ã€ŠSurvival: Book of Daysã€‹


 Arrival

    My eyes open wide, and my heart thumps loudly in my ears as I jerk my head back and forth in confusion. A surge of adrenaline brings the whole world into sharp focus.

    I gaze, wide-eyed, at the trees that sway gently around me. In stark contrast to my pounding heart, a warm breeze caresses my skin, and the damp scent of dirt and wood enters my nostrils.

    Sunlight dapples through the branches of the trees, some of the beams barely the floor of the forest. The ground beneath my bare feet feels soft.

    What in the ever-loving fuck?

    Just a second ago I¡¯m in a quaint, cramped bookshop. The next second I am here. Wherever the hell here is.

    I take a nervous step forward and notice my shoes are missing. I can feel the earth beneath my toes, the soft carpet of the forest floor made up of leaves, twigs, and mulch.

    I glance at my left hand, which I¡¯m fairly certain was just clutching a book about raspberries, but now it¡¯s bare. My hand opens and closes, as if hoping this simple motion will somehow make it reappear.

    A tiny bird explodes out of the undergrowth. I jerk back as I''m jolted back to reality. The creature lets out an indignant squawk before taking flight, disappearing into the foliage while I stare after it.

    I make an effort to calm my racing heart. Whatever happened, I¡¯m not going to deal with it by panicking. This isn¡¯t the first time I¡¯ve had some shit suddenly dropped on me, even if this is a new level of mad.

    After I gain control over myself. My heart-rate lowering from a manic 160 beats per second to a mere 120, I truly absorb my surroundings for the first time.

    There are trees everywhere as far as the eye can see. I''m in a quaint glade, a small open space about ten to twenty meters across amidst the dense woods. Like a small field, but overgrown with hundreds of different little plants and shrubberies. The trees reach across the sky all around. An ancient tree that once stood in the center of the glade lies fallen, just barely recognizable beneath a thick cover of moss.

    I can¡¯t see a sign of the shop, nor of the surrounding city. Just trees as far as the eye can see.

    The sounds and smells of the city are similarly gone, no more noise of people, no more background hum from all the cars, no advertisements playing anywhere. Instead there¡¯s the wind whispering through the trees, and the faint cries of a few birds.

    Then the lack of ice and snow hits me, and my heart resumes is merry attempt to tear itself out of my chest¡­ How?! It was just freezing! That was the whole reason I went into the shop in the first place! How can it be so warm?!

    As I attempt to make sense of this impossibility by frantically trying to see anything, anything at all that would give me some idea of what happened, when I suddenly realize I¡¯m start naked. My book, wallet, clothes, coat, everything''s gone!

    I crouch down, and tear my gaze around, stumbling slightly as I nearly lose my balance in my haste, suddenly feeling immensely exposed. A second later I realize that I¡¯d already done that, and the whole area is empty. There¡¯s nobody to see me like this. I grab my lovely black ponytail and nervously twist my fingers through it.

    I frantically inspect myself, but there¡¯s nothing wrong with my body, I¡¯m fine in all ways except for the utter lack of any possessions. At least my hair is still here.

    Thank god the weather is pleasant, if it¡¯d still been as frigid as before this would have been a death sentence. I take a deep breath, slowly letting it out. However, a sense of calm seems to be eluding me.

    I let out a strangled laugh, and more out some perverted sense of humor I pinch myself. As expected, nothing changes, but it still feels like a lead weight in my stomach. Then I realize that I have no idea if that ever helped me wake up from a dream before.

    This doesn¡¯t feel like a dream though. I¡¯m just somehow instantly somewhere else. Like a teleport, except that the whole time and season is different too. It¡¯s warm instead of cold, and the sun in the sky is in a different position.

    The fact my stuff is gone is bizarre, being naked is somewhat disturbing. But what''s really bugging me is how the heck this happened.

    Right, another deep breath. So I am somewhere else, at a different time, and probably different season, and I got here in an instant. I can''t think of a single reasonable explanation for that happening. I¡¯d say amnesia, except that all my other memories seem intact and consistent, there''s just nothing between being in the bookshop one moment, and then here.

    I try to remember everything that happened up to this point, but am hindered by the fact that the whole point of my trip was to turn my brain off for once.

    I can remember walking through the snowy street without any particular goal. Partially trying to escape my apartment and another day spent entirely inside, but also excited to just walk through the light snowfall that had started that morning. I just picked a spot on the map and then went there. An act of discovery, no checking to see what, if anything, was there.

    I found the bookshop there, in a tiny shopping street. Nestled oddly between a bakery and a butcher, it was a bizarrely narrow space, about a square meter and a half wide and nearly twenty deep, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that stretched the entire length of the shop. I¡¯m fairly certain a counter stood at the far end, but I don''t think I ever reached it or the person behind it.

    I went into the shop, browsed through a bunch of other books, found the one about raspberries, then started reading that. I was on a page that detailed various types of raspberries. I couldn''t help but think that the author was incredibly passionate about the subject.

    Then¡­ here, now.

    While in some ways, I much prefer here to waking up in a hospital or a ditch, at least in those cases I could have made rough guesses as to what had happened, and what my next steps should be. As it is, I have no clue.

    Maybe if I can determine where ''here'' is, I will have a better idea on how to proceed?

    As if it is going to help me see something new, I inspect the clearing with a more critical eye. There¡¯s nothing about the forest that stands out to me other than its apparent age. The trees are a mixture of deciduous and pine trees, the bushes are, well I never knew what those were called, but bushes. The few tufts of grass that grow in various places look like bog standard grass.

    If I had even the tiniest doubt about my memories, or if it weren''t for the time and temperature differences, I might''ve chalked it up to amnesia. But how on earth could I have been gone for that long? And in the middle of a bustling city with people all around? Honestly, discounting the temperature difference, I''m not sure I could''ve made it to a forest in the few hours that the sun indicates have passed. No matter how I spin it, it just doesn¡¯t add up.

    Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

    Another thought occurs to me. Could I be dead? I¡¯m not quite sure how the afterlife works, and I¡¯m not sure why I¡¯d suddenly die standing in a bookshop, but I¡¯ve always been able to come up with a surprising number of creative ways I or anyone else, could suddenly die.

    I smile wryly as my mind immediately conjures up an image of an exploding saucepan in the restaurant opposite the bookshop. Maybe a saucepan wouldn¡¯t have enough force? A pressure cooker then? I don''t know if pressure cookers have enough force to punch through a wall, but the mental image is amusing.

    Having my mind focus on imagining also calms me down somewhat, which is a double win.

    But then, if I died, why would I be here? I wasn¡¯t so certain there would be any afterlife in the first place, but if there was anything I didn¡¯t expect it to work like this. You generally expect some sort of explanation, a session with the gods to tell you whether you¡¯ve been good or bad, and where you are going.

    Of course, that¡¯s discounting all the variety of ways people suddenly reincarnate in a different world in the isekai stories I loved to read, but they¡¯re stories for a reason. And in proper stories at least, you don¡¯t usually re-appear as your old self. At least, I do not remember ever reading as such.

    Even trying to hide my decency as I am, I can¡¯t help but smirk. Maybe I just skipped reincarnation and was directly transported to a new world for some reason?

    Heh, as if¡­ The weirdest sensation pours through me. I am momentarily absolutely certain that that is what has happened. It fades in a second, but it is extremely creepy. I know I thought the idea silly just a moment before, but even the lingering sensation makes it hard to even contemplate anything other than what just crossed my mind.

    I have skipped reincarnation, and been directly transported to a different world¡­? What the hell? Like, it¡¯s not as if I¡¯m unfamiliar with the concept, but...

    I seem to have my own body. Same old pimples, same old¡­ yeah. That¡¯s actually mildly infuriating. If this happens, should I not¡­ I dunno, get some cheat like power or something? Some god telling me that I¡¯ve died, and that I have the choice of afterlife or reincarnation?

    If so, do I get a stat screen?

    I try conjuring one up by a variety of taps, thoughts, and other methods I read about before, but nothing happens. Well, I guess that would be too much to expect.

    Distracting myself from what the hell has happened with happy fantasies seems to agree with my anxiety better, so I guess it¡¯s fine to continue for a bit.

    I step close to some white flowers that are growing here, and I try to identify them. Or I want to anyway. I just look at them really intensely. ¡°Identify¡± I call out, feeling a tad silly, but nothing happens. Guess there are not going to be any convenient skills telling me what the flowers are either.

    I give up on the flowers, and switch to staring at some rocks lying nearby, I remember a story in which that triggered the skill evolution if you looked at them long and hard enough. To be fair, I believe that the character in question had just recently been born, and spent several weeks staring at rocks, so maybe it wouldn¡¯t work for me. I don¡¯t have any particular desire to spend weeks looking at rocks, not to mention I¡¯d die way before that.

    Well, either no skills exist, or they are not forthcoming from my cursory investigation.

    If this is indeed a reincarnation kind of story, it is a sorely disappointing one. Who ever heard about being reincarnated and getting nothing out the experience.

    I slowly stand up, carefully looking around. Of course, there¡¯s still nobody there. I can¡¯t keep standing around here wondering what happened. I glance down at my startlingly ordinary, very unclothed 32-year-old body and grimace. Hiking has kept me pretty fit, but I''m no supermodel. There''s no way I can wander around like this. Part of me used to think streaking would be hilarious purely for the shock value, but in reality I find myself quite uncomfortable without my clothes. Then again, there doesn''t seem to be anybody around.

    Having a sudden thought¡ªand less hesitant now that nobody seems likely to just jump out of the bushes¡ªI scour the clearing. Maybe my stuff just landed in a different place? I look under branches, dig through heaps of fallen leaves.

    I spent way longer than I¡¯d like to admit searching the glade before finally accepting that, nope, none of my belongings made the trip with me. I guess I¡¯ll just have to¡ªsomehow¡ªface this situation with grace and aplomb.

    Looking around the glade, I don¡¯t see any particular location or direction that stands out to me as a sign I should go there. You¡¯d think if this was like a reincarnation story there''d at least be an obvious path for the hero to follow.

    I grimace at the idea that I¡¯d ever consider myself a hero. At least the lawful good ones. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever been able to play with one of those characters without throwing up a little bit every time they open their self-righteous mouths. Minsc and Boo get a pass.

    No, Emma is firmly chaotic, whether or not it¡¯s good or neutral? Well, the jury is still out on that.

    With that settled, I shrug. If every direction looks identical, then... I shut my eyes, spin around a bit, and when I feel ready, I open them. Closing my eyes and pointing is as good a way as any to choose a path. At least this way, I''m making a choice. I really need to get back to civilization fast. Fantasy world or not, winter or not, being naked in an unknown forest isn¡¯t exactly ideal for my continued well-being and safety.

    The forest is odd. It looks much like a forest back in my world, but it feels different. Ancient. Like it has been here for hundreds of years. The smell is heavy, like the smell of fresh leaves has been distilled, and layered on top of itself several times. There''s dark green moss on every part of the trees that looks like it''s been spreading for centuries.

    Every step pushes my foot deep in underbrush that''s a mix of warm earth and what I imagine to be years of fallen leaves. I have to be a bit careful to not step on fallen branches, or other lovely gifts of the forest like chestnuts, but overall it¡¯s relatively free from painful obstacles. Maybe as a virtue of being so old? I have little experience walking in any forests that haven¡¯t been planted in the last hundred years.

    There''s a feeling I get when walking through a forest that has been deliberately planted. Where it all just feels a little bit too perfect? The trees line up, sometimes there¡¯s a nice embankment that just so happens to also be the end of the tree cover. Well, this feels like the exact opposite of that.

    It almost feels like sacrilege to walk through it after it''s been undisturbed for so long. Like the first person to walk on the moon.

    The forest looks like it has been here since time immemorial, and will remain long after humanity has finally nuked themselves into oblivion.

    Which begs the question: Can humanity nuke themselves into oblivion in this world? The feeling that this is truly a different world is still strong, but I don¡¯t sense much beyond that. What kind of world is this. If there were magic here, would I intuit that as well? If I''ve actually been reincarnated or moved to a different world, then surely all my assumptions of what is possible should be re-evaluated? There a possibility these things exist?

    I''d love it if there is magic. It''s pretty much the best part of any fantasy book. Of course, it''d be nice if it were actually sensible.

    Free-form magic would be great for me. Assuming I have any talent for it, I could do anything I can imagine with it. Though it generally makes for pretty silly stories, where you can solve basically any problem with magic. I''ve only ever read a single story that did that very well, and it involved a ridiculous amount of digging canals.

    Of course the magic could be very strict, where there are defined abilities, and it''s hard to go outside the limits of the exact spells and or abilities I learn. That makes for more interesting stories, since I can speculate on ways to use the abilities myself.

    I smile and look around at all the ancient trees digging deep into the earth. I step around a single root that''s as thick around as my entire body.

    I love the idea of sticking a bunch of gravity bindings on one of these trees and seeing what happens. I imagine one of the massive primeval trees creaking, toppling, and shooting off through the forest like a massive projectile.

    What was that oath? "I will protect those that cannot protect themselves"? I can''t remember the rest.

    Then there''s gods. Gods would be... I''m not sure. I''m pretty sure they''d be trouble. They''re pretty much always messing with the main character or making their life more difficult in some way. If they give a blessing, it''s always a curse in disguise.

    I may have been transported to a random location in a primeval forest, but at least I haven''t been reborn as the daughter of some widely feared evil witch. Or made the plaything of some grand cosmic phoenix, just scooped straight out of my apartment and rebuilt in a different world.

    Although... I stop walking and frown, the circumstances are sort of the same. Could be the same. But I''m not surrounded by a blood cult, so that''s a win I guess. Doesn''t look like I''ll be saved by some friendly adventurers either, so maybe it''s a net loss?

    Anyhow, gods are bad news. Whether cosmic, real, imagined, or otherwise. I cannot remember a single story, including in the holy books, where gods aren''t basically just humans with a massive amount of power. They get jealous, steal, fight, and fuck. Humans are bad enough. Better pray for no gods. Or maybe that doesn''t make any sense.

    I shrug and continue walking, not really what I should be focusing on right now, but I can''t keep the thoughts out of my head. Not much else to think about now.

 Setting out - 1

    There''s not many creatures around. Not many that I can see anyway. There¡¯s the occasional bird, and a single squirrel, but not much else. Then again, it¡¯s still daytime, so maybe they only come out at night? I¡¯m not really sure how many animals I should expect in a forest like this. Now that I am under the cover of the trees, it is a bit harder to guess the time. The canopy is pretty thick, making it feel like dusk down here. There is still plenty of light falling through some gaps though, so I should have enough time to get myself to¡­

    I pause, as I realize that I have no idea where I am going, or what I am going to do. I am naked, I have no food, no drink, and no idea where to find any form of civilization. The realization is like a bucket of cold water poured down my head, and my good cheer from the idyllic environment evaporates.

    I spin on my heels, trying to figure out where I¡¯ve come from, but everything but the direction is lost, and I have no idea where I am compared to where I arrived. The forest looks the same everywhere, and I could have been walking in circles for all I know.

    I go too caught up in the idea of reincarnations, teleportation, what have you. As I reflect on my situation, I imagine that I was trying to distract myself? Everything feels better than considering just how fucked I am, even if it might not be the most sensible idea.

    What am I going to do? If I don¡¯t find a safe place before the sun goes down, who knows that kind of animals I will encounter. There are no bears or wolves in the forests anywhere near my home, but I can practically guarantee that is not the case here. Nothing and nobody appears to live here, so nobody would have exterminated them. Is there even something that could be considered a safe place? Even if I can climb a tree or something to keep myself safe from animals, I¡¯m going to have to find water or I''m not going to last the week.

    I could hope for rain, but the few glimpses of the sky and the current climate do not give me any confidence that a shower is anywhere near at hand. While it won¡¯t be pleasant, I believe I can survive for quite a while without food. Surviving without water is not an option. I wonder if there will be any dew on the plants in the morning that I could gather? I honestly have no idea.

    I glance up at what is visible of the sky from beneath the tree canopy. Maybe I could try to make fire so someone can see the smoke and come rescue me? But a fire of a size that would get people to notice me in this dense forest would have a good chance of setting the forest ablaze. I also don''t exactly know how to make a fire. I''ve gone camping, sure, but I''ve never needed to light a fire without a lighter. No fire for now. Maybe I will reconsider if nothing else works

    I figure I might as well start walking again. so I do. I''m going to need to make sure that I''m not walking around in circles somehow. I can make marks on trees, but those would be very hard to see unless I closely inspect every tree, which kind of defeats the point. I look around as I walk, hoping for sudden inspiration given by mother nature. Not much is forthcoming, the forest is essentially untouched. I''m struck by an idea. I grab a somewhat straight branch lying around on the ground and jam it straight up in the ground. It doesn¡¯t feel very solid, so I hammer it in with a different and slightly flatter piece of wood. If I come past this spot again I¡¯ll know without careful inspection.

    It makes me feel marginally better to have taken some action, to have something I can do to improve my situation, even a little bit. Even if it turns out to be pointless, and I never hit the same location I could consider that a win, so I keep hammering branches into the ground every so often. There certainly is an abundance of loose sticks and branches on the ground. Eventually I can see a trail of branches stretching quite a while back into the forest.

    Maybe I can make a shelter out of these branches too? I don¡¯t particularly want to sleep where all the animals can reach, but I¡¯m not confident about staying in a tree while asleep either.

    Handing that problem to future me, I keep my eyes out for anything, but mostly for some source of water. The animals may or may not not be a problem, but I am definitely going to die of thirst if I don¡¯t find something to drink. Given how ancient this forest looks, at least I won¡¯t have to be worried about any water being polluted.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    After walking for nearly four hours, I don¡¯t find any water though, and neither do I find a tree that is either climbable or has a decent place to put myself to sleep. They''re all just too damn big. It¡¯s like this forest is designed to frustrate me. Who let all these trees grow unchecked for several hundred years?

    I tried to climb some of the trees at first, but quickly learned that doing that without clothes on is a great way to get scrapes in all kinds of annoying places. That led to me trying to think of a way to get myself some clothing, or leaves, or... anything really. But even if I could make some form of clothing out of anything in the forest, I have no idea where to start.

    I figured I''d wait until I found a tree that was promising enough to just try climbing it regardless, but I never do. They''re all at least twenty meters high, and the lowest branches are all several meters up. There are plenty of pines with branches all over the place, but they''re all too flimsy for me to trust climbing¡ªor sleeping on, for that matter.

    At some point I feel the need to go pee, and for some reason still feel a need to find a relatively secluded spot before relieving myself, even though I''ve encountered literally nothing and nobody all day long. I could literally stop in place, pee, then walk on, but society has left its imprints, and a single day in an abandoned forest is insufficient to break this habit.

    The world consists of an endless expanse of slightly rolling land covered with trees. Most of them are deciduous, though I notice a few pines here and there. I distract myself by gathering acorn shells, which this place seems to be brimming with. I can''t carry all that many, but the shitty ones get replaced by the nicer ones as I find them. There''s enough of them that I end up with a nice collection of perfectly formed shells.

    When I realize it is getting darker, without having made any apparent progress on any of my goals, I recall my earlier idea to make shelter out of branches, and start gathering them instead. At least one of the survival lessons I''ve heard or read about at some point in my life stuck around. Since I haven¡¯t really found any great place, I just start building right next to the largest tree close by. I figure if I place it next to the tree that''s one side that''s somewhat more obscured.

    Even though I more or less remember how to go about it, it takes me a lot longer than I expect. The bloody branches just do not want to stay upright, and I rebuild the shelter several times before I slap myself in the head and use the same strategy I used for my other sticks, and just hammer them into the ground. By the time I finish the frame, it is pretty dark. I think I am supposed to cover the frame with moss, since it is full of holes now, but even if there is quite a lot of moss around here I can¡¯t see how I¡¯ll ever finish before I can''t see my hands in front of my eyes any more. It¡¯ll get more dangerous to walk when I can¡¯t see where I¡¯m going too. I could easily step in something that¡¯d mess up my feet, or twist my ankle. I don''t believe it actually is that late, maybe somewhere in the early evening, but even a minimal decrease in sunlight seems to have a disproportionately large effect on the world below the canopy.

    I do make an attempt, but after half an hour I''m forced to concede. My eyes are straining to make out anything in the gloom. Since I sort of know where the moss and my shelter are, I try to keep covering it mostly by feel but very quickly even that becomes impossible. It''s freaky for me how perfectly dark it has become under the trees. I look up, but see no moon, or much of anything shining through the canopy.

    I try to suppress my shivers as I crawl into my shelter. And I realize I¡¯ve forgotten the most important thing. To make a frame to lie on, and cover that with moss. I can''t help but wonder how fast sleeping directly on the ground will suck the warmth out of me while I sleep. At least the shelter is already sort of built on top of all the moss surrounding the tree, so it''s not entirely a lost cause.

    Since I am dead tired by this point, I figure it is fine, and let my head fall on the surprisingly soft moss. I grab a few nearby chunks and stack them to make an improvised cushion, then lie down to rest. As I lie down, I''m pleasantly surprised. I''d expected sleeping naked on the forest floor to be more uncomfortable, but the moss is actually quite soft. It''s not entirely comparable to my mattress back home, but it''s a far cry from lying down on concrete. Thanks moss!

    The temperature does not seem to have significantly decreased from the pleasant 25 degrees Celsius that it''s been the whole day. I''d normally like to sleep in a colder room, but given the fact I have no pajama or blanket, this is actually perfect. The only thing I detest is that I''ve exerted myself quite a bit today, and I have nothing to fill my stomach with. My throat already feels dry after not drinking for half a day, and it''ll only get worse.

    Animal sounds are everywhere around me now. I guess they do come out at night.

 Setting Out - 2

    I suddenly jolt awake. It''s pitch black outside, so I assume it''s still nighttime. I hold my breath instinctively, some primal part of me woke me up, and I listen intently for any sounds. The night air feels chill on my bare skin now, but hopefully my shelter provides some insulation. Did I just pass out?

    A rustling noise catches my attention, like something big has just pushed its way through a bush. I think it comes from the side not facing the tree, but it''s hard to make out from where I am. I''m unable to see anything due to the darkness, and the covering of moss blocks my view anyway, leaving me clueless about what''s making the noise. Sure, the forest isn''t really silent, but none of those regular background noises feel as immediate, nor nearly as ominous, as what I just heard.

    Just as I feel like whatever made the sound might have gone, the thump of a heavy footfall rings out, slowly approaching my location, until it stops right next to my shelter. My heart''s racing, adrenaline pumping through me like crazy. I can''t help but imagine some monster looming outside. My brain''s running wild, cooking up all sorts of nightmare-fueled creatures, each more terrifying than the last. I picture it examining the triangular structure and wondering about the unfamiliar scent emanating from within. In my mind, I see the creature raising a massive claw and demolishing the shelter and me with it.

