Wyn’s vision returns as she finds herself in a place entirely unfamiliar. Her head reels from the teleportation; her vision spins, leaving her disoriented. Wyn reaches for something, anything, to steady herself with. She finds what feels like a wooden log beside her, and she leans against it, waiting for her vision to clear.

  Sensation begins to return. But everything feels wrong, like she’s been stretched thin and snapped back together. Her heart hammers in her chest, too fast, and too loud, every beat echoing in her skull. Her eyes refuse to focus. Colors smear together, light bending and doubling in ways that make her stomach roll. For a terrifying second, she’s convinced she’s still there, still at the gate, still watching lightning tear the world apart.

  , she tells herself.

  She digs her fingers into the ground, nails scraping against a hard wooden floor, anchoring herself to something solid. The texture helps. So does the pain.

  She forces air into her lungs and holds it there, counting under her breath. One. Two. Three. Then lets it out slowly, deliberately, even though her instincts scream at her to gasp in panic instead.

  The ringing in her ears dulls as she takes another deep breath. The pressure behind her eyes eases just enough for her to think.

  That thought lands with weight, not relief.

  Her jaw tightens. It already feels like a terrible, distant nightmare. As though it were nothing but a figment of her imagination. But it wasn’t her imagination. It was real. All of it. From Blintsy’s extreme power, to The Watcher, to Lothran’s sacrifice.

  Anger boils in her throat, sending pangs of rage down her spine. It doesn’t matter that this isn’t the real world. It feels real enough. And Lothran was stupid to sacrifice himself. There had to be another way, right? There had to be.

  Anger can wait. For all she knows, she’s still in danger. Right now, she needs to orient herself. Anger will be useful later.

  Muffled sounds reach Wyn’s ears. She’s not alone here. Wherever here is. Shuffling paired with groaning sounds. For a terrifying second, Wyn fears that there’s some creature here about to attack, but then she hears muffled voices.

  Mirana, Neil. They mumble to each other, though Wyn can’t hear them through her ringing ears.

  “Shit…” Wyn mumbles, “Where the hell are we?”

  Psai pops into existence in front of her, appearing without warning. His bright blue orb only adds to her throbbing headache, and his loud, high-pitched voice leaves her wincing. Whatever he said, Wyn didn’t understand a word of it.

  “Shut up!” Wyn complains.

  Her vision finally settles, allowing her to gain some idea of her surroundings. It appears to be some sort of wooden cabin, and judging by the view through the window across from her, they are deep inside a forest.

  “My apologies, Wyn, I seem to have caused you some distress,” Psai says, his voice now clear.

  Wyn rubs her eyes. “No, it’s alright. My brain hurts.”

  Psai tilts his orb. “You have not sustained a significant head injury. I do not understand why your brain hurts. Could you assist my understanding?”

  Wyn groans, flopping back onto the floor. “Head hurt. No talky talky. Okay?”

  Psai, thankfully, does not respond, having gotten the message that his words are not helping.

  Nearby, Wyn spots Neil and Mirana, still bloodied from their battle. They’ve already stood up and are stretching their sore limbs.

  “So, what do we do now?” Mirana asks.

  “Hell if I know. That Watcher will be after us, no doubt. There’s no way we can defeat him if he catches us.”

  “We can’t just give up, Neil; we have to do something. I’m not going to just sit around and wait for some evil asshole to murder us.”

  “Not much else we can do.”

  Wyn groans, getting herself onto her feet. She has to steady herself against a large post to keep her balance, but is able to keep herself upright.

  “I have to get to Edelvahn,” Wyn says.

  “What in the world makes you want to go there?” Mirana asks, incredulously.

  “I have friends there. Elara Benith and her group of people. They might be able to help. And besides, I made a promise that I’d go back to them.”

  Neil frowns. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Edelvahn is the biggest town in the region. A likely target for attacks and the most obvious place for us to go. The Watcher will track us down eventually. Sooner rather than later, most likely.”

  “Look, I’m going to Edelvahn. I’d prefer to have you with me, but I won’t make you.”

  Neil frowns, pacing the length of the cabin. “Edelvahn is far too close to the goblin stronghold in the mountains. It’s risky to go there while the region is under threat.”

  “Not to mention that we don’t have a clue where the hells we are,” Mirana says.

  “Good point,” Neil says. “We need to figure that out. But first, we need to eat.”

  Mirana groans. “Of course we do. Because nothing says ‘traumatic escape from certain death’ like trail rations.”

  Neil shrugs one shoulder. “Low blood sugar makes people stupid. We can’t afford that right now.”

  “That implies we could afford it before,” Mirana mutters, rummaging through her inventory anyway. “I swear, if this is dried meat again—”

  “Not this time,” Neil says. “There’s got to be something in this cabin worth eating.”

  Wyn barely hears them.

  The normalcy feels wrong. The casual rhythm of it. As if the world hasn’t just tilted violently off its axis and dumped them somewhere random to deal with the consequences.

  She presses her palm against the wooden post beside her, harder than necessary.

