forest of Navahrir is where the boundary between Thalassia and Maldrathis, the demon realm, is closest.

  Once every year, when the twin moons align in the sky, the barrier fractures. A hidden path opens across the sea, linking the two realms. They call it the Night of the Rift.

  Demons pour in. Mages rush to push them back. Every year, the battle unfolds like clockwork—bloody, brutal, and utterly predictable. And every year, the demons retreat—back to Maldrathis or the less fortunate ones- to Navahrir, back to this green hell.This forest is their prison.A living cage of ancient bark and shadow, where hope feels like a fairytale told too late. No wonder people believe it's cursed. Honestly, if someone told me I'd been dropped into the most haunted forest in a demon-infested realm, I'd probably laugh.

  Except I'm not laughing. Trust me to teleport into the one place nobody survives.

  I lie back and stare at the flickering shadows on the cave walls, trying to make sense of everything. So much history. So many names. So many things that feel impossibly big and distant—until I remember where I am.

  Alone. Wounded. Trapped.

  A girl with no magic, no plan, and no idea how she got here.Needless to say, my sleep that night isn't exactly peaceful.

  ———

  I wake with a sharp jolt.

  Pain blooms in my stomach—hot and stabbing, like fire threading its way through my insides. For a second, I can't breathe. My muscles seize, my back arches, and I have to bite down on a scream. Every nerve in my body lights up like I've been struck by lightning.

  I'll never complain about period cramps again. This is something else entirely. This is war.

  Time passes in painful waves—minutes? Hours? I can't tell. The only sound is the crackle of the fire, burning low and steady, and the soft, rhythmic drip of water from the cave ceiling. Each drop echoes like a clock ticking somewhere I can't see, counting down to something I don't understand.

  I shift, inch by inch, until I'm propped awkwardly against a nearby boulder. The stone is cold and damp beneath my palm. My fingers tremble as I clutch at my side, the ache pulsing like a second heartbeat. I try to breathe through it, but every inhale feels like I'm swallowing glass.

  Across from me, the fire casts golden light on the uneven stone. Shadows dance across the walls like ghosts trying to tell a story I can't quite hear.

  There are two exits that I can see—one a wide corridor to the right, the other a jagged crack barely large enough to slip through. Neither looks promising. Neither looks like safety.

  I close my eyes and picture home.

  I picture my mom, frantic and disheveled, her hair in a messy bun as she runs through the bookstore again, demanding answers that don't exist. I picture Paige, half-asleep behind the counter, holding up a cup of coffee and rolling her eyes. I picture Dad, standing too still, trying not to look worried but ... would he be? Kate, blasting my phone with thousands of messages and calls, waiting for that one response, that won’t come.

  The image is so clear I almost cry.

  But then, the voice returns.

  "I see you're still alive," he says, deep and unbothered, like this is all going exactly according to plan.

  I groan and roll my eyes—not that he can see it. "Is that disappointing?"

  There's a pause, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if I've pushed him too far.

  Then: "You must be hungry. I brought some Aurora berries. Not exactly gourmet, but they'll keep you from dying."

  Something small thuds on the stone beside my head. A cloth bundle. Inside are bright violet berries, slightly squished but still whole. I hesitate.

  "Poisoned?" I ask.

  "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be asking me that."

  He has a point. Still, I wait a beat longer before popping one into my mouth. It's bitter and strangely metallic, but I'm too hungry to care.

  "Why are you helping me?" I ask after a few mouthfuls. It's the question that's been sitting at the front of my mind since I woke up here.

  His answer is maddeningly vague. "Let's say I have my reasons."

  I scowl at the darkness. "That's not an answer."

  "It's the one you're getting."

  "Why should I trust you?" I snap. "You won't even show me your face. You won't give me a name. For all I know, you're just waiting until I'm strong enough to eat."

  He laughs. It's low and amused, like I've said something charming. "If I wanted to kill you, child, you'd already be dead. Or worse."

  The way he says worse makes my skin crawl.

  "I'm trying to protect your fragile little heart," he adds with a grin in his voice. "You nearly passed out at the sight of the Wreh. What do you think will happen when you see me?"

  "Maybe I'll be fine. Maybe I'm braver than you think."

  Another chuckle, softer this time. "I doubt it."

  The silence that follows is thick. Tense. I decide to take a risk.

  "Let's make a deal," I say, forcing myself to sit straighter. "You show yourself, and I'll do one thing for you. No questions asked."

  He doesn't answer immediately. It's quiet enough to hear the water again—drip, drip, drip. The fire hisses as one of the logs shifts.

  "Anything?"

  I swallow hard. "Anything."

  A long pause. Then the sound of movement—slow, deliberate footsteps from the far corner of the cave. My heart jumps, slamming against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

  The shadows shift.

  A shape begins to emerge—tall, inhuman, carved from something older than bone or stone. It moves with unnatural grace, its limbs too long, its silhouette shrouded in flickering firelight.

  And I start screaming.