    Whatever it is emits a rumbling snort, sending a shiver down my spine. I freeze, afraid even to breathe, and pray that whatever it is loses interest. Time seems to slow as I wait, keeping my breaths as minute as possible, the time dragging on. The steady breathing from the animal outside is the only thing I can hear. After what feels like an eternity, it seems to make up its mind, and there''s the sound of liquid splashing, quickly followed by a potent stench that wafts through my shelter. After finishing its business, I hear the creature''s footsteps receding.

    I''m torn between disgust and relief. Part of me is just glad to still be breathing. On the other hand, that creature just had to go and pee on my shelter! For one glorious moment I imagine myself running after it and stabbing it with a spear, but reality quickly reasserts itself.

    I''m rooted to the spot for at least another ten minutes, even after the sound of the creature has long since faded away. The fear clings to me, sticky and unwelcome. There''s no way I''m falling asleep again anytime soon. The rush of adrenaline is wearing off, leaving me shivering and acutely aware of the chill night air gnawing at my skin; hypothermia flashes across my mind as a very real threat. I briefly panic, contemplating whether it''s wise to venture out of the shelter to move around a bit and warm myself up. The moss beneath me has grown warm from my body, but it''s hardly enough. The real problem, I realize, is the triangular opening at the end of my shelter - a mistake that I regret not addressing earlier. Yet, given my exhaustion earlier, I doubt I would have managed it anyway.

    I hug my arms to my body. As I lie here, my first night in this forsaken forest, I contemplate the life I left behind. Will anyone notice that I''m gone? I don''t have extremely regular contact with my family, so it would be some time before they notice.

    Maybe my workplace will reach out to my parents if I don¡¯t show up on Monday? Then again, maybe they¡¯ll just think I up and quit? Given how vocal I¡¯ve been about my complaints, that wouldn¡¯t be a stretch for my manager to believe.

    People will miss me, I am sure. This isn¡¯t like those stories where the outcast is thrown into a different world and nobody misses them or cares because they¡¯re an asshole that derives enjoyment from sacking people. Sure I am introverted, I could definitely be considered a loner, but I like people in moderate doses, and it''s not like I''m incapable of socializing. It just becomes a lot easier with some help from a little ethanol.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    I guess the first people to notice I''m gone will be my coworkers. But the first people to care much will be my family. Something tells me there''s not a lot of chance I''ll make it back to my world before my parents freak out, before my brothers start running all over town to try and figure out what happened to me, before the police will put out a missing person notice, or even before they''ll count me as permanently missing or dead.

    I look at the patchy wooden roof above my head, and smirk a little. As of yet, I''m not feeling too guilty about that. In some way this is a dream come true, even if I''m in a bit of a bind right now. I guess I just cannot believe that someone would drop me in the middle of this forest without some purpose. The only thing I need to do is find it.

    I guess I¡¯ve always felt a little guilty for thinking of the reincarnation thing as something I wanted to happen to me. But dear god, life was just so dull. I was good at my job, and I actually enjoyed it, but the people around me were infuriating. Hell, the world itself was aggravating. Death and suffering everywhere, shitty government, religious fanaticism, extremists galore, and a personal favorite, internet trolls that ruin shit for everyone.

    I know it was supposed to be the best of times, but honestly, that just shows how bad things were before¡ªnot how great they are now. You keep wishing that people will wake up, that we''ll suddenly shift to this post-scarcity society I feel is just within our grasp, but everything just keeps rolling along like before, with only tiny tweaks here and there. There was no way my life would ever change, even if I lived to be a hundred. I''d be lying if said I''m not a little bit happy that I get to explore a whole new world now. Assuming this really is a new world, of course.

    As I think that, I''m filled with the strange feeling again. I wonder if it''s magic, or maybe something else? Why do I suddenly get filled with certainty when my thoughts contemplate the possibility that this is a new world. Is there something or someone that is trying to make me forget any other possibilities? I think it''s way too overt for that though, I can hardly miss it. It''s more like the world is trying to communicate something to me.

    That said, my old world had been pretty good to me. I wasn¡¯t born in a war-torn country. I never had to worry about food. I had what I consider to be a happy childhood, in a first world country and all that. I have an education. I was able to study basically anything I wanted thanks to our socialist government. Of course I studied computer science, which was a stupid mistake, but I really didn''t feel like doing it again after I''d already gone through 4 years of uni once.

    Computers are great, but too many algorithms make my head spin. Architecture is more my thing, but that kind of stuff isn''t really covered in school. Hell, the first thing my first boss asked is if I know Git, and in all those 4 years of uni nobody had ever even mentioned it existed. So... many... hours... wasted!

    Still graduated though. Make decent money even, though the job was a pain in the ass. Apparently just feeling like you''d like to do your best is more than most people can bring up, so I was always regarded as ¡®highly motivated¡¯ or something silly like that. As far as I''m concerned, I''m the norm, and everyone else is just lazy.

    I''m lying on a bed of moss in a different world, clad in nothing but air, and somehow all that makes absolutely no difference. Thirty-two years of life, and I am still waiting for that magical moment when I realize I am an adult now. You become 18, and you are finally legally recognized as an adult, only to realize that everyone going to university is still just as stupid as when they were 7 years old. Maybe more so, because massive amounts of alcohol does that to you. Then you finish uni, and think that surely, when you start working, you''ll deal with adults. Only to find that the workplace is just as filled with bullies, nerds and useless people as in school. At least I am old enough now to realize that it was always a pipe dream. I wonder if my grandpa still felt that way towards the end of his life, it wouldn''t surprise me.

    And now here I am. I¡¯m not quite sure if I¡¯ve done anything good or bad to deserve it. I don¡¯t think I am a bad person, but probably not a particularly good person either. It''s certainly true that I always thought it would be fun to be the protagonist in a novel, so I guess I had it coming? I just wish it were more like those protagonists in terms of getting the goodies, power, and allies. I''ve got exactly none of that.

    Should I consider what''s happening to me a punishment, or a reward? I cannot figure it out, and as those thoughts swirl through my mind, I drift off to sleep.

 Setting Out - 3

    I awake the next morning stiff and sore, but surprisingly warm. The sun has come up while I was still sleeping, and apparently the air heats up fast around here.

    When I sit up, there''s a squelching sound, and I realize that the moss beneath me is moist. I''m momentarily befuddled before I smell something pungent, and recall the events of last night. My face morphs into a mask of disgust. I''ve been sleeping in the piss of the animal from last night! I guess it must have soaked through the moss while I was sleeping. I''d think I would have noticed that I was rolling around in this soggy mess, but I guess I was more tired than I realized.

    I quickly crawl out of the shelter, intent on getting it off me, but hit a brief snag when I realize there is no water nearby to clean with. I''ve just never truly considered how incredibly convenient unlimited tap water is, nor how used I''d gotten to its ubiquitous presence. I''ll have to make do until I can find some water source.

    Experimentally, I grab a bunch of leaves, and try scrubbing myself down with them, but it doesn''t feel like it makes much of a difference. While doing so, I inspect the outside of the shelter. Aside from the now obvious business that the animal did, everything else seems thankfully untouched.

    I drop the leaves on the ground, and sniff myself. Can''t really tell whether it''s better or worse. Did I get used to the smell over the course of the night, or did it just never really stick to me? Maybe it was absorbed by the moss? I shrug. Oh well, if I can''t really smell it, and nobody is around, then I guess I''m fine until I can clean myself up. And better not lick my fingers or something.

    That urgent matter dealt with, I finally realize just how hungry I am. I didn''t even think of it yesterday, as focused as I was on building the shelter, and as tired as I was afterwards. But my stomach is certainly complaining about its lack of contents now. My throat is dry, but it''s not terrible yet. I imagine that will change over the course of this day.

    I remember my thoughts from yesterday, and check if any of the plants are covered in dew. Unfortunately, the seasonal warmth that keeps me comfortable also means I don¡¯t see anything like that around. If I want to have any chance at it I''ll need to try waking up earlier to see if there''s any then, though that''s going to be hard without an alarm clock. My highest priority is still finding a method to re-hydrate myself.

    I feel another grumble a bit below, and rush off into the woods. When I''m a bit away from the shelter, I''m suddenly unsure of how to proceed. Normally I have a toilet to sit down on. I simply squat down on my heels, not taking any particular care for hiding my business this time around. It''s become abundantly clear nobody is around. Somehow defecation is just as easy without a toilet.

    When I''m done, I pause. I''d unconsciously been reaching for a toilet roll holder that is, of course, not here. I look around myself, then down at the forest floor. Leaves again? I try to find some bigger ones. It somewhat works, but not nearly as much as I want it to. I can feel... things... still stuck there.

    I feel a lump in my throat and have to fight back tears. This is just getting to be a bit too much too fast. I was sleeping in a warm bed just yesterday. I knew in some abstract sense how good I had it, but not having any toilet paper really drives home how utterly removed I am from civilization.

    It takes a little while before I''m able to collect myself. I make a few more attempts with leaves, but it never really feels like it does the job properly. I''m not even certain if it''s all in my mind or reality. Eventually, I just try to ignore whatever I feel is still stuck to me. I really need to have a proper bath.

    When I come back to the shelter, I realize I cannot stay there. I have to go and find water, now for one more reason than before. I guess there''s no way that I''d lie down in that particular shelter again anyway. I wonder if I could follow any animals to a water source. Then I remember that an animal actually passed by my shelter just last night. Maybe I can try to track where that one was headed.

    A cursory investigation of the surroundings yields some indentations from what was probably a paw in the direction I think it went. The indentations are much larger than I was hoping for, though maybe not as large as what I imagined last night. I''m not adept enough to distinguish paw prints, but I''d say it''s black bear, instead of brown bear level.

    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    The forest floor, especially the mossy parts, barely holds any footprints, so I could very easily lose the trail. I don¡¯t believe for a moment that I''d recognize any other signs of passage than the obvious depressions. In hindsight, I should''ve definitely taken that survival training course when I had the chance.

    In the end I don¡¯t have much choice though. Animals are my best bet for finding a local water source, and I have only one animal that I can actually follow now. I could probably try something tomorrow night, but I am even less confident about trying to follow anything in the dark.

    With little choice, I follow the prints. As expected, I lose sight of them within five minutes of starting my journey. I mark the last spot where I see the tracks with one of my sticks and continue on, under the assumption they likely continue in the same direction.

    After another ten minutes of walking, when I''m starting to wonder if that is actually true, I spot another set of prints. Since I can''t compare them directly, I can''t tell if they are from the same animal or a different one, but they seem roughly the right size and shape.

    I proceed to follow those tracks for a while, but eventually lose them again.

    This time more confident. I just go on in the direction these latest tracks point. With no way to tell the time, I can''t say how long I proceed, though the sun is appreciably moving in the sky. All this walking without sustenance is making me tired, and though the undergrowth¡ªoutside of some easily avoided dangers¡ªis as soft as it can get, my feet just aren''t used to walking such long distances for days on end. I¡¯ll eventually build up some calluses, but not within a day. I''m also starting to notice the lack of water now, my throat parched and dry as sandpaper.

    The sun is near its zenith when I accept that I have completely lost the track. I don''t find any more tracks or signs of animals, other than the birdsong all around me.

    I''m momentarily lost on what to do, but eventually decide not to double back. I have no idea where I lost the tracks, and going back might hurt as much as going on. With no choice clearly better than the other, I''m more inclined to go somewhere I haven''t been yet. There might be a road around the corner after all.

    As I consider finding animals, more specifically the animal that passed by my shelter last night, I''m suddenly of the opinion I''d be well served by making some sort of weapon first. My second encounter with this animal might not be as harmless as the first one, and as focused as I''ve been on water, I haven''t considered that eventually I need to eat as well. My grumbling stomach is an annoying reminder of my lack of breakfast.

    I keep walking, but also keep my eyes out for a sturdy branch to make a spear with. Eventually I find a good straight one, I had the luxury of rejecting several subpar candidates before settling on my current nearly perfect one. It''s honestly a bit bizarre that I could find a branch this straight without working it.

    Now though, I need to find something to sharpen it with. Flint would be great, but I can''t expect that to just be lying around. Maybe if I find a block of gravel and bash it? I smirk, if only it was that easy.

    Unfortunately, the forest is quite sparse in terms of stones, and whatever I manage to find would more accurately be described as gravel. However, my persistence eventually pays off, as I stumble upon a brownish rock formation where a cluster of trees seem to be growing out of it seemingly at random. Given the otherwise flat landscape of the forest, I''m not sure if this is a normal occurrence. The trees growing through the rock has the same effect as on a paved road, and I quickly locate a rock with a relatively sharp edge. It''s not flint but I feel it might work for my purposes.

    As I try sharpening my branch, I realize I might have been too optimistic. It works well enough for skinning the branch, but I selected a solid branch for a reason. After a much longer time than I care to admit, I realize I''m being dumb. I lean the branch against a sturdy tree and kick the bottom of the stupid thing in half, leaving a jagged edge at the break. It was longer than I needed anyway.

    While I walk I use the stone to sharpen that into a more serviceable point. At some point, I notice that the sky is darkening again, even though I haven''t found anything yet.

    I debate the wisdom of continuing today. A day of not eating and drinking is making me feel weak and lightheaded. In a little while, there''s a risk of stumbling or falling and hurting myself. I don''t like the idea of being out in darkness either. I very much dislike the idea of spending another night without sustenance too though, who knows in what condition I''ll wake up tomorrow.

    It takes me a little longer to decide, but eventually I figure that a slightly better shelter and some rest would help me more than spending an hour more looking for water. If my shelter is approached by an animal again tonight, I will follow them.

    Building the shelter comes more naturally today, now that I''ve got the hang of it. Halfway through though, I notice how much more effort it feels like it''s taking. When I''m finally done, I can''t do anything more than crawl in and collapse into sleep.

 Setting Out - 4

    As yesterday, suddenly my eyes fly open. There''s a new rustling sound outside my shelter, unfamiliar from the night before. A low growl is immediately recognizable from a thousand nature documentaries and horror stories. I can''t believe there would be wolves. A primal fear grips my heart. The monster yesterday was an enigma, but I am very well aware of what wolves do to prey caught alone out in the forest.

    She shelter feels constricting now, pressing in from all sides, even as it''s protecting me from immediately being spotted. The wolves must be able to smell me, even if they can''t see me yet. I can hardly move in here, if I try to crawl out they''d be on me before I could make it even halfway out.

    The shuffling and noises outside increase in frequency and volume. It very much sounds like there''s more than one. Which shouldn''t surprise me, given they travel in packs. I just can''t get over the fact that there''s wolves. They''d long since disappeared from the forests in the area I was living. My mind races with every survival tip I''ve ever read, yet offers nothing of any use.

    Then, I see a shadow pass in front of my shelter. I''m briefly surprised that I can distinguish between two different blots of pure darkness, but apparently there''s still some light somewhere. This fascination is short lived as whatever is outside turns towards me and I see two yellow orbs staring at me out of the darkness. As I cease breathing, the creature moves closer. I nearly wet myself just from what I imagine could happen, but mentally prepare myself to kick it in the face if it tries anything.

    Suddenly, the air shifts, and the wolf coming for me bolts, his friends not far behind. The sound of their retreat, a rush of paws against the forest floor, barely registers before it''s replaced by another presence. Heavy footfalls thud in the silence left by the fleeing pack, and a weighty realization sits alongside the fear¡ªit''s the same creature from yesterday!

    As if to mock my terror, it does something so remarkably familiar and absurd that my fear is momentarily undercut by exasperation. The beast relieves itself against my shelter, a hot scent marking its disdain for my panic. I''m upset at the absurdity more than anything else. Did I really come to a new world only to construct a new litter box for this creature every night? Still, I have to admit to a reluctant sense of gratitude. This creature, whatever it may be, has inadvertently saved me from becoming a midnight snack.

    When the creature lumbers back into the darkness after finishing it''s business, I try to contemplate the insane notion of following a monster in the dead of night. I really do not want to leave the shelter, feeling a primal fear of the dark and the wolves. But logically speaking, close to whatever this creature may well be more secure than staying behind for the wolves to find. Far more importantly, it''s clearly drinking enough to relieve itself two nights in a row. This is my best bet to locate what I''ve been searching for these past few days.

    Cautiously, I push myself backwards out of the shelter, grabbing my makeshift spear, and leaving the pungent smell of the animal''s discharge behind. The night is crisp, fresh with the scent of trees and earth. I shiver a bit, but no more than that, and then I''m off in pursuit of the creature.

    Full of adrenaline, I jerk around at every time I think I hear something. The wolves can''t have gone far yet, and I have no idea if they''ll turn back now that the big bastard is far enough away. I follow the footsteps of the creature more than anything, my eyes too busy scanning the haunting silhouettes in the forest all around me. The light of the moon gives me precious little light to see by, but it''s just barely enough to not walk into every tree in my path.

    Every few moments, I stand still and listen carefully, to find the animal still plodding along in the distance. I keep speeding up and slowing down to keep the noise at about the same level. There''s no way I''d actually see its body unless I was literally standing on top of it due to the lack of light, and I have no desire to get too close.

    I stagger, realizing just how much the dehydration is hitting me. Going over a day and the better part of a night without a drop of water, coupled with walking all day throughout, really affects how well I''m able to focus.

    I grip my improvised spear tightly. I''m not sure if it will help or immediately snap, but I derive a lot of comfort from the idea of being armed regardless.

    After an indeterminate period of time, something changes. There¡¯s a slight slope down in the forest floor, and very soon I see what appears to be the reflection of the sky and trees on water.

    I can''t restrain myself at the sight. I¡¯m not sure how long ago I¡¯ve last heard the creature. The whole thing has turned into a bit of blur, but it¡¯s clearly not anywhere between me and the water, so I rush forward. Every step I take leads me closer to salvation.

    In my haste, I step onto what feels like an extra tough branch with a knot digging right into the bottom of my foot. I instinctively pull back my leg to dodge the pain, but it throws me off balance, and I hit the ground. Without a thought I pick myself up and forge on, the lingering pain in my sole quickly forgotten by the promise of water.

    Salvation turns out to be a small pond, fed from no apparent source. A spring maybe? The moment I reach it, I quickly cup my hands and scoop up a good amount of water to drink. That first sip is so sweet that it feels like I''m tasting the nectar of the gods.

    As I''m shuddering with relief at the world finally cutting me a well deserved break, an ominous growl reverberates behind me. The sound of heavy paws thumping against the ground, drawing nearer, fills my ears.

    I swirl back, realizing that maybe, it was a bad idea to assume the animal wasn¡¯t nearby just because I couldn¡¯t see it. My mind is all foggy right now. I barely have time to see a huge shadow the size of a house coming at me. Teeth glisten in the darkness, and a large claw swipes at me. Somehow, I manage to dodge it, but then a searing pain shoots through my right thigh.

    I don''t wait around to see what the animal is doing, and sprint away as fast as I possibly can. Each step sends a new jolt of agony down my leg. I can feel warm blood pouring down my leg, being flung into the surroundings with every step I take, as I pump my legs to propel myself forward as fast as humanly possible.

    I know I should just focus on running, but I risk a glance behind. I don''t see the creature following. I hope that means it''s not actually giving chase. Maybe I was just in the way of its water?

    As I turn my head forward once more, there''s a wooden thunk, and the world goes black.

    Everything hurts. It''s hard to focus on anything else at first. My head pounds with the rhythm of my heart, every thud sending a new jolt of agony through my temples. I open my eyes, but quickly close them again. Since I''m still alive, I can stay like this for a bit.

    A few minutes later, I feel like I''m ready, and I carefully open one eye. The sky is growing light. It must be early dawn, which allows me to see the source of my troubles¡ªthe tree that blocks my path. I''m on my back, head nested between its roots. How''d I end up like this after hitting my head on the trunk? A leaf from near the canopy comes slowly drifting down, and my eyes follow it until it''s nearly all the way to the ground. I neglect to turn my head to see it land.

    As I remember the events of last night, I remember the wound I''d taken yesterday. I can feel my right thigh throb fiercely, but it was hard to notice with the headache. I guess the creature really didn''t chase me, which works fine for me.

    After a few moments of trying to work myself up to it, I try to sit up to assess what happened. I must have rushed it because that quick movement sends my pounding head into overdrive. I feel the world spinning around me, and have only a moment to jerk my head to the side before I vomit. Fortunately ¡ªor unfortunately I suppose¡ª not much comes up since there''s hardly anything in my stomach.

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    I lower myself back down as gracefully as possible, avoiding further harm. That accomplished, I very carefully tilt my head down to look at my damaged leg. What greets me are deep gashes in my thigh that look as though something carved channels right through it.

    I stare wide eyed at the devastation. I''ve seen plenty of ostensibly worse things on the internet¡ªgrisly wounds, decapitations, pieces of adults and children scattered over the size of a small football field after some ''collateral damage''. But it''s different when it''s your own leg. It''s attached to my body! I can count the number of times I''ve suffered a significant wound on one hand¡ªmost of them my own fault¡ªand I''m not used to the experience.

    There is a small dried pool of blood on the ground surrounding my leg, but it doesn''t seem to be leaking blood any more, though it''s similarly covered in it. Whether through my running yesterday, or just running down, the rest of my leg has been painted with a nearly equal amount of blood.

    Anticipating the worst, I try to move my leg and am surprised to find that it actually does. It intensifies the pain, but only by a bit. I raise my leg, worried about getting the wound infected, but then laugh weakly at the futility of doing so now. I''ve been attacked by who knows what and have been lying here with my leg rubbing the dirt for at least an hour, likely longer. A few more minutes won''t hurt.

    And so I stay there, breathing in and out, trying to figure out what to do now. I know I eventually have to clean the wound, to see what lies beneath all the blood, but most importantly to stave off infection. I don''t have any materials to bandage it, so cleaning is as well as possible is my best bet.

    I also need to get back to the water to drink. The few swallows yesterday were divine, but they weren''t nearly enough, and I lost a lot of blood just now.

    After a few minutes I judge that I''m well enough to make another attempt, this time I very slowly push myself up, using the tree as support. It doesn''t improve the headache, but at least I feel no need to hurl. I pause before putting any weight on my wounded leg, but when I do, and it works without issue, I have to shake my head at the insanity of the headache from running into a tree being so much more intense than the pain from having my thigh turned into mincemeat.

    Looking back the way I came, and then around the forest, I realize I''ve made it just 50 meters away from the pond before crashing into this tree. Whatever attacked me is now gone.

