A burst of light split through the darkness of the forest, and in the next instant, Joran crashed to the earth in a heap. His hands dug into the dirt as he panted, his entire body trembling from exertion. Every breath burned his lungs, every muscle ached with the weight of exhaustion. His cloak clung to him, damp with sweat, as if he had been submerged in water. The cool night air brushed against his skin, but it did little to soothe the feverish heat coursing through his veins.


    He lifted his gaze skyward, staring at the vast expanse of stars blinking against the midnight canvas. Two moons hung above him—silent, watchful sentinels. Joran swallowed hard, lips parting as he whispered a prayer to any god that would listen. “Please… let Druna have escaped. Let her still be alive.”


    His fingers twitched, a strange sensation prickling along his left arm. A deep, sinking feeling settled in his gut. Slowly, he turned his gaze downward, and there—etched into his forearm—was a jagged scar, stretching from the back of his hand to his elbow. It flickered, shifting between existence and illusion like a dying ember struggling to stay alight.


    “No. No, no, no…”


    Joran gritted his teeth, forcing what little magic he had left into the spell. His vision blurred as he willed the illusion to hold. The flickering ceased. The scar vanished.


    Then, the world tilted.


    His head spun violently, and before he could steady himself, his body gave out. He rolled onto his side, limbs trembling, the ground beneath him cool against his burning skin. He barely had the strength to keep his eyes open, let alone move. He could feel his magic still within him—his reserves were far from empty—but his body had been pushed far past its limits. The damage wasn’t just magical exhaustion; it was something deeper, something that no amount of rest could easily fix.


    Even so, he couldn’t allow himself to succumb. Not yet.


    With the last of his fading will, Joran pressed his palm weakly against the dirt, his fingers trembling as they traced a rune into the soil. A faint glow pulsed beneath his hand, spreading outward in slow, deliberate waves. A soft hum filled the air as a healing dome formed around him, warm and gentle like a cocoon of golden light. The moment the spell took hold, Joran’s vision dimmed, and consciousness slipped from his grasp.


    <hr>


    Midday


    The first thing Joran noticed upon waking was the warmth.


    Sunlight streamed through the dense canopy above, dappled golden rays spilling onto the forest floor. He groaned as he forced himself upright, his body stiff, his limbs aching from where they had lain on the hard ground for hours. His throat was dry, his mind sluggish, but at the very least, he was alive.


    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    He flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders as he glanced down at his torso. His cloak was tattered and stained with dirt and dried blood, but the worst of his wounds had been healed. He lifted his tunic slightly, revealing the fresh scars that now joined the many old ones on his body. His bruises had faded to dull patches of discoloration, no longer the deep, angry purples they had been before.


    With a weary sigh, he let the fabric fall and turned his attention to his surroundings.


    The forest was vast and tranquil, the very air thick with the scent of summer. Towering trees—ancient oaks and sprawling maples—stretched their limbs high, their verdant leaves rustling softly in the warm midday breeze. Willows swayed gracefully along the edges of a small clearing, their delicate branches trailing toward the earth like golden threads. A narrow brook snaked its way through the landscape, its waters shimmering like molten silver beneath the afternoon sun.


    The air was alive with the subtle, ceaseless symphony of nature. Birds trilled from the treetops—a melody of warblers and finches, their calls blending with the rhythmic tapping of a distant woodpecker. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, their small bodies dusted with golden pollen. A pair of dragonflies skimmed across the water’s surface, their iridescent wings flashing with every movement.


    Joran took it all in with a slow, measured breath. Despite everything, the world here remained untouched by war, by blood, by cruelty. It was a stark contrast to the violence of the previous night, to the chaos he had barely managed to escape.


    But peace could only last so long.


    Joran pushed himself onto unsteady feet, swaying slightly as his legs adjusted to standing again. He stumbled toward the brook, sinking to his knees at its edge before cupping his hands and splashing the cold water against his face. The chill jolted his senses, washing away some of the fatigue clinging to his mind. He scrubbed away the dried sweat, letting the cool liquid trickle down his arms before bringing a handful to his lips.


    The water was crisp, refreshing, untouched by any trace of civilization. He drank deeply, taking several gulps before finally exhaling and sitting back on his heels.


    He was alone.


    The realization settled in as he stared at his reflection in the water, his brown eyes dark with exhaustion. He had no idea where he was.


    The teleportation spell had been cast in desperation, without any real direction. He had only thought of getting away—escaping Lothara, escaping his pursuers. And now, he had no clue how far he had been flung from the kingdom’s borders.


    His hands clenched into fists against his thighs. Druna… Had she made it out? Had she survived? The last thing he saw was her fighting all three of them at once, holding them back so he could run. He gritted his teeth, frustration simmering beneath his exhaustion. I should have stayed. I should have fought harder.


    But that wouldn’t have changed anything. He knew that.


    Taking a slow breath, Joran rose to his feet, shaking away his lingering doubt. Standing still wouldn’t get him anywhere. He needed to move, to figure out where he had landed. If he was lucky, he’d find a town, maybe a trade route, anything that could give him some sense of direction.


    He adjusted his cloak, shifting its folds to better conceal his injuries. Then, without another word, he started walking.


    The forest stretched before him, bathed in golden light, silent and waiting.