  “He knew,” Wyn says.

  Both of them pause their searching.

  Neil speaks first, a bite of stale bread still in his mouth. “Knew what?”

  “Lothran,” she says, holding back her barely controlled anger. “He knew it would kill him. The moment Blintsy did whatever the hell he did.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Mirana’s expression tightens. “Wyn—”

  “That was stupid,” Wyn continues, heat bleeding into her words despite herself. “It was wasteful. He didn’t even try to find another way. He just decided that dying was acceptable and went with it.”

  Neil exhales slowly. “It bought us time.”

  “That doesn’t make it smart,” Wyn snaps, rounding on him. “And Blintsy—” Her hand curls into a fist. “Blintsy just left. No explanation. No warning. Just dropped a loaded spell in Lothran’s lap and vanished like it wasn’t his problem anymore.”

  Silence stretches between them, none certain what to say.

  Mirana closes her inventory with a soft click. “So, you’re angry.”

  “Oh really? I didn’t notice,” Wyn says, dripping with sarcasm.

  Neil pushes past Mirana, gesturing for her to continue scrounging for food. He finds a pair of creaky wooden chairs and sets them down in the center of the cabin.

  “Sit; you need to relax. That was a lot.”

  Wyn does so, taking the chair beside Neil’s. Something about Neil calms Wyn’s nerves.

  “That was… one of the worst battles I’ve ever been in,” Neil says. “But you have to remember. This is not the real world. Lothran, the real Lothran, was only thrown out of the game.”

  Wyn sighs. Of course, Neil is right. This is just a game. But Wyn’s every instinct tells her that Lothran’s death in game was more than just his character’s death. There’s something about the way that The Watcher acted that sets her nerves on edge. She can’t place what it was that The Watcher did that makes her so nervous, but some deep part of her refuses to accept that Lothran’s death would be without consequence.

  “I hope you’re right,” Wyn says. “Any way to track him down in the real world?”

  Neil shakes his head. “Not likely. Lothran was always an odd one. Very private. We went on a few missions together, but he never said much of anything about his life outside the game.”

  “What missions?”

  Mirana groans. “Don’t get him started. He’ll talk your ear off.”

  “Shut up, Mirana.” Wyn says.

  Neil chuckles. “Mirana is right, but I’ll try to make this short. Me and Lothran didn’t often cross paths, but he was very useful when we did. The Gilded Legion sometimes needed help of a magical variety, and as the only official Guild Mage in Lethisburg, Lothran would join us. He was always aloof and stingy with information, but when it came time to fight, he was a beast in combat.”

  Wyn nods. “He was able to stand up to The Watcher. I’ve never seen power like that before.”

  Mirana scoffs. “It only worked because of that Blintsy guy, anyway.”

  Wyn frowns. “All Blintsy did was condemn Lothran to an early grave.”

  “Easy now,” Neil says. “It’s true that Blintsy used some sort of bolstering power on Lothran that overloaded him with essentia. But even Lothran, with all his magical talent, couldn’t have done what he did back there without Blintsy’s help.”

  Wyn folds her arms, leaning away from Neil. A deep frown forms on her face as her eyes stare daggers into Neil. “Why are you defending Blintsy.”

  Her words aren’t a question; they’re an accusation. It’s as if the mere idea of supporting Blintsy is the same as being responsible for Lothran’s death.

  Neil holds up his hands in apology. “Whoa, calm down. No need for that.”

  Mirana shakes her head at Neil. Asking Wyn to calm down was a huge mistake. Wyn stands, words sputtering out of her as her frustration and grief mix, preventing her from forming anything close to a complete sentence.

  “I… YOU! Lothran was… SCREW YOU!” Wyn shouts.

  She stands up and storms out of the cabin, slamming the front door behind her hard enough that dust settles down from the crossbeams. Neil and Mirana stare at each other, uncertain what to do, as outside Wyn shouts a creative string of expletives at the sky.

  Outside, cold mountain air fills Wyn’s lungs. The sensation claws at her insides, chilling her bones. She’s not built for the frigid landscape. All she’s known is hot summers and mild winters on Earth, nothing like the bitter cold of the snowy cabin.

  But the pain that laces her body is more than just physical. Her chest tightens painfully, breath hitching with every inhale. The events of the battle race through her mind. Each sickening crunch and bloody death flashes through her mind, a constant reminder of the horrors she bore witness to. She presses a hand to her sternum, fingers digging into fabric, as if that might anchor her back to reality.

  It doesn’t.

  Her legs weaken without warning. She stumbles forward and catches herself against the rough bark of a nearby tree, the scrape of it against her palm grounding in a way nothing else has been. She looks at her hand, finding blood dripping where the wood cut her.

  Her blood, not anyone else’s. Somehow, it feels good. She’s the only one who was hurt. Nobody else has to die anymore.

  But this is ridiculous. Hurting herself won’t bring Lothran back, won’t bring back any of the people that died in Lethisburg. She wipes her hand against her cloak, the thin trail of blood staining the blue fabric.