    I gingerly make my way back to the pond, taking care not to put too much weight on my injured leg. The pond, roughly 4 meters in diameter, is a serene sight, with the few sunbeams that manage to penetrate the canopy above creating a shimmering effect on its surface, evoking a sense of enchantment. The water appears to have no discernible source, possibly originating from a hidden spring, but flows away through the leaves in a small trickle.

    If this is how all water here flows it doesn¡¯t surprise me I haven¡¯t found any water. You¡¯d basically need to directly step in the wet leaves to notice that there¡¯s any water flowing through or under. You¡¯d think they get carried along with the water, but apparently not.

    I reach the edge of the water and take a moment to assess its clarity. It appears to be clean, so I sit down and dip my bloody leg in. The water immediately turns a dark swirling red, and I realize my mistake. I''m not going to drink that.

    Holding my leg in the water is somehow extremely painful. The wound stings and burns, and I can''t help but wonder how water can have that effect. I really have no choice, and I resist the impulse to jerk my leg back.

    After a bit of a soak, I try to carefully clean the area around the wound. I''m too scared to touch the actual wound, and it doesn''t seem like a great idea. I''m honestly not sure if immersing the wound in water will help or hurt, but cleaning wounds seems intuitively correct, and I don''t want to keep walking around with a bloody leg either.

    Finally, I feel like my leg is as clean as it''s going to get without more active involvement, I pull it out of the water. Most of the big crusts of blood have washed away. Without the blood my leg looks, if anything, even worse¡ªdeep furrows and peeled skin. It does let me see that the wounds aren''t as deep as I thought earlier, but it''s practically a guarantee it''ll get infected if not covered.

    Not wanting to think about that, I leave it for later and shuffle around the pond until I find a spot where the water looks only minimally tainted by my own blood. Then, I finally start completely quenching my thirst. I probably should slow down, but I''m so thirsty I can''t stop myself.

    When I''m sated, I regard the rest of the pond. I really want to wash. I stumble back to the side where I first washed my leg, so all the dirt and contamination stays on the same side. The pond isn''t ultimately all that big, but all the contamination seems to dissolve before it gets to the other side. I know that isn''t true, but I don''t have a lot of options.

    I tentatively step into the water with my healthy leg, and my foot immediately sinks about twenty centimeters into the pond''s muddy bed. Another step takes me a little deeper into the mud, but not all that much deeper into the water. I realize then that my movement is churning up all kinds of dirt and muck, and I quickly back out of the pond, not wanting to get any of it in my wounds. This is inconvenient.

    In the end I settle for rubbing myself clean with water from the pond as best as possible. I immerse my arms and what I can of my legs from the bank. I''m not sure how much cleaner this actually makes me, but at least I feel like I''ve washed.

    Having achieved my two most immediate goals, I contemplate what to do. This water has extended my survival time by a lot, but I still need food. The presence of dangerous creatures here is concerning too.

    Fortunately, food is more abundant than water, the forest should be full of fruits and nuts, and animals will come to the pond to drink, so I can catch them when they do. Now that I have water, I can stay here for a longer period.

    That said I have never hunted or caught any animal before. The closest thing to hunting I''ve ever done is scavenge for deals at the dollar store. In the same way, I''m clueless about which fruits or vegetables are actually edible. I know some roots can be eaten, but I couldn''t tell you which to save my life.

    At least animals will be easy to find, even if catching them is a different story. If I manage to catch and skin one, I could use it to make clothes or a bag. People used bladders to store water, right? I definitely need a way to carry water with me.

    Upon further consideration, I start to have doubts though. This isn''t Minecraft where I can easily kill an animal and have it transform into resources. Killing an animal in the first place is questionable. Could I bring myself to do it? I have no idea how to clean and preserve the meat. As for my idea for a waterskin, I also don''t even know what a bladder looks like, much less where it would be located.

    As much as I dislike the idea of continuing my journey in hopes of finding people, it seems far more likely to help than staying here. Assuming there are people in this world and somewhere nearby, but I don''t think the alternative is worth considering at this point.

    The only way I could stay here would be to revert to a primal state, which, I suppose, is preferable to dying. However, that''s not my only option. There must be some form of civilization around here, and I''m determined to find it!

    With that decided, I get to it.

    I start slowly, but as my headache fades away, and I get used to what my leg is and isn''t capable of ¡ªnote to self, jumping is a bad idea¡ª I start moving faster.

    Ideally I''d climb a tree, and get a better idea of my surroundings to get some idea of which direction I''d have a better chance of discovering people, but the trees are mostly of an even height and climbing the tallest wouldn''t help me much, never mind that I''d never make it to the top with the thin branches and my wounded leg.

    I make several trips in various directions from the pond, both in the hope that I will find a way out and to scavenge for food. The difficulty with my leg is mainly trying to keep it as clean as possible. The forest is full of branches and bugs that love to brush past and sit on my broken skin.

    I have to keep telling myself I''m not in the middle of a massive blob of trees hundreds of kilometers wide. There must be something I can find that isn''t trees, though a little strangled voice keeps telling me I''m going to die here if I''m wrong.

    All my scavenging is for naught, as the only thing I find that I recognize as safe is a blackberry bush. I immediately empty it of all the berries I can find. At least it''s not winter like in my old world. If it were still January, I''d have a hard time finding berries. Though I suppose that wouldn¡¯t matter as I''d freeze to death within a few hours.

    Eating is good though, and having finally slaked some of the persistent hunger, I say a quick prayer of thanks to whomever is listening. I''m not sure anyone is listening, but it feels appropriate given the circumstances.

    On my last trip before it gets too dark to make another one, and I have to make my way back to the pond to settle in for the night, I find what I''ve been looking for all this time.

    The forest suddenly gives way, and I find myself on what is clearly a dirt road. It isn''t a major highway by any means, but it would fit a car.

    It doesn''t have any visible tracks, but that would be too much to hope for. It doesn''t look like the road is traveled often, but just having some indication that other sentient beings exist, and that they build things like roads, causes me to sigh in relief.

    Not being able to do much more, I follow my trail of upright sticks back to the pond and build myself a shelter a hundred meters away. Hopefully, it''s far enough that whatever ambushed me last night won''t do so again today. I also make sure it has a sturdy barrier in front of the opening this time, so as to prevent the wolves from just walking right in.

    I lie down. My leg has stopped smarting somewhere during the day, but most likely I''ve just gotten used to it, as the pain quickly returns with a vengeance. At least the headache is gone, and there''s no way any pain can stand up to the exhaustion of spending a whole day walking after last night''s ordeal. So I fall asleep almost immediately, only having some vague plans of following the road tomorrow in my head.

 The Long Road

    The next morning, I set out early. Somehow, being dropped in a different world with no distractions from screens meant my messed up sleep schedule finally corrected itself.

    The first thing I do, is drink my fill from the pond. I can''t get over how nice it is to finally be able to drink again. Too much will make me sick, but it''s hard to hold back, and I drink as much as I can justify. I''ll probably pee out the excess, but hopefully some of it will stick around.

    I must admit I might be a little bit influenced by my growling stomach, which stops complaining when I fill it with water. The berries from yesterday did take the edge off the hunger, but they didn''t solve the slowly growing problem that I haven''t eaten anything solid for 3 days.

    I fear that I am unconsciously suppressing my worries about the food problem because fixing that issue seems to require me to hunt. I''ve never in my life killed anything bigger than a mosquito, and even those with reluctance. I''ll admit that they''re hella annoying, but it just never seemed right to squish one solely because it was acting according to its nature.

    Unfortunately, I haven''t seen anything more edible than the berries yesterday, and I''ve spent the whole day searching. I was hoping for apples, or other fruits, but nothing manifested. Conversely, small animals are everywhere in abundance. The sound of birds fills the forest, and every step I take something small and furry jumps away in front of me.

    How would I even cook any meat? I have no idea how to make fire. Well, yes, rub some sticks against each other, but that''s the extent of my knowledge. Or flint and steel, but neither of those are forthcoming. To be fair, I guess cooking the meat isn''t strictly necessary for sustenance, but the idea of eating uncooked meat is even harder to contemplate than hunting in the first place.

    I discard those thoughts for now and set off in the direction I found the road yesterday. Now that I can go straight there, it isn''t more than an hour''s walk away.

    As much as I wanted it to be different, when I arrive, it seems deserted in both directions.

    Just like yesterday. I sigh. I had held out some vague hope that I''d find people here today, but it doesn''t look like this road sees a lot of usage. There''s no trace of any tracks dug through the dirt here.

    Completely at random, I set off towards my left. Or maybe not completely random. Apparently people like walking around a supermarket that way around. Maybe I''m influenced by things beyond my comprehension?

    It''s nice to walk on a road for once. Aside from the ease of walking, I finally have the feeling I''m going somewhere. Regardless of how far away it is, there''s definitely something at the end of, or along, this road. I''m not forced to keep planting sticks just to not lose my way either.

    The road itself isn''t much to speak of. It''s literally just a dirt trail that''s about wide enough that a single wagon¡ªI''m not sure why those come to mind now instead of cars¡ªcould drive down it. If two came from different directions, they''d have issues passing each other by though. I guess one of them would need to push themselves into the forest on either side.

    Despite everything, I can enjoy this walk through this forest again. I feel like I have a better chance of achieving my goals than before, I''m filled with fluids again, and there''s nothing to do but to walk, so I can allow myself to enjoy the scenery a little bit.

    Every few minutes, I see little furry animals shooting off in all directions, probably not used to seeing people about. There''s a constant twittering of various birds in the trees, and one particular bird is noticeable for its incredibly shrill call.

    Previously I hadn''t really registered trees as anything but trees, but now each of them start to stand out as individuals, each with their own identity. I''m sure one of them is a chestnut tree, evidenced by the chestnuts scattered all around it.

    Wait, aren''t those edible? I pick one up, and look at it. It doesn''t exactly look very edible. I don''t really have anywhere to store it either. I drop it back to the ground and move on.

    At some point I notice a strange mound next to the path, and upon inspection, I find that it''s a sort of burrow. When I look into what I suppose is the entrance, three pairs of glowing yellow eyes look back at me.

    Whatever animals they are, they don''t feel like showing themselves to me. They''re not interested in anything beyond their burrow. I eventually shrug and walk on.

    About half an hour later, I note something strange. It feels like something is telling me to step off the path, and walk back into the forest. It''s somewhat reminiscent of the weird feeling of certainty I get when contemplating I''ve arrived in a new world.

    I can step off the path, or I can continue. It only takes me a short while to decide. A little detour won''t hurt, and I really want to figure out the source of this feeling. As I step back into the forest, the feeling grows stronger and stronger.

    But a few minutes of walking, brings me to the source of the feeling. In between all the other trees of the forest stands something I''ve never seen before. A tree unlike anything else. It actually bears fruit, but it''s hard to focus on the fact it''s fruit, since the fruit seems to be glowing with some inner light. I imagine this must be quite the spectacle at night.

    The tree is big! It''s not quite as large as some trees I''ve seen, but it easily surpasses most other fruit bearing trees I''ve seen. There must be hundreds of the fruits hanging in there. Getting closer, I can see that the fruits aren''t all that much different from apples. Maybe a cross between an apple and a mango. My stomach growls. Unlike the chestnuts, these do actually look very appetizing, but something about eating a glowing fruit screams of danger to me.

    My body doesn''t seem to care for that reasoning, and whatever it was that made me feel I needed to go here now tells me I need to eat those fruits. I tentatively pluck one off a lower branch, and stare at it as it practically screams at me to eat it.

    I guess if it were truly poisonous I wouldn''t feel that way right? And it looks like an apple, or a mango, those are both edible. I tentatively take a bite. A few minutes later, I come to my senses, and find the remains of three devoured fruits in front of me. Strangely enough, my stomach still feels just as empty as it did before, but something about the way I feel is qualitatively different. My burning desire to consume more of the fruit is certainly gone.

    The remains of the fruits have lost their previous luster, and what I imagine is the core -it truly does look like an apple- sits on the ground without a speck of light emanating from it. There''s little seeds popping out of the sides, much like an apple too. Maybe apples have been replaced with the glowing fruit in this world?

    After satisfying an appetite I didn''t know I had - not for food, but something else entirely - I sit there considering the tree and its fruits for a bit longer before giving it up as an enigma and going on my way. I bring one fruit along for the road, and make my way back to it. It''s a shame I cannot bring any more, but I don''t exactly have a massive amount of storage space on my body... I wonder if there''s any more of these in the forest, I certainly haven''t seen them before, and I''ve walked quite a bit. The fact that I was pulled so strongly in the direction of this tree probably means I would have noticed if I''d been near one before.

    As I make my way further down the road, I find myself wondering what the fruits are. I''m absolutely certain nothing like it exists on earth. And this sensation after consuming them. It''s as if they fill a void within me I never before felt was there.

    This must be it. I''ll get my powers here right? It''s been a long time coming, but come on. I find a magical tree in the middle of an ancient forest, get pulled there by some indescribable sensation, and eat a bunch of glowing fruit that fills up a part of me I never knew was there. It''s almost deus ex machina. Even if nothing happens now, then surely, in my moment of need, I''ll suddenly find a well of power deep within me. A well that was previously empty it seems. Somehow the magic fruits fill the magic well? It''s as good an explanation as any.

    It''s a shame that I don''t know of any stories where the need of the protagonist was to conjure food out of thin air. Even if I do suddenly become super strong, how does that really help me? Maybe I''d be able to walk faster? Fly? I guess it''d be too much to expect to immediately be able to fly.

    As I walk on, such, and many other thoughts about the potential nature of the fruits pass through my mind.

    I walk until the sun has passed its midway point, and is back on the way down again, when I notice a lot of time has passed, and my leg has started throbbing. Worried, I inspect the wound on my thigh and notice that the skin around the edges, and probably the whole wound, has an ugly red shine.

    That''s not very promising, but I don''t have a lot of options. I already washed it, and I can hardly sit down and rest. I have to make this second wind I''ve gotten from the water last. I have to keep going.

    Maybe I''ll find some form of civilization by the end of the day? Maybe there is a way-station for travelers somewhere along the road? No matter how much I want it though, this road just feels too minor to have anything like that.

    As the sun begins to set, I find myself utterly worn out. Even though I''ve drank my fill this morning, the lack of true food is starting to take a toll on me. A few hours ago I realized I had to ease up, to spare both my leg and not use too much energy, but the infection has undeniably gotten worse.

    It doesn¡¯t help that my feet are killing me. Nothing in my life prepared me for spending all day, every day, walking nearly all the time. The road is a mixed blessing and curse. It makes it easy to avoid stepping on things I shouldn¡¯t, but that hard-packed dirt is definitely tougher to walk on than the soft undergrowth.

    I realize I haven''t taken any time to prepare a shelter. Stupid! I start berating myself, but then realize that both forgetting, and berating myself for doing so feels unlike myself. I glance at my angrily throbbing leg and press my palm against my forehead. I''m burning up with fever.

    I make an attempt to construct a shelter anyway, but after gathering a few branches I realize I just am not in any state to complete it, so I start looking for a naturally sheltered sleeping spot instead.

    Given that I don''t have a great deal of energy, when I find some sort of hollow between two twisting tree branches I quickly decide it''ll do. I only grab some moss for a makeshift pillow, but for the first time since arriving in this world, I simply let myself fall into the embrace of the forest floor.

    The moss must have made me complacent because directly lying down on all the branches and rocks is a decidedly less pleasant experience when not wearing any clothes.

    I sit up again and quickly try to clear the area of any pointy obstacles that would press into my back. Then I decide to grab a patch of moss to put my infected leg on as well. I''m not sure it''ll help, but it''ll make me sleep better.

    That done, I''m utterly out of power. I flop back down again, now marginally more comfortable, and my eyes flutter closed immediately. I''m worried that my exposed position will matter, but I''m too exhausted to care.

    I wake up to pain. A pain I''ve never yet experienced in my life. This morning, the fifth day in what I now consider my new world, is the worst one yet. It''s even worse than the day I ran into a tree.

    This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    It seems there''s a unique kind of agony tied to a deeply infected wound, one that digs deeper than the mere surface. The initial pain was localized and obvious, but this current pain is different. The skin around my wound is red and swollen, and my entire leg feels like it''s engulfed in flames.

    Honestly, I''m not sure what to do here. I just don''t have any way to make this better. I wrack my brain for ideas, for ways to deal with an infected wound when you have absolutely nothing, but of course nothing comes to mind. All our ways of dealing with disease and pain rely on medicine. Medicine obtained from a medical system that''s nowhere to be found. Now I wish I''d paid more attention to all those natural remedies, I''m sure there was some ounce of truth to them, but it always seemed so needlessly ineffective when we had true medicine.

    It''s probably not a good idea to put weight on my leg right now, but I can''t just sit still. I crawl out of the shelter and cautiously attempt to put some weight on my leg. Suddenly, I hear a low whining sound and realize it came from me. Putting weight on my leg is definitely not pleasant.

    I lean against the closest tree to relieve some pressure on my leg, but then I realize how silly I''m being. Despite the pain, I can''t stop. I''m too far away from the pond. Even if I turn back now, I''d never make it there, and I doubt I could find it again in the first place.

    There must be some kind of settlement nearby, right? Otherwise, why would there be a road? I have to find people there that can help me!

    I try putting some weight on my leg once more, prepared for the pain this time and managing not to whimper.

    But then, my stomach growls loudly, and I almost collapse from sheer exhaustion. Will this ever get better? I''ve been trying to focus on survival, shutting down other thoughts, but desperation is starting to seep through the mental block I''ve been trying to keep in place. I cannot allow myself to consider how little chance I have of survival if things keep going as they are. I haven''t had any substantial food in days, and finding water is still an impossible task, now my leg is inflamed, the thought of covering the same distance as yesterday feels downright impossible.

    I forcefully squash all those thoughts, and instead taking a bite from the glowing blue fruit I had remaining from yesterday. It seemed appropriate to eat it at breakfast, even if it doesn''t seem to fill my stomach, at least I have the ritual of eating breakfast to give me a semblance of normality.

    When I''m done eating. I slowly stumble my way back to the path, then trudge my way down it. I¡¯m not making much progress when compared to yesterday, but I¡¯m moving. Sort of.

    The one good thing to say about all this is that at least the pain doesn¡¯t seem to get worse when I walk. Sure, every time I put my foot down I feel like I¡¯m being stabbed, but it¡¯s the same stab every single time.

    I make it about 2 hours by my measure of the sun when I suddenly realize I''m tipping to the side. I catch myself, and look around. I can¡¯t figure out what would make me suddenly lose my balance. The path is essentially flat. My feet aren¡¯t especially painful either, due to my slow walking speed.

    It''s hard to keep track of time now. I don''t really know how long I''ve been walking, but suddenly the the ground rises up to meet me, and I find myself splattering into the dirt of the road. Goddammit, why does this keep happening? I can hardly sense my leg any more, and it seems a bit unresponsive to my desires, but I get it back in line. Which is good, since I want to keep moving. I believe there was a very important reason for doing so, even if I can''t quite remember what it was.

    I push myself back onto my feet somehow, the leg has just become a background noise of agony. I think I make it quite far again, but even the forest is a blur now. Surely it should be afternoon by now? I squint at the sky, but no matter how I look at it it still seems like it''s not even noon yet.

    An interminable time later, my body just seems to decide that enough is enough, and from one step to the next I slump to the ground, hitting the dirt like a boneless lump.

    What was I doing? I shake my head, silly me, can''t remember. I guess it''s time for a break. To the side of the road where there''s a comfortable looking mossy tree, which I drag myself towards. My leg ain''t doing so well it seems. Can''t move it at all. But my arms are strong enough! In no time at all, but in what might have been hours for all I noticed, I''ve positioned myself under the tree. My back comfortable against the trunk.

    Finally comfortable, I look down all along the way I came from. There''s a funny red line in the dirt that leads all the way from where I came from right to where I''m sitting. I wonder who drew that there? Silly thing to draw a line on a road nobody travels. Red''s a weird color too, should be white, if it''s like this it''s like someone painted the road with blood... Oh.

    As I look at the trail of blood, I have just a fleeting moment of concern before my thoughts scatter once more. The grass here is pleasant. There¡¯s trees around. The sun is shining. Hah that brings to mind a song.

    The sun is shining, I feel good, and no-ones gone stop me now, oh yeah.

    There¡¯s worse places to meet your end. I should just sit here for a while. Yes, that sounds good...

    A few hours later I come around. I must have passed out right as I had that thought. I can''t quite remember what thought that was, but my mind feels clearer now. The sun is far past its halfway point, and I¡¯m mostly inclined to just stay here like this for a bit. I marginally turn my head, and look down the road that I was following. In stories, this would be the moment where the hero hears the hooves, or the wagon, or other rescuers. But the road remains stubbornly empty.

    That magic power-up also never really materialized. Whatever those glowing fruits do, it''s nothing that helps me fight off infection.

    I look towards the other side, and find the road there to be empty too. But a small animal sits in the middle of the road, looking at me cautiously. I have some difficulty focusing my eyes, but I think that¡¯s a rabbit.

    I keep observing the creature as it sedately approaches me. When it gets to within a few arms lenghts it becomes clear that it is indeed a rabbit. It has glossy white fur, two beady black eyes that seem to stare at nothing, and fluffy pointy ears. Maybe it¡¯s curious about the invader of it''s domain? Maybe it''s never seen humans before? Whatever the reasons, it doesn''t pause in it''s approach, and a little while later, I have a fluffy white rabbit sniffing all over my body.

    Initially I cannot bring myself to care, but at some point, as I see it sniffing around without a care in the world, something snaps in me.

    I''m seething with this irrational rage toward this rabbit, like it embodies the sheer indifference of the world as it just keeps throwing shit at me. It¡¯s acting as if I¡¯m some sort of curiosity, a, a... wax figure? While I¡¯m lying here naked, slowly dying from hunger, thirst, blood loss and an infection. Whichever one of them will get me first. All because some random fluke! I don¡¯t fucking deserve this!

    The rabbit is right there, and doesn''t seem to care when I move my arm slightly and grab it by one of its paws. Its leg feels surprisingly fragile under my grip. When it realizes I have a hold on it, it tries to get away, scrabbling its paws on the forest floor and flinging up some dirt. But before it has a chance to really struggle, I use what power I can muster, and, as I lift it up, roll my body to the side. That causes a sharp flare of pain in my leg, but I at this point I don¡¯t care. I''m on a mission. My arm and the rabbit sail around in a shallow arc that terminates when its skull crashes into the large rock I know is waiting there. I hear a satisfying crack that resounds in my mind, and it goes immediately still.

    The silence that follows the crack is deafening, giving way to the rush of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. For a moment, I lie there, panting, the weight of the rabbit''s body a warm, limp reality against my side. Guilt, hot and immediate, wells up inside me. It didn¡¯t do anything against me, but I killed it for no other reason than to get back at the world.

    With trembling hands, I inspect the rabbit; its fur still soft amidst the grime and blood that now stains it. I¡¯m surprised by how it still looks more or less the same. Assuming you ignore the crushed skull. You¡¯d think that there¡¯d be a bigger difference between life and death.

    As I look at the limp rabbit, my eyes get pulled to the plump thighs, the fatty belly, and the general size of the creature. As much as I hate the reasons for what I did, I can''t argue with the benefits. Relieved that I now have an excuse for what I half think of as murder, I think about how to go about this; I have no tools for skinning or butchery, but I don''t think I really have a choice. If I don''t take this chance I won''t ever get another one.

    I contemplate the crude methods at my disposal. I put the rabbit down, and manage to make myself sit up a bit straighter. I look around for the sharpened stick that I brought with me. Surprisingly enough it¡¯s right next to me. Apparently even delirious I still had the presence of mind to keep my sole protective measure with me. Not that it helps me against any of the demons I¡¯m actually facing.

    It can help me with the rabbit though. I lie it on the ground, and hover the sharpened stick over it awkwardly before stabbing down. I manage to awkwardly pierce its skin, and with ragged breaths, I peel it back. My actions feel both monstrous and clumsy. I find myself repeatedly jabbing the spear to loosen the skin. Yet as I expose the flesh, I remember reading somewhere that one must remove the entrails first because not doing so is bad for some reason. With no other choice, I use my hands to dig through the insides of the rabbit, trying to find and extricate what I imagine are the organs. As I hold a handful of organs torn from it''s body, I cackle madly, quivering from both revulsion and excitement. I feel powerful, as if I''m taking control back from the mad world, even if it''s through dissecting a rabbit. The organs I found are discarded to my side, and I dig back in to see if I''ve missed anything.

    After I remove everything that I think qualifies as a entrails, I¡¯ve calmed down, and the process of trying to strip the rest of the meat of the skin through a combination of tearing, stabbing and cutting with my stick feels more tedious than anything.

    There''s still some reluctance about what I''m about to do, but hunger and some form of feeling I owe the rabbit, stifle the protests of my unsettled stomach. Raw meat carries risks¡ªbacteria, parasites. I know this, but against the pangs of starvation, such knowledge rings hollow. With trepidation, I lift one of the smaller pieces of meat to my lips, still dripping blood. I bite down, and chew slowly as I try to suppress my body''s urge to reject the uncooked flesh.

    I¡¯m worried about what might follow: violent gastrointestinal distress or worse, but it''s a gamble against the odds of nature, give the certain death that awaits me without sustenance, without providing my body with the means to fight off the infection, it¡¯s one that I¡¯m more than willing to make.

    The hide meanwhile sits discarded, yet not without purpose. As I chew I consider its use¡ªa crude pouch, or wrapped around sticks to kindle a fire once dried. For now, though, that fire remains a hopeful daydream without flint or tool to spark it into reality. I suppose I could even sort of wrap myself in the hide for warmth if it ever came to that¡ªthough it¡¯s kind of small. For now I¡¯m not in any danger of needing to do that if the weather holds though.

    As the sinewy texture of raw meat passes reluctantly down my throat, a wave of introspection sweeps over me. What series of missteps had led me to this extreme? Memories of simpler days¡ªof stocked pantries and hearty meals at well-set tables¡ªseem distant as my gaze meanders through the forest around me. Survival has stripped away the complexities of my past life, reducing existence to its most primal form: eat or be eaten, live or die.

    I¡¯d always wondered this, given that it¡¯s often remarked on in my books, but there truly is an odd purity to this state, in the way everything only matters in the moment. I look at my blood stained hands and body. The need to keep myself clean is a sidenote to the need to feed myself. I''m eating strips of meat I¡¯ve literally torn out of the rabbits¡¯ body, and I find myself thinking that, in some abstract way, this brutal simplicity is much closer to the essence of life than the world from which I''ve been stripped away.

    With my leg throbbing¡ªa cruel reminder of the consequences of failure¡ªI face a ruthless calculation. The blood from the rabbit is still fresh, and slowly filling the improvised bowl I made out of the rabbits'' skin, draining out of the strips of meat stacked on top, a shade of scarlet that seems deeper in the fading light. I¡¯m not exactly sure if the cure won¡¯t be worse than the disease, but just as hunger overpowered my revulsion for raw meat, so too does my parched throat demand I consider what once would have been unthinkable.

    I grab a handful of meaty strips and tilt my head, squeezing, letting the smallest amount of blood touch my lips. The taste is immediate and overwhelming ¨C iron, salt, life ¨C a taste that urges my body to reject it.

    I¡¯ve swallowed some of my own blood before, but never another''s, and certainly not on purpose.

    I tense as I expect my gut to react violently. I swallow tentatively, and am almost disappointed by the lack of reaction. There¡¯s a mild urge to vomit, but the feeling is fleeting. I relax a bit, maybe it¡¯s not enough to provoke a strong reaction?

    As I keep dribbling blood down my throat, the feeling grows though, and eventually I have to stop for fear I¡¯ll throw it all back up. Most of the blood I could squeeze out is gone at this point though, so I do not consider it a large loss.

    Not wanting to waste anything, I keep slowly working my way through the meat until it is all gone. I¡¯m not confident it¡¯d be any more healthy later today or tomorrow. I won¡¯t be going anywhere today, and I¡¯m frankly not certain I¡¯ll survive the night even now.

    I lean back against the tree I¡¯ve spent the last few hours under. I reflect back on the past few hours, and feel like it¡¯s bizarre that I¡¯ve gone from nearly giving up on life to slaughtering, stripping and consuming a rabbit in the space of a few hours.

    Pretty much every part of my body is covered in some form of blood by now. My right leg which has stopped bleeding at some point while I sat here, is covered in a mix of my own and the rabbits¡¯, but the rest of my body wasn¡¯t spared by the process of stripping the unfortunate animal. I look like I fell in that cannibal blood cellar in the Tomb Raider reboot. My mind can¡¯t help but wisely note that it¡¯s a good thing I¡¯m not wearing any clothes as they¡¯d be completely ruined. At least I can wash this all off. At some point, anyway.

    The absurdity of the fact that I can look at myself like this and have the fact I can wash it off be the first think that comes to mind triggers another hysterical laugh, I can¡¯t stop myself, and the giggles and sobs burst out in equal measure. When I manage to get myself under control, I¡¯m feeling utterly exhausted both physically and mentally.

    I close my eyes, and allow myself to relax.

 People

    Sensation returns slowly. There''s a sense that my body protests awakening once again. Did I drink too much yesterday? I can''t remember, which is normally a bad sign, but this doesn''t feel like a hangover. I slowly open my eyes to the light pouring through my eyelids, and frown. This isn''t my bedroom. Memories come back in fits and starts.

    Right. I was transported to another world, with nothing but the skin on my back, arriving in the middle of a massive forest, and was trying to find food, water and civilization when I was attacked by a large animal, which wounded me and the wound got infected, which compounded with the lack of food and water, landed me here.

    I guess I should be happy I''m still alive? It''s hard to bring up enthusiasm for that fact. I''d have vastly preferred it if it were all a dream.

    That said, I do feel marginally better. Though based on how I was feeling before, that may not be saying much. According to the sun, I''ve slept the whole night and a good chunk of the day. Looks like it''s early afternoon now. Maybe the sleep has served me well, or maybe the rabbit has done me some good. I''m mildly surprised at the realization that I really haven''t thrown all of that up, even after falling asleep.

    I slowly try to lift myself up and find myself still unsteady, though not as much as yesterday. My leg is still steadily throbbing, but it can carry my weight, and it doesn''t seem to be bleeding. Which I suppose I should have expected, because if it were I¡¯d likely be dead.

    I guess this is supposed to feel like a fresh start, right? I let out a tired sigh. It feels more like a burden. Sure, I was all fired up yesterday, but that version of me doesn¡¯t have to drag through another day of just putting one foot in front of the other.

    Still, there''s not much I can change. I have to push on, so that''s exactly what I''ll do.

    The road and the forest around it somehow look different today. I can''t quite put my finger on it, but something has changed. The forest that I used to see as a beautiful and serene place for hiking has lost its luster. I''m not hiking, and the beauty does me no good, so just like when people talk about their grand plans that will never actually pan out, I tune it out. It''s as if a switch in my head has been flipped, and the way I used to see the forest is gone. I just don¡¯t have that luxury anymore.

    I step more purposefully now. Even if I¡¯m just as lost, just as hurt, just as bloody and naked as I was yesterday. I feel less like a wandering soul with no direction and more like someone who¡¯s in control of her own destiny.

    It''s nothing but a difference in perception, but it gives me the feeling I might actually succeed. Something I sorely need right now.

    It feels like my feet are nicer to me too, not feeling quite as tired as the days before. I¡¯ve been walking a lot, so maybe I¡¯m finally starting to develop some calluses? I mean, boots would be welcome, but they¡¯re nowhere in sight yet, so I¡¯ll take what I can get.

    I make more progress than I did yesterday. In half the time, I cover nearly twice the distance, confirming to me that my body really has recovered much more than I thought possible. Even so, I keep better track of my energy levels, and take breaks whenever I feel the need to. As I found out, rushing will only hurt me in the end.

    There''s a niggling voice in the back of my mind that tells me this second wind cannot last, but I see no reason to listen to it. After all, what''s the point of giving in now, even if it''s right?

    After traveling close to half a day, there is a change in the forest, and I come to a fork in the road. The road that I was following seems to combine with a different small road, and combine into a larger one. I''m coming from one of the forks. It doesn''t take a genius to figure out which way to go, and I resolutely turn onto the larger road. I''m not interested in going further back into the forest.

    It isn''t two hours later that that suspicion is proven correct. I nearly sob with relief as I hear something I''ve not heard in what seems to be an eternity. Human voices! Or rather, I correct myself, voices. At this point they could be elves, orcs, or anything humanoid and I''d be just as happy to see them. Just hearing the voices releases a tension that I didn''t realize I''d been holding, no matter what I told myself.

    I nearly stumble towards them, but reprimand myself. Even if I want them to be friendly, there is no guarantee they are. I cautiously proceed into the direction of the voices, which are coming from somewhere further down the road. The forest is thinning out, and finally I see some structures through the trees. They''re situated in a half circle 200 meters in diameter on the edge of the forest. The road leads through a small village set in the middle of that clearing into the hills visible beyond. On either side of the clearing that contains the buildings is a large expanse of freshly cut tree stumps.

    As I slowly approach, I step off the road and hide myself between the trees. I may want to meet other people, but not without getting some more information about their disposition first. For all I know they''ll attack me on sight.

    The buildings are made out of rough logs, cut and sawed only where necessary to fit with the others that are piled on top of each other. The angled roofs made out of layered wooden planks. I''m by no means an expert, but this doesn''t strike me as a place meant to last forever. At the very least it seems recently created, where recent is somewhere between now and ten years ago. The buildings do not have any of the weathering that I associate with very old wooden buildings.

    I slow to a stop at the edge of the clearing, and contemplate what that means. The way these houses are built doesn''t look like something I''d see in my own world, at least not unless someone deliberately built a whole village of rustic log houses without modern amenities.

    I slowly peek my head out of the tree line and into the clearing that holds the village, moments stretch and contract like the final beats of a heart as I finally behold what I''ve been looking for for one hellish week. Civilization. And not a tree between me and it! I silently pump my fist.

    The talking comes from three men about thirty meters into the circle of the clearing. No elves. I can''t stop myself from feeling some disappointment. They''re just humans like me, with odd clothes stained by the earth and hard labor. It becomes clear to me why the village is located in such a large clearing, as the men are in the process of felling a nearby tree. The surrounding stumps, and the large pile of logs lying nearer to the village, are a decent indication of the main occupation of this settlement.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    I guess they didn''t notice me because they are focused on their work. I take this chance to observe what they are doing. I try to understand what they are saying. They''re not speaking any language I can put a name to. I''m still trying to make out the words when one of their numbers'' eyes widen, and the man exclaims something and points in my direction, at which all three immediately turn around, axes raised.

    They pause, their work forgotten, axes and saws slack in their grip as they stare incredulously at the face peeking out of the leaves, and I suddenly realize what state of dress I¡¯m in. How much is visible? A muddle of emotions plays across their faces¡ªsurprise, confusion, fear, disgust. I may not exactly paint the prettiest picture right now.

    "Hey", I say. And try to raise my hand in greeting, but they flinch back at the gesture.

    They recover quickly, and their initial shock morphs into a collective defensive stance, one of them utters with what I can only imagine is a curse, though its meaning is lost on me. Then two of the bulky men start towards me raising their axes warily. The third runs back in the direction of the rest of the houses shouting something I do not understand either.

    I quickly raise my hands where they can see them, showing them I''m not armed. Should I step out entirely? Somehow that doesn¡¯t feel like it¡¯d make things better. I curse myself, then my luck. I should have expected this, but I did not even consider it.

    The men are running their mouths to one another, but I have no idea what they are saying. When have I ever read a story in which the protagonist didn''t magically understand the native language. Since I didn''t get jack shit when I arrived here, why would I expect to be able to understand anyone?

    I wonder how I can clarify my situation to these men before the situation spirals out of control. They''re undoubtedly wondering why a woman coated in blood and dirt suddenly shows up out of the wilderness. I can''t help but be slightly focused on the axes the men still warily raise in my direction. Even with the way I look, I¡¯d have expected a slightly different reaction to a naked woman.

    The spell is broken when one of the men picks up a large stone. I''m momentarily confused as to why he would do that, but then he shouts something ugly, and hurls it in my direction. My eyes widen, and track the the stone as it sails towards me. It doesn''t occur to me to dodge and I feel the wind as it narrowly whizzes past my left ear. His companion angrily shouts something, at him, or at me, I''m not sure. The anger is unmistakable though, so I involuntarily back away into the tree line from which I just partially emerged.

    I was expecting to find civilization here, of whatever kind. I didn''t necessarily expect people to be friendly, but I didn''t expect them to be actively hostile. I must look terrible, but I''m still clearly human, in distress. I can''t imagine why they''d respond by chasing me away.

    From the direction where the third guy vanished, a loud blast from a horn echoes through the air, and a bunch of other people comes charging toward me, axes waving and some of them brandishing what look like longbows. They¡¯re all shouting what I guess are threats. I can¡¯t make out the words, but it¡¯s definitely not anything friendly.

    In hindsight, I do remember a story like this. Some shapeshifting monsters would transform into children and try to infiltrate towns, which has the protagonist Eight suffer from nearly the same treatment I''m receiving now. It did feel a bit contrived then, to push him back into the wilderness, but I guess it wasn''t so far fetched.

    I take in the whole scene, my heart beating in my throat, the men running towards me, their axes ready, and the archers stringing their bows, before with a desperate, ragged sob, I turn and flee. The betrayal of my hope for salvation like a rock in my gut.

    Back into the embrace of the forest.

    My legs pump with a mix of adrenaline and panic, my mad dash immediately ripping open the wounds I''d so carefully kept closed today. The sound of my labored breathing and the thud of my heart my only companions other than the shouting from behind. I swerve between the trees, familiar after several days spent between them.

    I don''t dare look back. I''m not sure if the shouts are closer or not, but I just do not want to see them coming after me, their faces wild with anger and fear. The first look on the men''s faces is burned into my mind''s eye, and I can''t stand the idea of seeing it again.

    Before I know it, the sounds of shouting have faded in the distance. I''m not sure what to think of that. They seemed determined to chase, but then gave up almost as soon as they started?

    Now that the adrenaline starts to fade away, I can''t ignore the exhaustion and pain that are starting to overwhelm me. I sink to the ground panting, as I try to calm down. My leg is on fire again, fresh blood streaming out of the newly reopened wounds.

    The rest of my legs have been scratched and torn from all the brush I tore through, and my left foot has clearly stepped on something it shouldn¡¯t, because the sole feels bruised, if not torn. The lack of adrenaline makes a thousand little pains known.

    I swivel my head back and forth, scanning the forest, but no matter how I look or strain my ears, I can''t hear any sounds of pursuit any more. I stay there just like that for a few minutes, as I recover from my mad dash, and wait for the worst of the pain to abate.

    It''s strange to feel so safe in the absence of human sounds. The forest has returned to the same tranquility I''ve experienced over the past few days. The susurration of the breeze through the leaves, the cries of various hidden birds, only disturbed by my own panting.

    No matter how I think about it, I can''t think of a reason those men went berserk when they saw me. Part of me still wants to believe it''s some sort of mistake. Why would anyone immediately come at someone with an axe when they meet them the first time? I''m definitely a mess, but anyone that has survived days in the forest would I''d think. Of course there is the nudity, which would be bizarre, but not...

    To some extend that''s my fault of course. I could have spent some time trying to find a way to clean up before trying to make contact, but I was so excited to finally find humans it didn¡¯t even occur to me. It''d be hard to do without water though, and I don''t know of any place to get it that''s not at least two days travel away, if I could even find it.

    There might have been other ways? I try to think of ways I might have mitigated the dirt, blood and nakedness, but I''m drawing a blank. It''s so frustrating. I''m certain there are ways to make use of everything around me to do such a thing, but I just have no idea. A more skilled person would probably know how to find water in the first place, and wouldn''t have to resort to thinking of different methods.

    Regardless, it''s all out of my hands now. The villagers have seen me, and reacted violently. It doesn''t seem like it''ll be easy for me to communicate with them to clear up the misunderstanding either.

    Why can''t anything ever be easy!

    It makes me want to slam my fist into a tree in frustration. It makes me want to scream, cry, and wallow in despair. I have an intense need to kick things, but I can''t even do that, because my damned leg got hurt by some godforsaken animal, and because everything goes wrong, it got infected! Now I''m chased away by those who were supposed to be my saviors.

    If the world isn''t actually out to get me, it certainly does a good job of making it look like it.

    Inhaling deeply a few times amidst the tranquil forest, I instead release one long, profound sigh of frustration¡ªmy own simple acknowledgment that yes, things are hard, unbelievably hard.

    But I have to try, right? I can''t just give up here. Even if they were shocked into attacking me when they saw me, or they have another reason for attacking someone on sight, resolving those differences is still my best bet. This wouldn''t be the first time I work through a pointlessly unfair situation. My job had enough of those.

    Maybe I can find a woman this time? One that¡¯s not holding an axe?

 Return

    With trepidation, I slowly make my way back the way I came. Of course I''m not going back exactly where I came from, but still in the direction of the village. I don''t quite know how long my flight lasted, but I''m trying to be as careful as possible. At the very least, I''ve gotten better at not sounding like a steam train crashing through the forest, though my woodcraft is still sorely lacking. I''m hoping they''re not too invested in finding me, because I don''t think I could stay hidden from a true scout.

    But then, this seems to be a logging village, would they even have those? Maybe it''d be more like a hunter?

    Due to my attempt to maneuver to a different side of the village, I actually find myself at the edge of the forest, having apparently bypassed the village entirely. As I stand at the edge of the forest, I marvel at the landscape in front of my eyes. Gently rolling hills as far as the eye can see, sometimes interspersed with what I assume to be farms and herds of animals. To be fair, due to those same hills I cannot see very far, but I have no reason to believe the environment would change after the first set.

    Putting my wonder aside, I slowly follow the edge of the forest until I am back at the half circular indent that contains the village. I guess they must have built it at the edge and just kept logging from there. From the edge here to the village is a far sight longer than from the inside of the forest, as if they''re logging mostly along the edge. Forest to village must be only fifty meters or so, but the cleared area must spread at least half a kilometer on both sides. They''ve clearly been at it for a while.

    Not willing to give myself away, I have no choice but to follow the tree line to an area where the buildings are closer to the edge of the forest. Eventually I draw close enough to see.

    The village sprawls before me, a collection of wood shingle roofs and smoke curling peacefully from chimneys. The peaceful look stands in contrast to the beehive of activity that the village is now though. I see no less than three groups of sentries standing around the village, and that''s just in the area I can see. To be fair, they don''t seem to be actual soldiers, but burly men with axes might as well be as far as I''m concerned.

    At the same time, life goes on. I see children playing in the dirt, women carrying baskets, and citizenry having conversations with each other. I do note that this is all happening on the inner side of the village though. Nobody but the sentries venture beyond some imaginary line delineated by the outer buildings. It seems my sudden appearance has set the entire village on edge for some reason. It''s like they''re expecting to be invaded. The reaction is certainly out of proportion for a single woman.

    Or so I''d say. I don''t know much about this world. For all I know a single bloody woman showing up alone is often a precursor to being invaded by a whole swarm of them. I shrug. Not much I can do about what they''re thinking until I understand this world better.

    As I squat behind a particularly leafy bush, I see a group of sentries with strung bows making their way around the clearing. Every now and then, one of them points towards the forest. Or towards me, it certainly feels that way, but none of them make a move towards me, so I assume they haven''t detected me. The imagined threat it clearly everywhere though.

    No matter how I look at it, what these people fear isn''t me. It can''t possibly be. Unless I were an abomination from the depths of hell, I shouldn''t provoke such a reaction. Something about my appearance caused them to switch to high alert though.

    Or maybe not, for all I know this is their default state. I don''t think so though. The village is not very big, and they can''t have 50% of their citizenry devoted to defense at all times.

    I have the impulse to run over to the archers and beat some sense into them, to tell them that I''m not their enemy, that they''re being morons for even thinking that I could pose a threat to them, but of course I don''t do that. Aside from me dying before I even got to them, I can hardly convince them that way.

    It is frustrating, seeing how close I am, but I''ll have to wait until this beehive settles down a bit. Maybe they''ll calm down tonight?

    That still leaves me with the question of how I''ll communicate with them though. Maybe it''d be better if I tried talking to some of the people in the village instead of the loggers? If it''s dark, maybe I won''t look quite that intimidating? My eyes widen, as I realize that maybe there''s a well in the village that I can use to finally drink and clean myself! They must be getting their water from somewhere. I can achieve both objectives at the same time!

    I could fade into the forest until night, but I find myself observing the village longer than is perhaps wise. I can''t deny that I''m drawn to the normalcy represented by the villagers going about their daily business though. Would I already be part of that if I hadn''t messed up my earlier encounter?

    Of course, with the distance, I can''t actually hear what they''re saying, but my mind is perfectly willing to fill in what I imagine them to say.

    One man runs up to another, that''s doing something in front of what I presume to be his house, and gesticulates wildly.