  Lothran is dead. Well, not exactly. His character is dead. He got logged out. Given enough time, he’ll be able to create a new character. That’s all. That’s what Neil said, and he’s been in this game far longer than she has. On top of that, Neil knew Lothran far longer than she did. Wyn barely knew him. A handful of conversations, one fight, and little else.

  He wasn’t a friend. Not really.

  So why does it feel like someone has reached inside her and torn something loose?

  The grief sits heavy and hot in her chest, tangled up with anger, sadness, and a dozen emotions she can’t name. She swallows hard, jaw clenched, trying to shove it down. If she ignores her roiling emotions, there’s nothing to be upset about. Yet that doesn’t fix the icy grief flowing through her veins.

  Wyn slams her fist into the tree, sending a shock of pain up her arm. She shakes her hand. It’s not enough, but damn it feels good.

  Heat gathers in her hand, too fast, too eager. Wyn barely has time to register it before she flings the energy outward in a raw, instinctive motion.

  The accidental spell detonates against the forest floor in a wild, uneven burst of flame, not even close to her intended target. Snow melts, and the roots of the tree scorch with blackened burn marks as sparks fizzle out.

  “What the hell?” she gasps.

  She stares at the damage, confusion overtaking her grief.

  That wasn’t right. Her magic has never behaved like that. Never lashed out so sloppily. Firing off bursts of magic always required careful direction and planning. But this was different, wild and erratic. And on top of that, the palm of her hand feels different, as thought he fiery essentia that pooled there still lingers, heating her hand.

  Spells don’t have lingering effects like that, or so she thought. She draws in a breath, forcing her mind to slow, and tries again. She shapes the spell the way she always has, with practiced precision.

  The flame forms, but it wavers, flickering unevenly, its edges unstable. It pulses once, twice, then fires at the tree, far more controlled than the erratic burst she unleashed moments before.

  Wyn wonders what could’ve caused the spell to be different each time. It couldn’t be accidental spellweaving; that took far too much mental effort. It wasn’t an accidental use of Arcane Tension, nor was it a new ability that she unlocked.

  Then it hits her. The only difference was her emotional state; her intention behind the spell. She wonders about the potential effects emotions might have on spellcasting when her thoughts slide, unwillingly, back to Lothran. To his careful distance, and endless aloofness. The way he always seemed contained, even in the middle of chaos.

  What if that wasn’t personality? What if it was necessity?

  If emotion warps spellcraft, then letting yourself feel too much could be dangerous. Not just for you, but for everyone around you. Wyn can only imagine what would’ve happened if she had fired off that uncontrolled burst while fighting with allies. It’d hurt them just as much as any enemy.

  Lothran wasn’t just some aloof wizard. He was doing it on purpose to control his magic. It stings to think about. Wyn barely knew the wizard, and if he had been alive longer, she could’ve learned so much from him. Now, she has to figure it out on her own, without the guidance of the experienced Hall Master.

  Footsteps crunch softly behind her. Wyn reaches for the curved dagger at her waist.

  “Neil’s worried,” Mirana says, stopping a few paces back.

  Wyn releases the dagger. “I’m fine. Just go away. I’m not in the mood to deal with you.”

  Mirana snorts. “Are you always this charming when you’re falling apart?”

  Wyn flinches. “Go away.”

  There’s a pause. Silence falls over them until leaves crunch once again, this time getting closer to Wyn.

  “No,” Mirana says finally.

  Wyn spins on her, anger flaring. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Tough,” Mirana replies. “Because you flinging spells and getting all sad won’t help. Stop doing whatever this is and get inside so we can make some plans.”

  Wyn laughs, short and brittle. “You’re an asshole, you know that? Do you really think that being blunt and getting on my nerves will solve anything?”

  “It usually does,” Mirana says. “Especially when people are lying to themselves.”

  Wyn’s jaw tightens. “I’m not.”

  “You are,” Mirana says with an audible eye roll. “You’re acting like this is about Blintsy, or Neil, or Lothran. It’s not.”

  She steps closer, arms crossed. “You’re upset because you couldn’t do shit against the Watcher. And instead of dealing with that, you’re looking for someone to blame for your own weakness.”

  The words land hard, leaving Wyn speechless.

  “Stop wallowing and do something about it,” Mirana continues. “Your standing out here yelling at trees and risking setting the damn forest on fire won’t do anything.”

  Wyn looks away, throat burning. Mirana sighs and steps closer, her voice softening.

  “Rage feels good. Feels like you’re doing something. But you’re not. You need to get under control and focus on the task ahead. If you’re going to be angry, make it useful. Point it at the thing that actually caused this. Otherwise, you’re just tearing yourself apart.”

  Wyn exhales slowly, and something inside her settles into place. She still doesn’t understand why Lothran’s death hurts this much when she barely knew him, only that it proved this world takes things from you and does not give them back. The uncertainty, the grief, the anger compresses into something cold and usable, a line she feels herself step over without hesitation. When she finds the Watcher, she will not stop until he is dead.