    "No Jim, I have no idea where that snot nosed brat went. If you want someone else to keep track of your children, hire a caretaker!"

    "I don''t have the money for that! And I have 8 kids to keep track of!"

    "Then you won''t miss this one if he walks off into the forest and gets eaten by that evil woman will you?"

    The man that ran up throws up his hands and runs off into a different direction.

    I snicker. I''m 100% certain that was not what was being said, but it''s an amusing way to spend the time.

    Thinking about it a bit more, what I need is something equivalent to a white flag. Something that tells them that I mean no harm, or that I come in peace. But the chances of those kind of cultural symbols being the same here and there are pretty low.

    I shift once in a while to keep my position more comfortable, but the presence of the sentries makes me reluctant to do more. Eventually, dusk starts to fall though. The scent of cooking comes from some houses, noticeable even here several tens of meters away. My stomach protests loudly at this point, and my throat is parched too, but rushing in would be suicide. So I wait until night has completely fallen.

    At some point, when it gets too dark to easily see, the sentries pull out torches, and it becomes a lot easier to keep track of where they are without conscious effort. It seems like a kind of dumb idea to me to give away their locations like that, but maybe they have reasons? I''d be lying if I said I was using anything other than fantasy book knowledge to guide my strategic and tactical knowledge.

    The outline of the village is now less distinct. The outline from the houses the only thing visible. I never realized because I was always asleep at this time, but the night is dark. I glance upwards, wondering, but not really expecting to see any constellations I know , but to my great surprise it doesn''t take me any effort to spot the big dipper. Finding the polar star is just a few moments away after that.

    I wonder what this means for me?

    ''Is this not actually a different world?¡¯

    I bend over double as my mind utterly rejects that notion. The feeling many times stronger this time than it ever was before. What in the hells?! Why is that feeling so much stronger now, and why can''t I contemplate that this might not be a different world? With the sensation so much stronger now it''s easier to notice that it doesn''t seem to be mental as such, or at least, nothing that I relate to any thought I ever had.

    Instead, it instead comes from the hole that the glowing blue fruits filled.

    ''I suppose that at least explains why the feeling is so much stronger now.''

    Dismissing worries about that notion, I refocus on the village. With darkness fully fallen, lanterns and fires offer little pockets of light, and the shadows stretch as if trying to touch one another. The air grows colder, and I believe that this might be my chance.

    I can hear the distant murmur of voices in the direction I know the sentries are walking due to their torches. Their figures occasionally backlit as one of them passes in front of a torch another is holding. It''s hard to tell, but their vigil seems less intense now. Like they''re either getting tired, or feel like the danger is mostly past with the falling of the dark.

    With my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I start a careful approach. There''s not much between me and the first buildings, so the main thing I need to be careful of are the sentries that patrol around. I imagine myself a shadow, flitting from hiding spot to hiding spot, but it''s just that, imagination. Moving past the sentries with their torches, and staying a goodly distance away, is laughably easy. My biggest danger is all the loose growth and sticks that lie around, any of which could give me away. Though I''m not certain any of the sentries would even hear if I did.

    When I finally make it to the closest building, safely inside the circle of sentries, and in a location they do not appear to be paying attention to, I release a sigh of relief. As much as it was a cakewalk, it was still incredibly stressful. The penalty of failure might very well be death, and I''ve come too far for that.

    The next part might actually be more difficult. There''s a great deal more light in the village, though even that is relative. Most people seem to have just retired for the night, but a few people are still about. I see someone. A lone figure¡ªsmaller than the sentries, maybe a woman¡ª holding a bucket, and I track her movement with my gaze in the hope she can lead me to my target.

    She stops next to a small shadowy building, which I imagine is the well, though it''s a more solid building than I had expected. Carefully looking left and right, I creep after the woman. At least the earth is nicely packed here, and swept clean, so little risk of falling over a loose branch.

    In just a few moments I''ve made it to the building next to the one the woman went to, and I push myself into what appears to be a storage area next to it that has a bunch of stacked crates, sacks and barrels that will hide me from sight unless someone literally stumbles onto me.

    I peek out between the sacks and observe her. To my great pleasure, it does appear to be a well, and I watch as she wheels a bucket full of water up, and empties it out into her own. It''s hard to make out in the darkness, but what I''ve taken to be a woman would probably be more accurately be described as a girl barely into adulthood. She stands there looking at the bucket of water, muttering something, but then picks it up and makes her way back to where she came from.

    I feel a bit like a voyeur, observing her actions when she has no idea that I''m here, but I''m certainly not about to show myself. I¡¯m going to have to eventually if I want to talk to someone, but I¡¯d probably better get water first, just in case it goes wrong¡­ again.

    I realize one logistical difficulty with my plan. I had planned to take the bucket from the well, but the bucket in the well seems to be connected to the rope used to haul it, so I can''t take it away. I look after the girl, wondering if she''s going to use that bucket. But then notice that there¡¯s one sitting right next to some crates. It''s hard to see in the darkness, but I guess the owner of this place also thinks it''s convenient to have their bucket as close to the well as possible.

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    Now fully supplied, I carefully check that nobody else is around, and then quickly dash to the well. I''m trying to keep myself standing up straight to look as if I have nothing to hide, but I have no idea if I''m succeeding. I drop the bucket down the well, and as it reaches the bottom, quickly winch it upwards.

    It''s remarkable that they built a well this complicated here. You''d expect them to just use a nearby stream as a source of water. Maybe there''s nothing like that and that''s why I had so much difficulties finding water here? Where I come from you literally couldn''t walk a hundred meters without falling into some kind of ditch.

    When the bucket reaches me, I quickly glance around to see if anyone is coming, but the coast seems clear. I dump the bucket into my own, and, snatching it, dive back into the hiding spot next to the house. Water! I can''t believe I have a whole bucket full.

    First order of the day is to drink. I put the bucket to my mouth, and drink generous mouthfuls of water from it. Only a second later do I realize I should probably have checked if the water was potable first, but then, the well is probably there to provide drinking water.

    I debate what to do now. I really want to wash myself, but doing so in the village when I can be discovered any time feels like madness. Though I¡¯m sort of sheltered between these boxes, and it¡¯s the middle of the night, but still.

    I can hardly lug this bucket out of the village though. Carrying a bucket with several liters of water can hardly be called stealthy.

    I decide to settle for a midpoint, and quickly plunge my hands in the bucket, then rub off the worst of it. Forcibly dislodging all the accumulated grime and blood takes a lot longer than I would have liked, and the water is cold, but eventually I feel marginally clean again. Certainly I feel a lot better about my cleanliness.

    Dumping the rest of the water on the ground, I wonder how to proceed now. I''m shivering from the tension I''m in. My original intention was to find and talk to someone, but the more I think about that, the dumber it seems. The last time I tried they came after me with axes. Maybe I¡¯d better make my way out of the village before I¡¯m discovered.

    But I¡¯ve already come here. There¡¯s certainly food around here somewhere. Since they¡¯re never going to give it to me, maybe I can just take it? I try to shake that thought from my head, even as my stomach loudly proclaims the validity of the notion. There¡¯s still something holding me back though. Some notion of morals that I haven¡¯t completely left behind.

    I do a quick check to confirms that there still isn''t anybody around, before leaving my hiding spot. I give the houses around a slow once over. Being drawn to the possibility of food despite my vague feelings of unease.

    That momentary hesitation undoes me. A voice calls out in words I do not recognize and I freeze. It''s clearly aimed at me. I consider acting as if I haven''t heard it, but that feels foolish. I turn around in the direction I think it came from, and to my mild surprise, see the girl from earlier coming just around a building about 10 meters away, where she''s stopped in her tracks the moment she saw me.

    Not knowing what to do, but knowing she can see me, I raise my hand and wave at her. I''m not sure what I''m expecting, but I certainly can''t use words. That would give the game up immediately. I wonder what I was thinking when I thought I could communicate somehow, especially in the dark.

    Waving does seem to send a friendly vibe, as the girl eases up a little and moves closer. I suppose she¡¯s trying to figure out who I am, but honestly, that¡¯s the last thing I want right now.

    I can''t rightly say what her expression is, but when she''s only a few meters away she freezes again, and exclaims in a much louder voice, pointing at my... well, lack of clothing. Now that we''re this close I can see what she''s wearing herself, and it appears to be some kind of plain linen dress. Maybe a nightshirt? I don''t rightly know the difference, but it looks like a dress, or a tunic. I''d kill for something like that right now.

    That comes a bit to close to a dark place for comfort, but I realize that I probably would not kill for something like that right now. My gaze shifts to the girl, and I slowly take a step closer, lifting my hands in a gesture of peace. When I''m sure she can see it, I very elaborately shrug, and spread my hands, hoping it''s the most eloquent shrug I''ve ever shrugged in my life.

    Now that we''re this close, I can see her face, which is both young and old at the same time. She''s young, but weathered. And the confusion and skepticism are etched clearly on her face. She''s likely still trying to piece together whom among the villagers I might be, and what on earth I''m doing here naked.

    I notice a subtle twitch in her expression, and she inhales sharply. I take that to mean she recognized that I''m not from the village, and is undoubtedly the precursor to a shout. In a split-second decision, I lunge toward her. I have to knock her out before she can shout. My fist clenches, ready to strike her face, but when I see her eyes widen in terror, I jerk to a halt mid step.

    That gives her the chance she needs, and she stumbles back as I stare at my balled fist in surprise. What exactly was I planning to do to the poor girl? I don''t have time to ponder that, since the scream that I was anticipating finally comes. She drops the bucket she was still holding, and scrambles away from me, her shouts filling the night air over the village.

    I''m still wondering if I should berate myself for trying to hit her in the first place, or for not following through on it. This somehow feels like the worst of both worlds. But I chase after her. The damage is probably already done, but perhaps I can limit it.

    I manage to grab her sleeve, and she spins around, still staring at me in terror. I''m mildly upset by this, it''s not like I''ve yet done anything to deserve it. I try to pull her back with the sleeve I''ve grabbed, but the cloth is clearly not very well made, because the whole thing tears off at the shoulder as she tries to lunge away again.

    For a moment, it seemed like nobody noticed her screams, but then pandemonium breaks loose. Doors open all around, and heads poke out to see what is going on. More than half of them are holding some form of weapon. It''s clear they were prepared for some form of trouble. This is very much my cue to take my leave, and I rush off with the remains of the girl''s sleeve flapping in my hands.

    The darkness is still helpful, as nobody thinks someone running away from a set of screams is very surprising. I assume that they just don''t notice my state in all the excitement, and I make it to the edge of the village fairly easily. Where I have to dive under the side of a house, and wait for a group of the sentries to pass me by. Luckily their presence is still announced by the torches they carry, otherwise I''d have never noticed them on time.

    I rush across the field of felled trees, and I''m nearly to the trees when I hear a shout behind me. Curses! I was almost there! Well, I shouldn''t have expected to get away so easily I suppose, though it would have been far preferable.

    I dive into the underbrush as my heart hammers in my chest. Every step feels like I''m tearing through any hope I had of a peaceful resolution. All it took was one scream, and everything went to hell. At least I got to wash myself before the stupid calf returned.

    Was I ever going to resolve things with these people? They scream the moment they see me, and the whole village seemed prepared to attack a defenseless woman on sight.

    Branches snag against my skin, as I bolt through the forest. The warm night air is a sharp contrast to the chill terror coursing through my veins. Harsh shouts bounce off the trees, chasing me, as whoever is behind me gives chase.

    Then a eerie whistling sound passes me by, and I wonder what this is. If it''s caused by the villagers I want no part of it though, so I cut through the underbrush, trying to put as many trees as possible between my pursuers and myself.

    Out of nowhere, a hellish pain tears through my upper arm, and the shock makes me trip, rolling across the forest floor in a heap. As I scramble to get to my feet, I look at the offending limb, and find the half meter shaft of an arrow pierced clean through my arm.

    My eyes grow as wide as saucers, as I struggle to make sense of the fact that someone is shooting arrows at me. Another eerie whistling sound brings me back to reality though, and I tear off into the trees. I can''t sit still now. Maybe they''ll get tired of chasing me again like last time? Part of me knows that''s a futile hope though.

    Determination propels me forwards, away from the hail of arrows and the disillusionment. Blood cascades down my arm, but I can''t do anything about that yet. My breaths come short and ragged, my legs, and every fiber in my body screams for respite, but I can''t afford to give in just yet. An arrow that thwacks into the ground right in front of me is incredible motivation to keep going.

    Against my expectations, the blessed moment when the shouts fade actually comes, but I do not give up my running this time. They may have just switched to more stealthy tactics, and with them quite literally trying to kill me, I can''t afford to relax. However, I know deep in my bones that I can''t keep going like this much longer. The pain in my arm is overwhelming, but I can also feel blood pouring down my leg again, the wound having again re-opened.

    Running like this took what little power I had left, and soon I''ll be back on the ground, slowly dying from hunger and thirst.

    Something about this feels supremely messed up. Why are the people I try to see very hard as my saviors trying to kill me? Is it me that has the wrong perspective? Should I think of these people as animals, or as enemies to be eliminated too?

    Eventually I slow to a limping walk. If they were sneaking after me I doubt they could have kept up. But even if so I can''t go on. My wounded arm hangs uselessly at my side, which seems to minimize the pain. My thigh is a mass of fire, and the leg attached to it drags more than it walks.

    Somewhere during the flight, I decide that I can''t afford to keep seeing these people as anything but enemies. The arrow that''s still lodged through my arm is a relentless, vivid reminder. I should absolutely have slugged the girl in the face, regardless of whether it would have helped or not. She might not be personally to blame, but I categorically refuse to let myself be killed because I chose to be the better person.

    Justifying violence to myself like that feels slightly vulgar somehow, but it''s hardly me that started it.

    Perhaps in time there will be a way to bridge the gap in understanding. I might learn the language, I might find a different village, more reasonable people. But that''s all in the future. I find myself unreasonably pissed off at this whole village. They look like illiterate peasants, and they act like the dumb fucks too. Seriously, whose first reaction to a damsel in distress appearing from the woods is to raise their fucking axe high?!

    Wincing against the biting pain, I lean back against the rough bark of a tree. It''s time to take care of something I really do not want to. I steel myself, and rip the cloth I''m still holding in half. It sends a shock of pain through my arm that nearly makes me pass out. It makes for a half convincing bandage now though.

    I take several shallow breaths, and mentally walk through the steps to remove an arrow. I think I''ve read this in countless books, because the procedure is immediately obvious to me. I envision the steps like an algorithm that I must execute correctly, or face even worse complications.

    With my left hand firmly gripping the end of the shaft, I remind myself that pain is naught but a sensation. Something that is there, but will ultimately pass.

    ''Fear is the mind killer...''

    I snap the end of the wooden arrow against the tree, staunching the urge to scream by burying my teeth into my bottom lip. The broken end falls away, but the shaft and head still remain embedded in my muscle. The small, barbed head having pierced through the flesh entirely. Guess, that means I don¡¯t have to wonder what direction to extract it in.

    The forest is eerily silent, as if all the trees and creatures are holding their breath, seeing me execute a primitive rite of survival. The quiet only amplifies the drumming of my heartbeat in my ears. The fear that this could be it, that pulling this arrow out will see me lose so much blood that I''ll drop, or that it will get infected yet again. Maybe the arrow was poisoned! So many things flit through my head. And by some miracle I was only hit with a single arrow. It feels like they loosed upwards of 50 arrows on me.

    The litany against fear pops up in my head again. The thing is really persistent. But the anger works for me better in this case. I''ll fucking show them.

    Using my intact hand, I probe around the exit wound, gauging the angle of incursion. The thought of pulling the rest of the shaft all the way through my flesh is overwhelming, but leaving it in is not an option. Without giving myself any chance to think about it too much, I wrap my fingers around the head, and yank it out with calculated force.

    An involuntary cry escapes through my clenched teeth. The arrow, slick with my blood, emerges with a sickening sound, and the pain is so all-encompassing that I can barely begin to imagine where it begins and ends.

    As I writhe in pain, I realize that all the books I''ve read have ill prepared me for the actual sensations that my favorite characters must have felt. It''s one thing to read that an arrow is pulled out, but nothing could have prepared me for the sensation. It occurs to me that even if the writer had experience with the sensation, there is just no way to properly put it into words.

    I frantically wrap the improvised bandage I created earlier around the resulting wound. Complicated by the fact that one arm is essentially useless. I don''t know what I would have done if I hadn''t brought along the girls'' sleeve by accident. The cloth is quickly soaked, but it somehow still manages to hold back most of the bleeding. Or it feels like it does. Can¡¯t see shit in the dark. Am I still leaking blood?

    I need more. With the near certainty of imminent death hanging over me, I remember something I should have long ago. A section from a wilderness survival guide skimmed over in past time, when application of such knowledge seemed like an amusing fantasy at most. Moss. Some types of moss can act as an antiseptic, a rudimentary bandage, and this forest just happens to be full of it.

    My eyes flick around, and as expected, I find a patch of the spongy plant growing at the base of a nearby tree. Awkwardly, with a single arm, I gather handfuls of moss, and after partially cleaning it with shaky fingers, I press it to the wound before re-wrapping my makeshift bandage tightly around it.

    I lean back against the tree that was my companion in all this, basking in the eerie darkness of the forest that now seems less foreboding, and more like a long-lost guardian against my enemies. The sharp tang of my own blood mixes with the more earthly scents of the forest, and fatigue wraps around me like a cloak.

 Never mind

    The morning light filters through my eyelids. And I do my best to stay in dreamland just a bit longer. I don''t remember exactly what I was dreaming about, but it was nice. It doesn''t quite work though, and reluctantly, I coax my eyes open.

    My arm feels like a wet noodle, when I try to lift it, nothing happens, but some variety of pain shoots through it. At least I didn''t bleed to death. The improvised bandage from yesterday seems to have somehow held the blood in my body. I''m starting to wonder if there is something about this world that makes people more resilient. I feel like I''d have died about three times over if this were my own world, just the blood loss... With effort, I push that happy thought, and the sensation of my useless arm to the back of my mind, and do an inventory on the state of the rest of my body.

    My stomach seems to have given up on signaling me that it''s empty, only nudging me with a loud growl once in a while, but that''s honestly more worrying. It''s been nearly a week and the only solid things I''ve eaten have been raw rabbit and four glowing fruits that did nothing for my hunger. Surprisingly, I''m not feeling very thirsty due to having drank nearly half a bucket of water yesterday before I was interrupted. My leg... Well, it''s still there, and it''s not as bad as my arm, considering it still moves, but I think that''s all the good there is to say about it. Yesterdays exertions have not been kind to it.

    It doesn''t feel like the fever inducing infection from earlier, and it''s not bleeding right now¡ªthough I note that my leg is again crusted in red from yesterday''s mess. It''s just that it feels like there''s this deep-down wrongness, like it''s never going to get better again. On the outside, it looks like my thigh''s all torn up with these deep gouges, but it''s like every move I make with it is just sloshing the infection around or something, and now it''s spreading through my whole thigh.

    Mentally. Well, it looks like I''m mostly exhausted, and pissed off. I''m really, really through with playing nice. One thing that keeps going through my mind is how much easier things would have been if I''d just been able to knock the girl out yesterday. Yes, I would still have had to leave, but I would probably have been able to leave on my own terms. My civility, the proper way of behaving that has been ingrained in my mind for so long, does not serve me well here. It''s not like I enjoy the idea of knocking people on the head, but I need to start thinking about what I need more than the people I''ve never met in that village. I simply can''t afford to be sympathetic.

    I sit up, wincing as my stiff muscles protest. My damaged arm making the process a lot harder than I''m used to, but I manage. The world is still waiting to fully rouse from it''s slumber.

    Somehow, I''ve ended up way closer to the village than I thought I would based on my flight last night. I thought I was going into the forest, but it seems I''ve basically made a big loop around, and am now nearly back at the outer edge of the forest, I can see the village through some half a kilometer of deforested space. Talk about going full circle in a way I didn''t intend. Yet, it''s kind of ironic and lucky at the same time, since it seems this accidental detour has kept me under the radar from the villagers who were out looking for me last night. The movement unfortunately seems to remind my stomach of the fact it''s empty. At first, it was just a gentle nudge, but now it''s more like an insistent, gnawing pain that won''t let up, demanding I pay attention.

    I can''t let this go on. Another such flight and I''ll be dead. I need to get my body in better condition, and the things I need are sustenance, and medicine.

    I glance at the village in the distance, still deserted at this hour of the morning. It feels extremely foolhardy, but I should probably just do what I told myself I wouldn''t just a few hours earlier. I¡¯ll just go back there and take it all. I glance at my shoulder. They¡¯ve made very clear that they¡¯re my enemies.

    If I hold off until nightfall for cover, who knows how much worse off I''ll be. I don''t think I''ll die just yet, but... I can''t ignore that I''m getting weaker, bit by bit.

    I chuckle weakly, and barely stop it from turning into a hysterial laugh. I¡¯m getting weaker, that¡¯s a good one. My arm is literally useless, held together with moss and ripped cloth. I¡¯m covered in blood again, and I¡¯m¡­

    I stare at the village, watching the buildings softly light up as the sun creeps up the horizon. The chimneys are devoid of smoke, a sign of the warmer weather. With the sun climbing its way up the sky, villagers will soon be stirring, emerging to continue whatever daily rituals occupy a people so unlike my own.

    Every thread of common sense woven into my being informs me that the logical choice would be to wait, to let darkness be my ally once again. But a spark of reckless determination flares up, something that just wants to get back at the unfairness of this world, burning bright even as common sense tries to snuff it out.

    Drawing a deep breath, I decide. I lost my chance to wait when I got shot yesterday. I need to move now.

    Under the light of dawn''s touch, I stealthily creep towards the village once again. It''s odd to be retracing the same steps I took last night, but at least I have some idea of where I''m going.

    My useless arm gets in the way more often than not, but if I do anything but let it hang, pain shoots through it. My leg works, but every step reminds me it is there.

    Arriving back at my previous departure point, I have a look at the current state of the village.

    Where last night I saw what appeared to be determined faces, now I see a bunch of farmers at the end of their rope. Well, loggers I suppose. It''s just that none of them strike me as professional soldiers. The strain of staying up all night guarding against further incursions is clear on their faces, in the way they''re stopped striding around, and stare with bleary eyes out at the forest. One man has clearly nodded off right on his feet, and his companions are too strained, to too tired themselves to say anything of it.

    I am lucky, and in their exhaustion, their positioning is less than perfect. There is a path with a bunch of convenient bushes that will hide me while I pass through their cordon. Assuming I manage without making too much noise, but I''m wondering if they''d even notice at this point.

    A short few minutes later, I find myself amongst the houses once again. The guards haven''t moved an inch. I debate what to do now. I need supplies, but where am I most likely to find those? I don''t have anything but the buildings to go on, so I follow my intuition, and move back to the house whose owner had so graciously provided me with a bucket outside last night.

    I stand in front of the door, and glance around the village. Being out here in the open makes me feel pretty exposed, yet I can''t deny there''s a thrill to it ¡ª must be the danger, I guess. Regardless, I have to hurry, soon everyone will be waking up, and I need to be long gone by then. I move to the front door, and find that it doesn''t have so much as a lock. Nobody here seems to be worried about people stealing their stuff it seems. Their loss. I open the door as silently as possible, and slip inside.

    The soft clack of the wooden door closing behind me hammers through the silence of the early morning. The cottage is shadowed inside, the early dawn light through the two small windows at the back not enough to completely illuminate it. The room I stand in is what I assume to be their living room, a simple table is the centerpiece, surrounded by four logs that I imagine serve as chairs. Along the sides of the room are shelves and chests. I half expect the space to erupt with the yells of startled villagers, but silence wraps around me, accented only the lazy dance of dust motes in the morning rays.

    As my eyes grow used to the dim light, more details resolve themselves. A hearth, cold and unused, sits in the corner, surrounded by implements of cooking. The shelves are filled with a variety of earthenware and other objects that make my heart beat faster at the idea of the food they might contain. Two doors lead out of the main room on either side of the building.

    I move around the room silently, my feet moving across the dirt floor with caution, aiming for the shelves next to the hearth. I inch towards it, yet, despite all my caution, I overlook a small wooden toy and knock it over with my foot. It skids across the floor with a small but distinct clatter, and my heart catapults itself into my throat. I freeze, hoping against hope that nobody has heard it, standing frozen for several long seconds. Yet there is nothing. No cry of alarm, no stirring elsewhere in the building. Everyone remains blissfully unaware of my presence ¡ª for the moment.

    I refocus on the shelf, and explore it''s contents. It''s a bit hard going with only a single usable arm, but I make do. I am initially disappointed, the shelves themselves seem to hold nothing but earthenware and implements. At nice as a poker would be, if I''d had a house, it''s not what I need right now. I search through the surroundings, and eventually open the large chest on the floor, and it''s contents bring tears to my eyes. A variety of pots and smaller boxes contain a variety of foodstuffs. It''s a strange experience to be brought to tears by a potato. There''s dried meat too, and bread. Even a piece of cheese that makes my mouth water.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    I can''t hold myself back, and I immediately grab a large loaf and bite a chunk off. It''s hard, and kind of old, but it''s filling. As I munch it, I try to find some way of carrying this around. I put the rest of the loaf on the table, and go back to the shelf I explored earlier to gather a large piece of cloth, that can be tied into a makeshift pack. A similar, but smaller bundle lies on the table. Maybe lunch for the inhabitants as they go off to cut trees?

    I leave the pack on the table alone, and instead fill my own with a variety of foods. I''m tempted to take all of it, but some misplaced feeling of decency tells me that would be rude. I can''t help but glance at the toy that I stumbled over, there''s at least one child in the house too. Anyhow, it would never fit, so I don''t have to worry about it, and I just bring as much as I can reasonably fit in the pack.

    That done, I scan the room for signs of water. Even though the house is right next to the well, I can''t imagine they want to walk outside every time they need a drink, or drink from a bucket for that matter. On the other side of the hearth, I notice a row of clay vessels, some capped with cloth and twine. I silently take the few steps to get there, and inspect the pots.

    The tiny cup next to the bigger ones catches my eye, and when I take the cover off, I''m instantly delighted. Honey! My first urge is to devour it right then and there, but I manage to hold back. I carefully replace the cloth and stash it in my pack. I feel slightly more guilty about this since they seem to have so little, but not enough to deprive myself.

    Then I investigate the bigger pots. The first contains something I do not recognize, but the second, and larger pot that I pick up contains what I''m looking for. I debate taking the whole thing, since it''s quite big, but ultimately put it back, and take one of the smaller empty pots to pour some water in. Which I do very carefully given that I can barely keep the larger pot from dropping with a single hand.

    Before I put the pot back, I can''t resist taking a deep drink. I drank just yesterday, so I''m not in immediate need, but I''m thirsty, and it''s nice to have the ability to drink when you are. As I cover my small pot with the cloth, and secure it snugly with twine. I survey the hovel. As I do so, I''m suddenly struck by a strong feeling of melancholy. As simple as it is, I think I could live here. I truly wish I could come here as a friend, instead of as a thief, but this world has stolen that option from me.

    The moment passes soon, and an equally strong feeling of triumph washes over me as I consider my gains. The contents of the small sack represent nearly a week of sustenance. The pot does not contain nearly the same amount of water, but I''ll be able to carry water with me, however little it is. It¡¯s not just bread and water I''ve found here, but a drop of hope in an otherwise barren cup.

    With my immediate needs satisfied, I scan the room once more. I''m not going to come back here if I can help it, so if I am going to take something, I should do it now.

    In a corner I had previously missed, tucked next to a tall cabinet and the earthen wall, a stack of fabrics catch my eye. As I inspect them, I find a simple homespun dress and a tattered shirt. Simple, but tough garments likely meant for labor. I want to immediately drape them over myself, but find a challenge in my arm. I can move it, but I don''t know what kind of damage that does on the inside, so I rather feel like I shouldn''t. Ultimately I don''t see how I can bring it along if I do not wear it though. I have only a single working arm, and it will be occupied with the sack.

    I decide to chance it, and with a mighty effort of will, that''s more related to not crying out in pain than the act of movement, I slip into the clothes, the coarse material grating against my skin.

    After the unfortunate exertion my arm feels like hell, but it was totally worth it.

    The clothes are ill-fitting, the shirt is slightly too wide ¡ªmost likely made for a man¡ª and the dress hangs loose in some places, tight in others, evidence of the body it was meant for¡ªa body not mine. But they providing a semblance of warmth and concealment. Of civilization.

    The feeling of taking someone''s clothes, likely the very clothes they wore just yesterday, feels like a gross invasion of privacy, but then that is what it is. I shouldn''t call it anything else to make myself feel more comfortable.

    The early morning quiet cradles the village still, but I''m acutely aware that the owners of this hovel might return or awaken at any moment. I ponder, for a brief breath, where they might be. Likely in one of the adjoining rooms, just meters separated from the stranger in their house. Creeping towards the door on the left, I press my ear against the rough wood, and listen. The soft sounds of sleep reach my ears¡ªa family, oblivious to my presence. I''m almost tempted to open the door to see who I''m robbing from, but ultimately I decide not to. I don''t think anything good will come of it for either me or them.

    I prepare to leave, but am left wondering what is in the last room of the house, if the bedroom is on one side, what is on the other? I make my way over to the last door, and softly open it. The room fairly small, just a few square meters and is completely dark, no windows at all. The only illumination comes from the light that comes in through the doorway. In the shadows I see a variety of shelving and bins, which contain all manner of things. In the corner I see the glint of metal, and as I take a step closer, I notice that it''s an axe, and right next to it, a large saw. This must be where they are keeping their main stores. It never really occurred to me that the selection in the kitchen might not be their full supply, but in hindsight it makes sense. They don''t exactly have a supermarket close by, so they likely need to keep a lot more in storage.

    As much as I want to search the entire room, I have already overstayed my welcome. Any longer and I''ll be unable to get away before everyone wakes up. I close the door to the storage room, and turn to the outer door.

    As I turn to leave, my gaze catches on a small leather pouch resting atop the table. Even in the dim light, I can see the weight of it, and when I lift it, I hear the dull clink of coins within. I think about it for a moment, but then replace it on the table. It wouldn''t do anything for me, and while stealing supplies feels like fair game, stealing their money would be a step too far. At least, I think. I can''t really figure out my own morality right now.

    With a final glance at the door behind which lie the slumbering figures, I re-open the outer door, and carefully check to see if anyone is around. When no unwanted visitors appear, I slip out of the house. A whole bundle of food richer, and finally somewhat clothed. With clothes around my body it''s become a lot more apparent that I''m not wearing any footwear, but it''s still a massive improvement.

    I step back out into a waking village, it is clear to me that my chances of remaining undiscovered this time are rapidly dwindling.

    I''m temporarily reminded of my own mornings back home. Waking up to the screaming of an alarm clock after staying up way too late at night, telling me to get my ass moving if I don''t want to be late for work. I can''t help but feel that waking up to the light is a far superior experience. Of course, they might not have coffee either, so I guess it balances out.

    Once again, I''m out in the open, facing the challenge of sneaking through the village. I can''t help but notice how my body''s holding up. My wounded arm protests every movement, the bandage stiff with dried blood and sap. My infected leg throbs and complains with every movement. The villagers¡¯ certain hostility should I be discovered is powerful motivation though.

    My bare feet are silent on the dirt. I have tied the bundle and thrown it over my back. It digs into my neck, but this way it doesn''t get in my way. The dress is too big, and nearly drags through the dirt with every step.

    Occasionally I see, or hear someone walk somewhere in the village, but none have so far noticed me, or paid any attention if they did.

    I''m near the edge of the village now, almost back amongst the safety of my shrubberies. The wild beyond that offers both peril and the promise of refuge. The sentries are still equally tired, but the persistent light seems to rouse them a bit. Or maybe they just feel more confident in the light.

    My mind tries to figure out a strategy to bypass the sentries again. The old route is no good, as several of them have meanwhile re-positioned. I could try to hide somewhere in the village, waiting for a better opportunity, but my wounds argue against the viability of that plan. I have zero hope of escape should I be discovered inside the village.

    At that moment, a child, no older than six, suddenly rounds the corner ahead, chasing an errant chicken with the determination only a child can muster. In any other situation I''d find the situation adorable, but now I try to press back against the nearest building, hiding behind what little obstacles are between me and the child. My heart pounds in my chest, thundering against my rib cage.

    Eventually the child runs off, having somehow actually retrieved the chicken, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

    As I glance again toward the wild that calls to me, the array of plants and herbs hanging outside the next dwelling snags my attention. The lure of finding something that might stave off infection or pain is a strong one. I can almost feel the stiffness in my wounds relenting at the mere thought of a remedy. But even if I were to go inside, I''m certain I would not be able to find anything that could help me. With no way to tell anything apart, I could as easily take a poison pill as a healing salve.

    With my own mind warning me away, I instead make an attempt at getting away through the net cast by the sentries. I''ve gotten through so many times now that I''m starting to wonder if it''s even possible to be found.

    Of course, having that thought trips a flag, and from behind me, I hear one of the sentries say something. He squints his eyes in my general direction. He''s about 30 meters away, but I''m hidden behind a low thorn bush. I''m not sure whether he actually spotted me, or something else, but it sure looks like it. I freeze, staying low and silent instead of bolting this time. He tentatively takes a few steps in my direction, but then blinks, rubs his eyes, and turns back to his companion while shaking his head. He says something, but I have no idea of the meaning. He sounds relieved though.

    OMG, natural 20 on stealth bitches!

    I quickly move on, and make my way into the forest without any further excitement.

 Recovery

    It''s a good thing, too, because the moment the adrenaline from sneaking into the village wears off, I nearly collapse. I don''t think it''s the wounds this time; I just used up all my emotional strength. With imminent death averted thanks to my supplies, my body suddenly feels it''s okay to give in to the urge to lie down.

    I can''t help but smirk. So much for a quiet life¡ªI¡¯ve gone and become an honest-to-God thief. It¡¯s shouldn''t be something I''m proud of, but somehow, I am. I managed to slip into the village undetected not just once, but twice. And I even looted one of the houses without anyone noticing. If there¡¯s anything significant I¡¯ve done since coming here, this is it.

    I''m not sure if it''s my own capability or just their incompetence that makes the difference. I wouldn''t normally think of myself as naturally sneaky, but maybe it¡¯s a hidden talent. Perhaps it''s even something I gained from my reincarnation or teleportation, even though there was no indication of it.

    Sure enough, just when I''m feeling so impressive, I step on a pile of twigs that snap with a sharp crack. I mutter a curse under my breath¡ªtwo flags in just thirty minutes. I really need to watch my thoughts.

    It''s intriguing that I don''t feel guilty about it at all. If our roles were reversed, I''d expect them to steal from me as well.

    Very few people are so principled that they''d choose to starve rather than steal. While I find it admirable, it''s also bloody stupid. I suspect that natural selection''s the reason there''s so few of them around.

    I walk through the forest in silence, wondering what to do now. I am supplied for a few days, and I have a good idea of how to get out of the forest now. I also know that more people live outside the forest, if the farms I saw were any indication.

    Now that I think of it, the whole thing just screams rural England to me. Or however I imagine it would look if you went 500 years back in time. The village too, and my clothes! I pluck at the rough fabric stitched together with coarse thread. It''s kind of cool in a way, I did always love the idea of traveling backwards in time, and while not quite the same thing, it''s similar enough that I can enjoy it.

    Enjoy it? I stop at that ridiculous thought. Am I actually enjoying myself? When did things shift? It''s strange how not worrying constantly about food and not questioning if civilization exists on this planet has changed my mindset. In a corner of my mind, I feel like I can always go back and take more if I need to. I know where to find it, and there are people around. They might be aggressively hostile, but surely that can''t be true of everyone.

    Flag! Goddammit!

    Anyway, I see a possible path to survival. Even though it might mean becoming a thief, simply knowing that the option exists makes all the difference.

    I''m about an hour out from the village, having just traveled more or less in a parallel direction to the end of the forest, when I find a rocky outcrop.

    I clamber over the rocks, mildly surprised to find that the irregular edges of the stone feel muted to my bare feet. Come to think of it, I didn¡¯t really notice anything when crashing through the forest earlier either. Did I get better at placing my feet, or did my feet get better at not giving a shit? Either way, it¡¯s entirely welcome, and I don¡¯t spend much more time thinking of it.

    I''m filled with curiosity about this unexpected rocky patch. Why, in the midst of all this forest, is there suddenly a ledge of rock? Just a moment later, that ledge turns into a rocky slope. And right beneath me, I spot a cave.

    The opening yawns wide, kinda like a mouth. Is it a creature''s lair or is it safe to use as a refuge? I really like the idea of not having to build more shelters.

    Cautiously, I navigate my way down the slope, skirting around it until I find myself in front of the cave entrance. It¡¯s immediately clear that there¡¯s not much to it. The cave is only a few meters deep, and thankfully deserted. I slip inside, and sit down on a ledge that kind of looks like a couch. If you squint. I exhale shakily, finally letting the exhaustion wash over me.

    I rest my back against the cool rock, and before I even realize it, I''m fast asleep.

    I awake several hours later to find the sun high in the sky. A gentle breeze carries the subtle scents of the surrounding forest. My physical state remains unchanged. Even if I''m a bit stiff from sleeping on the rocks, I feel significantly more ready to face the world.

    The sound of dripping water catches my attention and I look towards the back of the cave, where it seems to be coming from. I really hope it''s not just my imagination. And indeed, at the cave''s rear, I find a dark, wet patch on the ceiling, dripping down and splashing into a small pool below.

    I touch the patch with a finger and bring it to my lips. It tastes clean, which doesn''t necessarily mean it''s safe, but it''s incredibly convenient nonetheless. If I run out of water¡ªand eventually, I will¡ªI can refill my pot right here!

    Seeing the water, I suddenly feel the need to drink. I put the bundle with food in a dry spot, then take a few sips from my pot. I doubt it hold more than half a liter, and I need to ration it. I debate putting it under the drip right away. It''s coming from the ceiling, probably through some crack in the ground, so it should be relatively safe.

    Ultimately, I decide against it. While it¡¯s definitely tempting, I don''t want to risk contaminating my water supply until it''s absolutely necessary.

    What I do very much want to do, is break my fast. And I carefully unpack the bundle with all the foodstuffs. I make myself a hearty little meal, and for the first time since I came to this world. Enjoy breakfast.

    Well, probably lunch. You get what I mean.

    I know it should be the most basic of basic food, but it tastes like nothing I''ve ever eaten. Like an angel pissing on your tongue, or something like that. Except it''s pissing dried meat.

    After consideration, I think that saying only applies to drinks.

    Anyhow, it''s good. After eating just a little bit my stomach feels like it''s completely stuffed, and I decide that I''m better off waiting than forcing it now. I pack everything up again and place it on a ledge at the back of the cavern, hoping the animals won''t be able to reach it.

    What is next for me?

    Even after finally eating, the exertions of last night and morning leave me feeling faint. I''ve slept half the day away, but I''ve been active nearly the whole night before.

    As much as I want to go to sleep again now though, I''m going to need to prepare something more permanent to sleep on. That sofa ledge might be better than nothing, but I don''t want to sleep on the bare rocks every night.

    Unlike the triangular shelters, I do not have to concern myself with a roof, but I can''t lie down on a bed of convenient moss either. It''s probably time to construct that frame I''d been thinking about a long while back when I was just constructing my first shelter.

    Or was that the second shelter? It feels like it happened ages ago now. The memory of waking up in a puddle of animal urine makes me wince for a moment. I doubt I''ll ever live that down.

    I''m sure I could just put the moss directly on the rocks, but something tells me that would not work nearly as well. First the frame, then the moss. Something about using air for isolation.

    I make my way out of the cave, and look around right in front of the cave''s mouth. There''s a small field that''s more rock than dirt around the entrance, but further out the rock sinks under the forest floor again.

    Looking up at the ledge in which the cave sits, I whistle slowly. It''s a lot higher than I remembered. What seemed barely two meters yesterday is a good five meters up. Not a distance you want to fall down.

    I quickly survey the surroundings, but find nothing out of the ordinary anywhere around the cave. There''s no flint here either, there''s plenty of sharp rocks that I could use for a variety of purposes. Maybe I can construct a new spear with a stone blade?

    I take a moment to wonder where I left my pointy stick, but then I shake my head, realizing it doesn''t really matter. Still, I feel a bit sad about losing it, and I can''t help myself from looking through the forest for a new viable stick.

    It takes me a little while, this time my main concern is that I can actually lodge a rock at the pointy end, but I eventually find something that should work.

    I then spend even more time searching for a piece of rock that I can fit into the end. I need it to be sharp, but I also must ensure it can be hammered into the base.

    I wonder how to firmly attach the spearhead to the base, but the answer is in my stolen shirt, and I slowly unpeel some threads from the shirt. Even if it falls apart I still have the dress.

    The threads are coarse between my fingers, but in this case that is exactly what I want. I pull off enough that I think I can wrap it roughly around the edge a few times. I scrape my chosen rock against the ground a bit to try to take the edges off where I''m going to wrap it, then try for a little lip so that the rope has a good place to get stuck.

    All in all, it took me longer than I''d like to admit, but my new spear is finally finished. With a stone head, it genuinely looks like a real spear, especially when compared to my previous weapon that seemed more like a child''s toy by comparison.

    I haven''t lost sight of my main goal, so once I complete my spear, I lean it against the wall of the cavern, and head straight back into the forest to gather plenty of fresh branches and moss. It takes me several trips, but I finally manage to put together a decent bed.

    It''s lifted off the rocky ground thanks to a crisscross of branches underneath it. I suspect it will eventually shift if there isn''t a rope to secure it, but the moss does a commendable job of holding everything steady for now.

    I''m really starting to appreciate just how versatile this stuff is.

    Thinking about versatile moss makes me eye my shoulder, which still has a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around a clump of the moss. Seriously, I hope the antiseptic stuff actually works, because this looks way nastier than my leg.

    Better give it a lot of time to recover.

    Now that the bed is done, I''m feeling thirsty, and walk back to the pot for another drink of water. It''s strange that I can now drink so casually when I was struggling so much before.

    A sudden recollection of the rabbit¡¯s blood trickling down my throat makes me shiver for a moment. Though to be honest, it was mostly the act of drinking the blood that was repulsive. The taste was unpleasant, but it wasn¡¯t entirely unbearable. Or maybe that''s only in hindsight, it''s strange how memories work.

    Then I go to my bed, test it out, and lie down. I''m sure it''s still somewhere in the afternoon, but I sorely need more sleep. I glance towards the wide open entrance to the cave. Guess I just have to hope nothing comes for me here.

    Come to think of it, it''s kind of strange that there''s no signs of any animals using this cave as a lair. You''d think this is the perfect place for them to make a lair.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    It doesn¡¯t trouble me enough to delay my rest, so before I know it, I¡¯m fast asleep.

    I wake up to darkness, and for a little while I just lie there. I don''t think I woke up because I heard anything. I''ve just slept enough, and it happens to be in the middle of the night. Can''t deny that my sleep has been messed up these past few days.

    I actually feel comfortable. The moss is soft, and blessedly free of urine. The cave is a bit more chilly than the forest, so it''s a good thing I''ve got clothes now. This must be the first time since coming to this world that I had sleep this restful. I decide to enjoy it, and try to shift myself a bit, only for my leg to cry out in protest.

    I''d almost forgotten about that, but of course it''s going to protest.

    Wait, I''d almost forgotten about that?

    I examine my leg and notice that it''s a lot less red than it was before. The scabbed ridges are still present, but the skin looks much better overall. Considering what I put it through yesterday, I''m surprised, but it''s no longer throbbing with that relentless pulse. No complaints from me.

    Seeing my leg is fine, I look at my arm. It is... fine. Or as fine as I expected it to be. It hurts like hell, and much more so when touched, but I guess it hurts as much as I expect it to hurt now? Like I''ve stubbed my toe yesterday, and still feel it today, only a hundred times worse.

    I frown. It''s strange how our minds work to help us forget the unpleasant stuff. Just a day and a half ago, I was shot through the arm with an arrow. I clearly recall feeling terrified, but no matter how hard I try, I can''t remember what it actually looked like to have an arrow piercing through my arm.

    Waking up in the pitch-black is somewhat disorienting, but not surprising, given the hour I went to bed. I can just barely make out the shape of the cave entrance because the outside appears as a slightly lighter gray, illuminated faintly by the stars or the moon.

    As I strain my eyes to make out the contours of the cave, something grabs my attention. On one of the walls, right at the entrance, a small spot emits a faint, glowing light.

    That''s odd.

    I stand up slowly, and make my way over to the light. It''s pretty dim, but hard to miss in the darkness. I peer at the wall, and find a few tiny interconnected symbols carved into the stone wall. For some reason, these emit a dim blue light.

    That''s definitely magic.

    It sure seems that way. Imagine the door to Moria, but with just a dozen symbols crammed into a tiny space of four square centimeters.

    Most of the symbols seem pretty simple, like the alphabet if a bit more complex, but one or two seem unreasonably difficult. Like those crazy Chinese or Japanese characters that have a massive amount of squiggles squished together. The lines somehow seem to be visible mostly by virtue of the light emitted, not the depth of the groove.

    Why is this here, and who made it? I scan the cave with fresh eyes, squinting into the darkness. No surprise, I see nothing. I smirk. That''s what you get when it¡¯s pitch-black at night. Perfect. Am I camping out in some magician¡¯s secret hideout?

    Well, it''s probably been here forever, and the cave certainly seems deserted now. I sweep my gaze through the whole cave again, but I can''t see any other glowing blue symbols. I guess whoever wrote them is long gone.

    I decide to continue my investigation tomorrow. For now, I lie back down on my makeshift yet surprisingly comfortable bed. I try to ignore my rumbling stomach; breakfast can wait until morning.

    This time I wake up to sunlight, painting the cave in a warm, muted glow. I smile, and open my eyes, then am momentarily disoriented by the still unfamiliar setting.

    Right, cave.

    Then, I spot him¡ªa scrawny boy, about ten, I''d guess, perched on a rock at the cave entrance, staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

    For a moment, my heart races and I stand paralyzed, feeling a tight knot form in my stomach. Damn, I never even thought about the chance of being discovered here by... anyone. Then a shiver runs down my spine as I realize that if he had intended to harm me, he could have done it easily while I was snoring the night away. I really need to be more careful, but what can I do?

    Not really important now, and I dismiss it as I re-focus on the boy.

    He just looks... curious, like he''s found some weird creature in the woods and is trying to figure out what it is. His eyes, dark and intense, follow my every move as I slowly sit up. I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯m trying to seem less threatening, or just less scared.

    "Hey, kid," I croak, my voice rough from not being used for so long. He tilts his head a bit, clearly puzzled. Ah, the language barrier strikes again.

    I consider for a bit, but before patting the ground next to me. A universal sign.

    He hesitates, glancing towards the cave mouth like he considers whether it''s wise to get any closer. Then it looks like curiosity wins out, and he creeps closer.

    Though his small stature appears a bit apprehensive, he comes across as much friendlier than the men in the village. Though that''s not saying a lot.

    I wince as I adjust my leg, and he frowns, indicating the scabbed wound with a grimy finger.

    "Yup, that''s a wound kid, and not the only one."

    He clearly has no idea what I''m talking about, so I just indicate the shoulder as well. Fingers are handy universal pointing tools.

    If the leg caused a frown, then the shoulder causes him to grimace. In disgust? It does look pretty bad. But he doesn''t seem to be put off by that, and at once, his demeanor changes. Stepping closer, and poking and prodding at the improvised bandage before shaking his head with a sign.

    "C¨° a dh¨¨ilig ris a¡¯ le¨°n seo?"

    You what? That was clearly a question, and he doesn''t seem pleased, but the meaning utterly escapes me.

    "I dunno kid, I didn''t just miss half of it, it was completely incomprehensible."

    He smirks, and then shrugs: "Chan eil diofar." But as he steps back, leaving my wound alone, he seems thoughtful.

    "Bidh mi air ais ¨¤s deidh sin."

    I mimic his shrug, just not knowing what he is going for. Seemingly satisfied though, he sits down in the spot I''d indicated before.

    I pause for a second, as I''m struck by just how happy I am to see another human being that doesn''t immediately try to kill me. If I could have just had this from the start... But I didn''t, I sigh.

    It doesn''t seem to matter that we can''t understand a word the other is saying or that it''s just a little kid. Similar to how having food in my satchel brings me happiness because it reassures me there''s a food source available¡ªeven if it means stealing¡ªI find comfort in knowing there are humans who neither try to kill me nor flee on sight.

    When he sits down, I indicate that he should wait, and I make a trip to the back of my cavern to retrieve the satchel.

    As I go about this, I suddenly realize that I''m wearing clothes, and it''s the first time in days that I''ve done so. The thought makes me frown because on any other day, he would have caught me lying here completely naked. But, I guess that didn''t happen.

    I dig through my modest stash, extracting a piece of jerky, and offer it with a hesitant smile. His eyes widen in surprise as he tentatively reaches out to take it. For a brief moment, we become simply two individuals¡ªone quite peculiar and the other very young¡ªattempting to cross an insurmountable divide with dried meat and cautious trust.

    As he takes the jerky, I can''t help but wonder¡ªhow the hell am I going to do this? How do you win the trust of a child when you can''t even tell him your name?

    The answer is right in front of me as he happily munches on the food. Simply sharing a bit of food seems to be enough to win him over completely.

    I point to myself, then say "Emma."

    My name feels odd on my tongue after so long. As he blinks, I repeat, slower, more deliberate, "Em-ma."

    It feels like teaching a toddler to talk, and I''m half-expecting him to babble nonsense back at me. But the boy watches my lips closely, the jerked meat halfway forgotten in his hand, and after a tense moment, he points at himself, "Ronain."

    Then he points back to me, "Em-a".

    His voice is as uncertain as a fawn on new legs, but the sound of it¡ªa name, my name¡ªcracks the shell of isolation I''ve been carrying since I got here.

    "Ronain". I nod, and point at him, repeating the name he has just given.

    This unusual, fleeting connection sparks a glimmer of hope within me; not just for survival, but for something akin to companionship in this unfamiliar place.

    I''m really glad that his name isn''t as hard to pronounce as some of the other stuff he says.

    It''s strange, just the fact that I now know his name makes him more real than any of the other people I''ve met before in this world. It was always just them, or me. The villagers, the sentries, the occupants of this house.

    But just like that you form a connection, and suddenly this boy is more important to me than anything or anyone I''ve met in this whole world.

    I frown. What do I do now? Names are easy, and expected. In this world, or another world, people need to identify each other. Do I just keep pointing at random things and say the name out loud in the hope that he''ll respond in kind?

    Somehow, he does. Pointing out various things in the cave and giving him my words, he reciprocates in kind.

    After a bit of back and forth, I catch on that he''s fascinated by my hair. When I smirk and nod at him, he tentatively reaches out and touches the ends of my black hair. It''s in that moment I realize my hair is kind of an oddity here.

    I''ll admit that I haven''t been paying much attention, but I don''t think I''ve seen anyone with hair darker than light brown. His strikingly bright blonde hair stands in sharp contrast to mine.

    After he''s done examining my hair ¡ªwhich frankly took longer than I had expected, it really must be unique¡ª his attention shifts to the spear propped against the wall by my bed. Typical for a ten-year-old boy, I suppose. Still, I''d figure he''s seen a spear before, and probably in way better condition than mine.

    He picks up the spear, handling it with an ease that tells me he''s no stranger to the weapon. I wonder what occasion a 10 year old boy would have to learn more than just swinging it around.

    He turns it over in his hand, inspecting it closely. I can''t help but watch him, feeling a tightness in my chest that seems completely unreasonable given that he''s just a 10-year-old judging my spear. Normally, I would have laughed at calling it a spear if it weren''t meant to serve that purpose, but somehow, I don''t want him to dismiss it.

    "Sleagh," he states, meeting my eyes as he holds out the spear towards me.

    "Sleagh," I repeat, though it probably sounds butchered coming from my lips. He grins, but then nods, satisfied with my attempt, and places the spear back where it was.

    Next, without waiting for my cue, Ronain gestures to the rest of the cave, and says something that sounds like a single exhalation. A word that drops like a stone in a stream. It''s so outside the realm of sounds I''m used to making, that it''s hard to follow.

    "Uamh"

    His patience, however, seems unending for the moment. He''s happy to repeat it, slower this time, until I manage to repeat it.

    My pronunciation is dubious, but Ronain''s gentle nod encourages me.

    And so we proceed, in an endless back-and-forth of new words and half-finished sounds. It''s like tackling a wave of confusion that pulls back a bit more with each try.

    I point at things around us¡ªthe messy bed, the little puddle of water, the random food¡ªand attempt to lock down the names he offers. They''re weird, these words, not just in how they sound but in how they''re structured, emphasizing bits that English doesn''t even care about.

    Time drifts along, the angle of the sunlight changing ever so slightly as we continue our hesitant conversation. For a while, I do not notice the hunger and pain of my wounds. It¡¯s more than just learning his language; I¡¯m getting glimpses of who he is, his world, and how his people see everything around them.

    Who would have thought that his word for tree sounds so much like crab.

    Ronain becomes lively and excited, like a drowning man clutching at the shore. I''m not sure why this excites him so much, but I indulge it gladly. Bit by bit, one syllable at a time, we''re piecing together the beginnings of a friendship.

    I realize that I''m learning more than just individual words; I''m tuning into the rhythm of his speech, the way his people express themselves. There''s a musicality to it, a dance of consonants and vowels that''s utterly captivating and disorienting all at once.

    Ronain talks with these big, dramatic motions, and his face keeps switching up with each new thing he teaches. The cave feels almost alive, buzzing with the energy of finding out new stuff. Just a few days ago, I nearly resigned myself to death, but now, in this shared silence filled with learning, I actually feel a tiny fire of joy flicker inside me.

    As these things go, it doesn''t last forever.

    Eventually, Ronain''s stomach growls loudly, cutting through our lesson like a blaring horn¡ªand we both freeze, then burst into laughter, which to my astonishment and mild relief, requires no translation at all.

    Needing no further prompting, I hand him some of the bread and cheese in the satchel. We''ve been at it the whole morning, the sun shining directly overhead, illuminating the entrance of the cave with a bright white glow.

    This time, Ronain doesn''t just take the food. He rummages through his own satchel, which I hadn''t paid attention to until now, and pulls out a somewhat squashed piece of bread. He winces a bit at its condition but tears it in half and offers me a piece.

    The act of this little boy sharing what is probably his lunch very nearly causes me to burst into tears. The bread is indeed hard, but I chew it with more satisfaction than I''ve felt in a long time.

    Ronain''s expression shifts as the last bread disappears, and he shoots a glance at the cave exit. Then turns back to me with an apologetic look on his face.

    He opens his satchel again, and takes out a small pouch filled with leaves, which he shows to me, as he points outside the cave.

    "Feumaidh mi falbh. Feumaidh mi barrachd a chruinneachadh."

    It''s evident that, despite his enjoyment, he never planned to spend his day chatting with a stranger. This little meeting has likely chewed up more time than he planned for, and I bet he''s feeling the pinch.

    I nod, despite the disappointment that knots my stomach, and offer him a smile. A smile that''s meant to convey "It''s ok, I get it." without needing to navigate the convoluted pathways of a new language.

    Ronain gives me a tiny, appreciative nod before standing up. As he walks away, I feel a little tug at the new, fragile thread to my heart we¡¯ve started weaving. But I''m not one to keep others from their responsibility.

    Ronain halts right where the light from the cave mouth fades, his figure outlined against the brightness outside. For a moment, he appears deep in thought, then suddenly he snaps out of it, his eyes darting back to me¡ªgleaming. With a purposeful gesture, he motions for me to follow, a clear invitation that sends a surge of excitement and nervousness through me.

    This is really starting to get ridiculous. Am I seriously excited because a 10-year-old boy wants me to join him?

    To my slight embarrassment, I am. I suppose finding someone who doesn¡¯t treat you like shit will do that to you.

    I glance at my wounds, feeling the delicate new skin knitting together. My inner voice protests against this ill advised outing. I''ve barely recovered from yesterday. But I just cannot make myself give up on this now. The promise of further human contact, regardless of the circumstances, spurs me on.

    I take to my feet, and motion Ronain to lead the way.

 Recovery - 2

    We advance through the forest, with Ronain leading confidently, and me following behind him. Still slightly uncertain about our goal.

    I''ve gotten better at navigating the forest, but Ronain looks like a master. He moves with a fluidity that speaks volumes to the hours of each day he spends in this forest.

    Then, he abruptly pauses and approaches a cluster of plants growing at the base of a tree. With a small knife from his satchel, he carefully cuts them off and gathers them.

    I step up to see what he''s doing, and he turns around with a smile on his face, pushing one of the gathered stalks up to me.

    "Bidh am fear seo ag obair an aghaidh pian" he says, but at my confused expression, he instead mimes rubbing the stalks together and smearing the result on my wounds. Then he does a surprisingly convincing imitation of sleeping.

    I guess it helps you sleep? Or make your wounds better? I''d love something like that, but from the looks of it it''s not quite as simple as just rubbing them together. Ronain stores them in his pouch, and moves on.

    We stop like this a few more times, Ronain nearly running through the forest, but never in too much of a hurry to show me what he''s gathering or what the uses are.

    I''m still in shock that the young boy in front of me knows so much about herbs. Much less that he''s out here in the forest by himself gathering them. Are his parents not worried? His own worry seems to be chiefly returning home on time, his distraction this morning certainly not anticipated.

    I wonder if he comes to that cave regularly? It would make for a fantastic hidey hole for a ten year old, just like it is for me.

    At some point, in late afternoon, Ronain seems done, and sets off at a much more leisurely walk towards what I presume to be the village. I''ve managed to keep paying attention through most of this time, but I can feel my own eyelids drooping.

    Suddenly, the village is there. The cluster of buildings visible past the trees in the distance. Clearly Ronain has no issues bringing me this close to the village, but I can hardly go with him all the way.

    The child may think I''d be fine, but I know better. If their modus operandi is to attack me on sight. I doubt he''ll be treated well if he shows up with me in tow.

    I stop walking, and after a few seconds he notices this fact, then turns back with a question in his eyes.

    I hesitate. I really want to continue with him, and see if the villagers will react differently with someone to vouch for me. If it had been anyone else, I might have gone with it. But Ronain has been nothing but good to me, and I do not want to repay that by putting him in danger.

    I shake my head emphatically and point to myself, then slice my flat hand through the air in front of my throat. I hope that message is as clear in his world as it would be in mine.

    Evidently it is, as he starts, then turns contemplative for a few moments. I can practically see the light bulb coming on. I don''t know what he''s realized, but it''s something important. For a horrifying moment, fear flashes across his features, wholly out of place on a child''s face. And he seems to take an involuntary step back.

    It doesn''t take more than a moment before he recovers though, the fear morphing to confusion. He shakes his head, eyes downcast, and mutters "Chan urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn, tha thu nad aon dhiubh."

    I see him glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes, before shaking his head, as if dismissing whatever he was thinking.

    Uncertain about his meaning, I look at him with a questioning gaze, my heart now filled with a familiar fear. All my muscles are tensed to bolt away should he suddenly decide I''m a threat, and start shouting to alert the villagers.

    He stands there a little longer, thinking, when he suddenly jerks, and gives me a once over again, his eyes seeming to rest on the dress that I am wearing. Then he nods, as if to himself: "Agus gu dearbh is tusa am m¨¨irleach".

    He looks uncertain, and I hold my breath. Will everything be alright? The thought of losing my only friend just after finding one fills me with despair.

    His eyes widen when he sees the worry written on my face and that seems to decide for him as, without hesitation, as only a child can, he runs back to me and hugs me. Though he''s only ten years old, he''s already quite sturdy and has no trouble encircling me with his arms.

    I freeze. Of all the things I had expected, this wasn''t it. He mumbles into my chest: "Duilich, bu ch¨°ir dhomh a bhith air tuigsinn na bu thr¨¤ithe, bha mi d¨¬reach..."

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    He pulls back and the expression on his face is nothing less than pure embarrassment. Whatever it was that made him fear me, it evidently didn''t last. He steps back, and points at my hair, then at his own. A rueful grin forms on his face: "Tha falt dubh air ar n¨¤imhdean uile."

    I still have no idea what he''s saying, except it''s about my hair somehow. There''s certainly a difference between mine and his. Maybe they just hate everyone that has dark colored hair for some reason?

    My gaze flits to his embarrassment. He seems to have just completely overlooked that my hair was dark until this moment?

    The urge to facepalm is strong, but I really can''t blame him. I overlook the obvious shit staring me in the face all the time.

    "Don''t worry about it kid." I smile. "But I''m definitely not coming with you to your village." I mime walking away back in the direction of my cave.

    He laughs, then nods vigorously. The embarrassment from before gone, replaced with something else. Excitement maybe?

    I sure hope he can keep a secret, because if I let him go my life is in his hands.

    An unworthy thought crosses my mind, but my unconscious snuffs it out before my conscious mind even has a chance to address it.

    He looks at me one last time, and raises his hand in parting.

    "Ch¨¬ mi thu."

    Then he turns around, and walks in the direction of the village. I stare at his retreating back, expecting to watch him until he disappears, when he sneaks a glance back to see if I''m still there, and I snort.

    Yes, kid, haven''t moved in the five seconds you''ve been walking away.

    In the end it takes him nearly two minutes and about six glances back before he''s completely out of sight. I smile.

    As Ronain steps away, I wonder, not for the first time. If I''ll ever fit into this world. I keep telling myself there''s no way everyone is hostile, and at least getting to know him seems to bear that out.

    I turn back and start trudging back to my cave. I smirk. At least I have a place to go back to now.

    My leg aches with each step, the trek through the forest with Ronain having been exactly as bad for it as I expected, but I regret nothing. My spear, my Sleagh, is a reassuring weight in my hand as I walk; it''s a link to Ronain, too, a reminder that I can bridge some gaps, even if not all.

    Arriving back to the cave puts me in an odd frame of mind. Sure, coming back to the same place I''d slept in last night is strange already, but what is much more bizarre is that there''s memories inside this cave. Happy ones, of shared laughter. Of the tentative bonds of friendship.

    The absence of Ronains bright curiosity makes the place feel empty somehow. I run my fingers over the symbols that glowed with an ethereal light the night before, now just carvings in the rock. They''re a riddle waiting to be solved, and something that can occupy my mind in the absence of anything else.

    I think of all the words I''ve learned today. Spear, cave, and a smattering of other common words, half of which are already fading from my mind. Each of them invaluable for their ability to help me navigate this world.

    The cave is getting darker. The shadows visibly growing longer as the sun sets outside. The cries of the animals out during the day fading, and being replaced with another familiar set of nocturnal cries.

    I resolve to teach Ronain too, if he returns. I learned a lot from him, and while I told him a lot of English words, they''re hardly of any help to him. But if this is a world with medieval technology, then maybe my knowledge of basic maths will be useful?

    Until then, I have something to puzzle out myself. The symbols on the wall call to me, their existence and faintly glowing light the strongest link I have to something supernatural going on.

    And somehow, aside from companionship, I really need that. I need something that gives some meaning to the fact I''ve been transported here. Even if it was ultimately a fluke of fate. Being transported to a world with magic would go a long way to satisfying that craving for some underlying meaning.

    If magic is real, then I absolutely want to learn it. They say any sufficiently advanced technology looks like magic, but back in my world, I knew exactly how all the tech worked¡ªdefinitely not magic. I''m really hoping that''s not the situation here. But even if it is, at least it means I''ll have years of intriguing puzzles to solve.

    It all begins right here. As night sets in, I find myself sitting in front of the symbols, watching intently to pinpoint the exact moment they start to glow.

    In the end, there''s no sudden glow. It seems as if the glow just slowly, very slowly grows out of the grooves in the rock. Growing from barely perceptible to so luminescent you can hardly miss it. The only thing I do note though, is that the light seems to originate from one of the complex symbols first, then flows through the pattern to the rest.

    I trace them with my fingers, wondering about the possibilities of what each symbol represents. Is it even anything other than a few random scratches? My heart tells me they are, but I could be wrong.

    Before darkness completely takes over, I hurry out of the cave, taking advantage of the remaining twilight to find something to carve the symbols with¡ªor at least what I can make out of them.

    A sharp rock is quickly found, but it takes a little while before I find a suitable piece of bark, that feels solid enough that it''d be possible to carve something in without it feeling like putty.

    Making my way back to my perch, I begin sketching out the symbols, before shaking my head in frustration, and rushing out again, trying to find a new piece of bark. The stupid things are complex.

    After two more attempts, I have to give up, as it becomes too dark to see what I''m sketching. I think I have at least passable copies of most of the simple symbols, but the complex ones are hard.

    ''I really need to figure out how to make a fire...''

    If I had a fire I could just keep going. But now I have to stop. On the other hand, it might attract animals. Or would it keep them away?

    It is then that my stomach loudly grumbles, and I realize I haven''t eaten yet.

    I mentally facepalm myself, but try to make my way through the cave to where the sack is, and retrieve some bread and dried meat by feel. I quickly consume it, but leave the pot of water alone. I just can''t see enough, and I do not want to accidentally knock it over and break it. I may feel confident in sneaking into the village once more, but I really don''t want to unless I have to.

    Drinking can wait until tomorrow. I lie down on my cot, and for once with happy thoughts in my head, I drift off to sleep.

 Interlude 1: Ronain

    The forest is as quiet as ever as I slowly make my way to my secret hideout. Not in a hurry today as I woke up early. Some kind of massive kerfuffle apparently happened last night and master wouldn¡¯t shut up about it. I didn¡¯t really pay attention, but it certainly has the adults in an uproar. Anyway, to escape I decided to just start work early. Master never complains about me being eager to work, and though he seemed unusually hesistant, waved me off without saying anything.

    I gently hop over where a rabbit makes its home, barely thinking about it. The fresh smell of the morning in the forest fills my nose. It always makes me feel so happy.

    In passing I note the various herbs and ingredients I¡¯ll need to bring on my way back. I¡¯m not sure if master is aware that I spend half the day playing before starting work, but if he doesn¡¯t comment on it I certainly won¡¯t point it out to him. I¡¯ll start doing more when he notices this has become too easy. I smirk, I¡¯m fairly certain the old man does not care one whit, and is just happy to have found someone actually interested to pass his skills on to.

    To my continuing amazement, none of the other apprentices show any interest in his work, being more inclined to becoming lumberjacks like their fathers. Or¡­ whatever it is the girls and women do. But when they make a mistake and cut themselves, who are they going to go to? It may feel like master has lived ¡ªand will live¡ª forever, but one day he''ll join the spirits too, unable to affect the living world any longer.

    A small flower in a little hole next to a tree is noticed in my peripheral vision, and I feel a little jolt of joy. Got one! I rush over and carefully extract it. That¡¯ll save me a lot of searching later. I carefully stash it in my satchel, taking care not to crumple the all important leaves.

    I shake my head, these flowers are so silly. Super easy to extract and keep, but damnably hard to find. Glad today is not one of those days I spend hours after getting everything else searching for one of these. If only there was a logic to where they grew...

    I¡¯m getting closer to my hideout now, and the surroundings begin to get a bit more rocky. Trees slowly thinning out as I get closer to the outcrop in the distance. As every time, I feel a little satisfaction at knowing of this place.

    All the others, kids and apprentices both, seem to think the forest is a dangerous place. No doubt instilled by their parents, who want to keep them away from falling trees. Master has no such compunctions. He couldn¡¯t do his job without the forest, and until he found me that meant he still ventured inside nearly every day. The proximity of the forest here also means the lucky villagers have a skilled herbalist living with them.

    I still think he could make a much better living in the city. Take more apprentices and send them out to gather the necessary materials. But he¡¯s adamantly refused any such suggestions. Says you can¡¯t be a good herbalist without living close to the land. Of course I understand that. He¡¯s right. I just want to go to the city.

    Anyhow, that¡¯s why I get to go into the forest without fear, and all the other apprentices stay away, so while all the best spots in the village are taken, I have the whole forest to make mine. And the forest is a lot bigger. Still, it¡¯s lucky the other kids can¡¯t go out here. I found the cave just a few weeks after my first solo trip, so it¡¯d have definitely been found by others if they ever went further into the forest.

    As I step from the soil onto the rocks, I¡¯m reminded of the only real negative of this place. Rocks are great, but I prefer the forest.

    A minute later, I round the bend to my cave, and just a second after I do so, I freeze. My heart starts to race, and I quickly step back, peeking around the corner. Everything looks the same at first. I take a moment to really look at everything in sight, but I can¡¯t quite understand why I feel so uneasy. I remind myself to listen to my instincts, even when I can¡¯t explain them.

    Has an animal finally taken it upon itself to lair here? I can¡¯t believe that. To my everlasting surprise this cave has been utterly deserted for years. I don¡¯t know what keeps the animals away, but at this point I¡¯d consider it surprising if it suddenly changed. I can¡¯t think of anything else though. I guess I could just walk away now, come back later and find out it was nothing...

    Before I know it, I find myself sneaking towards the entrance, pressing myself to the side of the cliff. I reach it without any issue, and peek around the corner.

    My eyebrows almost climb off my face. There is¡­ a woman? She¡¯s deeply asleep by the looks of it, but god does she look like shit. There¡¯s blood everywhere. I take a step forward, overcome by the desire to look at the wounds, but hold myself back. I shuffle back a bit, and sit down on a large rock, contemplating what to do.

    Her breast raises and falls in a steady rhythm, and if nothing else, that assures me that she¡¯s not in imminent danger of death. My eyes keep jumping to the glob of madness that¡¯s wrapped around her arm, and if the bloody stain on her dress is any indication her legs aren¡¯t in great condition either. What has she been doing?!

    Just as I¡¯m about to move towards her, there¡¯s a little pause in her breathing, and her eyes open. She looks around in bewilderment for a bit, before her eyes shoot to me. They unfocus for a bit, and I do not like the expression that crosses her face. She''s like a cornered animal, and you never know what those¡¯ll do.

    As I get ready to run for it, she focuses on me again, and very slowly and deliberately sits up. So far so good.

    How did this woman get here? Who is she? She¡¯s wearing a dress that¡¯s a dime a dozen in the village, but her face and hair are completely different. I didn¡¯t know people with black hair actually existed. I hold my breath as she opens her mouth.

    "Hey cidh¡±

    I tilt my head and frown. What was that?

    She seems to realize I didn¡¯t understand, and a vague expression of annoyance crosses her face. As I¡¯m considering what that means, she patts the ground next to her.

    I involunatarily glance back at the forest. Running away now is still possible.

    As before, curiosity wins out. It¡¯s not that I¡¯m careless, but I¡¯m strong, and she looks half dead. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s fine, though I sure hope master never finds out I so blatantly ignored his wishes. He doesn¡¯t hit often, but that branch is hard...

    I slowly creep closer, still ready to lash out or run away in equal measure, depending on what happens. In the end I¡¯m sitting right next to her, and nothing has happened.

    When she finally moves to sit across from me, she suddenly winces, and my eyes shoot to the presumed injury on her leg. When I point at it, she responds "Yep, thaat''s a woond kid, an'' no'' th'' only wan.¡±

    At least the previous words were clearly some greeting, but if she told me anything about who inflicted this wound and why it¡¯s not been treated, I completely missed it. She realizes this, and instead points at the¡­ growth on her shoulder.

    What, is she trying to tell me there is more? I grimace, I suppose at least this wound is treated, but¡­ it could hardly have been done in a more incompetent way. I point at the wound, soundlessly asking permission, and when she doesn¡¯t refuse, inspect the mass of blood, moss, dirt and whatever else made it¡¯s way into this madness.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Seeing it close up does not improve things, and I can¡¯t help but start feeling that she did this to herself. Something about the combination of challenge and apprehension in her eyes. If it¡¯s left like this her arm will eventually fall off, or she¡¯ll wish it did anyway.

    ¡°Who treated this wound?¡± I can¡¯t help the slight trace of dismay that creeps into my voice. Master would scold me if he ever heard. I¡¯m not supposed to react that way to seeing the wound in the first place, but especially not to another¡¯s work to treat it. People are already reluctant enough to visit and drink their medicine. But there is a limit. The best that can be said here is that it didn¡¯t make anything worse.

    "Ay doonae chidd, ay didnae jis miss haaf o'' it, it wuz completelee incomprehensible."

    I smirk. She doesn¡¯t seem too defensive, but as expected I didn¡¯t understand a word of what she said.

    ¡°Never mind¡±, I say, as I step back and consider the best way to deal with this.

    As I already noted, she won¡¯t immediately die from this, and the arm isn¡¯t beyond saving. My professional pride will not let me leave this alone, and it doesn¡¯t appear likely she¡¯ll move any time soon.

    ¡°I¡¯ll be back later¡±, I say with a smile, willing her to stay in place, something I know can be difficult with willful women. Doubly so when it¡¯s an apprentice telling them to do so. I may be wrong but she looks like she could be a match for Catriona.

    She shrugs though, apparently not bothered by my strict tone, but evidently also uncertain what I meant. Well, whatever, I suppose that¡¯s the best I¡¯m going to get now. Lets try to figure out who she actually is.

    I move back to the spot I was originally sitting, facing her squarely. Wondering if she¡¯ll introduce herself first, or if I should. I suppose I kinda ruined the chances of that by immediately jumping on her wounds¡­ but I just couldn¡¯t leave that alone.

    We stare at each other for a bit, and I¡¯m starting to get mildly uncomfortable, when her expression suddenly relaxes, and she sighs. Something approximating a smile appears on her face, even if it is fleeting. She gets up and walks to the back of the cave. Not very far, but I still follow her, careful of what she could be retrieving. It¡¯s just some bag though.

    As she walks back, I see her eyes briefly flit towards her attire, and she frowns. I can only agree, it looks terrible, but I¡¯ve seen worse. At least half of her dress was spared. She should be happy the wounds were in her arm and leg instead of torso, there¡¯s no coming back from that for your clothes. I¡¯d swear there¡¯s a faint blush on her cheeks though.

    She digs through her bag, and retrieves a piece of jerky, which she then offers to me. I can¡¯t help myself from immediately reaching for it. I love jerky, and I was only halfways through breakfast when I ran out. She doesn¡¯t seem put off though, so I happily munch away. I can live with people feeding me before introducing themselves.

    As if on cue, she points at herself, and says: ¡°Eama"

    I blink. At last, a name! I sound it out again in my mind. Names are important, and I want to get it right the first time. Then I remember myself, and I quickly point at myself and say ¡°Ronain¡±. Then I point at her, and very carefully pronounce her name ¡°Eama¡±.

    She nods, and points back at me "Ron-ahn¡±.

    I¡¯m pleased she seems to have put a lot of effort into getting it right the first time as well, though it could use a bit of work. I¡¯m about to correct her when she frowns.

    I pause, and after a second, she starts pointing to random things in the cave and on our person, and saying those strange words I¡¯ve never heard before. It¡¯s like a secret language! I quickly respond in kind. There seems to be a whole extra language stored in her mind, and like master, she doesn¡¯t seem averse to just handing out the knowledge. The least I can do is respond in kind.

    I lose myself in the game for a while, but now that I¡¯ve inspected the wounds, I find my eyes getting drawn to her hair again and again. I know master has said that people with black hair exist, but they¡¯re supposed to be over the mountains, or through the forest, far from where we live. Further than even the king has traveled, master said. I¡¯m sure master doesn¡¯t actually know how far the king has traveled though. I never expected to see someone with black hair.

    She notices my fascination, and after a small laugh, just motions me to touch it, which I don¡¯t hesitate to do. I try to figure out if there is anything that makes it different from ours, but no matter how I look at it or touch it, it¡¯s exactly the same thing, just a different color.

    It¡¯s dirty though, just like her, and as I sit there holding her hair, I wonder if she knows there¡¯s a pond just a few hundred meters beyond the cave that she could wash herself in. I can¡¯t think of a way to tell her that wouldn¡¯t be unbelievably rude though. I¡¯m sure if she scouts around a bit she¡¯ll find it.

    My attention instead shifts to something I¡¯d missed before. She has something that looks like a spear propped against the wall. I look at her askance, but when she doens¡¯t respond, I walk over and grab it. It¡¯s actually pretty decent, for something improvised. I glance back at her, wondering who would need an improvised spear. It¡¯s nearly stranger than her being covered in wounds.

    The spear is nice though, I kinda wish I¡¯d thought to make one myself. I¡¯ve just been waiting for Blair to come around and teach me some more, but if I just made my own I could practice! He keeps telling me that war is around the corner, so it wouldn¡¯t be a bad idea.

    I look carefully over the spearhead, noting how she¡¯s tied it to the handle. It looks embarrasingly easy, though finding the right stone head might take a bit. Either way, I¡¯m confident I can replicate this. I hold the spear out to her, and state the name for her

    ¡°Spear¡±

    ¡°Sle-gh¡± she repeats after me. I grin. Pretty good, but I¡¯m starting to doubt she¡¯s actually trying to get it right on the first try. I nod at her. Fair enough, we can¡¯t all be trying to do it perfectly. I set the spear back against the wall, and proceed with our earlier game.

    As fun as it is to teach her my language ¡ªseldom has an adult paid this much attention to me¡ª I think it¡¯s so much more exciting to learn hers. I¡¯m rushing past my words in an attempt to get as many of hers as possible. It¡¯s so hard to balance the wish to do it correctly, and the wish to know more. It¡¯s almost as if I¡¯m back at my first lesson with master, when everything was still new.

    I find myself acting out the words when we run out of things inside the cave and surroundings. Verbs make for very amusing motions. I guess you could make a game out of this.

    Eventually though, to my great embarrassment, the cave resounds with the sound of my growling stomach. I look at her in embarrassment, but when I see her amused face, no trace of the reprimand I expected, I begin to laugh. Whoever she is, she doesn¡¯t follow any of the norms and conventions I¡¯m used to. She laughs with me, and quickly runs back to her bag to provide me with more food.

    I can¡¯t let that stand though. She caught me by surprise last time, but I can¡¯t let this second gift of food go unreciprocated. I dig through my own satchel, and pull out what I¡¯d intended for lunch. To my great dismay I haven¡¯t taken great care of the loaf, since I wasn¡¯t expecting to share it. An oft repeated admonishment from my master comes to mind, and I wince when I realize that all this time he¡¯s been right. I resolve to be more careful with my food going forward, you never know when you might want to offer it to someone.

    I carefully tear my loaf in half, and offer her the larger piece. She looks at it as if constipated for a second, but after a moment she accepts and tears into it with gusto. At which point I feel safe eating my half too. I take the cheese she¡¯s brought to our table, and tear that in half too, as with the other bread, and all combined it¡¯s honestly a better lunch than I¡¯ve had in a while.

    As it comes to an end though, I realize what my hunger and the shifting sunlight means, and I look at her apologetically. I really need to get to actually doing my job, or master will scold me when I return tonight. It¡¯d be beyond disgraceful to be out all day and not bring back the small list he sent me out for today.

    I try to show her, taking out the herb I stashed earlier ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I have to gather more.¡± As much as I¡¯d love to spend more time here, I can¡¯t risk it getting dark before I find everything.

    She nods, and smiles, like she¡¯s telling me it¡¯s not a problem. I really didn¡¯t want to disappoint her. I nod at her, and make my way to the entrance of the cave. I wonder what she¡¯ll do the rest of the day. My eyes dart over the inside of the cave. Maybe practice the spear? No, not with the state her arm is in.

    I guess I might as well invite her to come along if she wants to? Not much she can do besides walking with that arm anyway, and out in the forest we can definitely continue the game of point and say. I look back her way, and make a questioning gesture. We¡¯ve covered this one, so there¡¯s no mistaking it on her part. I guess I could have said it, but over the course of the morning we¡¯ve found that sometimes the gestures are easier than the words.

    When I look at her, I¡¯m surprised to see the expression of disappointment that she¡¯s been unsuccessfully trying to hide. But then it morphs into an expression of childlike glee that¡¯s entirely misplaced on an adult, and for a moment I wonder if I¡¯ve really found a little girl in a woman''s body.

    It takes but a moment before she follows me out of the cave.

 Opportunity

    I wake up surprisingly refreshed. The feeling of a fixed roof over your head and a full stomach apparently doing wonders for your ability to have a good nights sleep.

    The air is crisp. A faint hint of the forest permeating the loamy smell of the cave itself. I keep laying there a bit. Just enjoying the smell and sounds of the early morning.

    I don''t have anywhere to be, and even though yesterday was the same, it was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Ronain. I crack open an eye, and sneak a glance at the cave entrance to check. The early light of dawn filters in, but it¡¯s nowhere near light yet. I close my eye again. On one hand I''m disappointed, but on the other hand, it¡¯s lovely to be able to wake up by myself.

    There''s something about the first few minutes of a day that makes them extra special. Even more so when in a lovely natural environment like this.

    I smirk. I''m sure I can only think that because I have food now. Because I''m secure in my survival today and tomorrow.

    That''s starting to be a recurring thought. It¡¯s a bit absurd since I can¡¯t be sure I¡¯ll make it through the next week, but days of worrying whether you¡¯ll make it through the next hour, definitely shift your perspective.

    A small voice at the back of my head is trying to shout that I¡¯m only comfortable because I set aside my morals and decided to steal, but it is quickly shouted down by the rest, which is currently very comfortable thank you very much. I''m a hundred percent certain that had I known the outcome I''d choose to steal again in a heartbeat. Except I wouldn''t have gone through the bother of trying to communicate with those lunatics first.

    Anyhow, time waits for no woman, and as much as I like the bed, I better get myself to do something. I slowly sit up, enjoying the act of taking my time. My leg aches still, my shoulder feels as bad as before, but I guess I just can''t do anything about any of that regardless, so I might as well ignore it.

    I make myself a small breakfast from the contents of my satchel, and marvel at the quality of cheese. I guess I wasn¡¯t able to enjoy it nearly as much while I was starving, but it¡¯s actually really tasty.

    I munch my food, and I suddenly wonder how my family is doing. Have they noticed I''m gone yet? At this point surely my workplace would have called my emergency contacts, to try to figure out if something had happened.

    How will my parents react when they find out I somehow dropped off the face of the earth?

    Thank god for having reliable older brothers¡­

    I¡¯m sure my brothers will be wondering what the hell happened too, but they''ll make sure mom and dad are alright first, so at least I can rest easy in that regard.

    I guess they kind of have to be, when they have such a flaky little sister¡­

    I suddenly wonder if I could have been cloned, and there''s just an extra copy of me in this world? At least nobody would have to be distraught by my absence. I chuckle at the thought, but maybe more at the thought that it¡¯s so typically me for that to pop into my head. Anything to stop thinking unpleasant thoughts is it?

    But if I¡¯m teleported here somehow, could I find my way back?

    I guess that¡¯s generally the main concern of the characters in these kinds of stories. Or maybe not? Most of them seem to quite enjoy their new lives, which I guess stands to reason, or the stories would be really hard to read.

    The way I arrived here doesn¡¯t really suggest anything. I guess I might just as suddenly find myself in my own world again. There''s nothing really indicating anything one way or another.

    I glance at the now nearly invisible symbols on the wall. Maybe magic could help? If there is indeed magic. I¡¯ve had a few indications of that, but not conclusive. There¡¯s the recurring certainty of this being a new world, and the... attraction... that led me to the blue fruits. Then there¡¯s the weird sensation that eating them brought, the weird second stomach that¡¯s still more or less full. My heart tells me it''s definitely ''something'' supernatural, but my brain is hesitant to call it as such without conclusive proof.

    Do I even want to go back?

    I sweep my gaze through my cave, over the makeshift moss bed that I''m lying on, to the gently swaying trees outside the cave entrance. I breathe in the clean smells of the forest, and listen to the calls of a dozen unknown birds. Some unseen animal snorts in the distance.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Maybe not?

    I''m surprised that I¡¯d think that, but upon careful examination of my feelings on the topic I still find it to be true. Even given everything I''ve been through, am still going through, and presumably will go through in the future. It¡¯s been madness, but this reset has been liberating. I do not even feel particularly guilty about it because I didn''t have any choice in the matter. I might have said no if I had a choice, but now that I¡¯ve come here I find I do not want to go back to the boring job, I do not want to go back to a world that I feel is full of nonsense.

    It¡¯s strange to find myself liking the world in which I¡¯ve nearly died so many times so much better, and to some extent I think it¡¯s a silly thought in the first place. I won¡¯t survive in this world without a job either. Chances are it¡¯s going to be just as boring as the previous one. What I¡¯ve seen of the people doesn¡¯t inspire a lot of confidence they¡¯ll be any better either.

    I guess there¡¯s still a chance the geopolitical situation will be better than in my previous world? Looking at the medieval surroundings doesn¡¯t make me feel like I¡¯ll have to worry much about nuclear fireballs either.

    I¡¯ll have to figure all of those things out, and then maybe I can decide whether or not I enjoy my enforced stay here. Right now I don¡¯t have a lot of choice in the matter regardless.

    The best I can do now is learn more about this world, and right now I think my best bet is those symbols.

    I make my way to the front of the cave, and have another look at the poor imitation of the symbols I sketched yesterday. It¡¯s a shame they¡¯re only really visible during the night. If I squint hard I can see what I¡¯ve written on the bark yesterday on the wall, but especially the complex symbols are hard to make out on the wall now.

    There¡¯s something about the way the symbols are arranged that speaks to me on some level. I stare at the bark. I¡¯ve definitely missed some parts, especially regarding the complex symbols, but the simpler ones form a pattern by themselves. If this is magic, it¡¯s pleasingly complex. I wonder what the effect is, and whether it¡¯s the simple or the complex symbols that generate most of it.

    The complex ones do not seem to be a combination of simpler ones. At least not the simple symbols I¡¯ve written on the bark, but the structure looks different enough that I don¡¯t think it''s the case regardless.

    I spend some more time pondering the symbols, but I make no significant progress. I picture the simple symbols in my mind one by one, as that generally seems to be the way to make these things work, but there is no effect.

    Sort of convinced they¡¯re related, I try to make that inner pile of fruit juice work and do something together with the symbols.

    As I try to figure it out, there¡¯s a sudden jolt, and my perception slows down. It¡¯s hard to follow what is happening, but I¡¯m still sort of internally looking at the pile of fruit juice, which has taken the shape of a second stomach overlaying my existing one. Experimentally, I twist what I imagine to be the muscles of my abdomen and the pile sloshes around a bit.

    It¡¯s a bit startling to realize that no actual muscles moved, the sense of my body is separate, though no less real. It feels more like a mental version of my body, though it isn¡¯t really mental either, as it doesn¡¯t exist solely in my mind. I realize that the whole thing is overlayed on my body, with just as much sensations as the real one, even if I have no idea how to interpret them. Maybe there¡¯s just not many?

    The stomach only stands out to me because it¡¯s where all the fruit juice is. My real mind is starting to throb with a painful pulse trying to follow what it is I¡¯m doing.

    I experimentally try to jerk some more of the muscles in this overlayed body, not really knowing how to do it, but somehow managing to do more or less what I expect. The same musles do not appear to affect my real body. Moving the familiar ones works fine though, and I can stand up and down while sloshing fruit juice around without issues.

    Maybe I should give it a more epic name than fruit juice? Calling it mana just feels boring. I don¡¯t even know where that word comes from. Ether? Aether? Essence? Maybe fruit juice is actually pretty nice. I guess I just want to avoid falling in tropes, but it doesn¡¯t really matter what the name is.

    It¡¯s actually kind of funny. When I move the right muscles the fruit juice splashes around within the confines of the overlayed body, but never really leaves it. Moving my arm rapidly while there¡¯s fruit juice in it splashes it around even more wildly than me smacking it around with the secondary muscles. I¡¯m not really certain how I can see any of this, as nothing is visible to my eyes, but I know it nonetheless.

    Eventually, I push some of the juice through a symbol I¡¯m picturing in this secondary space overlaying my body, my mindspace, and there is an indescribable reaction. The symbol in my mindspace shatters, and I¡¯m jolted back to reality. I¡¯ve never really been gone from reality, it¡¯s just like bringing your focus back from somewhere far off to something close by.

    I shiver involuntarily. Regardless of what that was, maybe I shouldn¡¯t be trying to stick unidentified power into unidentified symbols in the hope that something happens? If it¡¯s anything like I imagine it could be, I could do anything from burn my eyebrows off to twist myself out of reality.

    Though I guess the symbols on the wall do not appear to do anything like that, and I should probably be fine.

    I inspect my body, but do not feel any new damage or negative effects from whatever I just did. However, I¡¯m now nearly certain this is indeed some form of esoteric magical knowledge, I stick the bark in my satchel, determined to eventually figure out what the symbols do, but too shaken by the attempt to try it again right away.

    Happily, I have enough things to do today, and I push myself to my feet with determination. It¡¯s time to attempt something else I previously didn¡¯t have time to try, but which will serve me well in the future.

    Making fire!

 Opportunity - 2

    A moment later I find myself staring at a wooden sheet, a bunch of twigs, and some grass. I have a separate pointy branch, which I¡¯m confident should generate heat if I spin it on the sheet, igniting the grass, which would ignite the twigs.

    The issue is that none of that is working. While I generate a lot of heat by spinning the branch, it seems to be concentrated mostly around the hands doing the spinning.

    I got slightly too enthusiastic ¡ªor should I say frustrated¡ª a moment ago, and my hands hurt something fierce. I figured I could make it work if I tried hard enough, and a little pain was a small sacrifice to make for the ability to make fire. I tried making a firebow, but the threads I can pluck from my shirt aren¡¯t strong enough, and quickly snap when I try to use them in that manner.

    As I sit there frowning at my firemaking setup, willing it to work through sheer stubbornness, I suddenly hear familiar laughter. My head snaps up, and a smile appears on my face. Ronain is standing in the clearing in front of the cave, his hand covering his mouth in a vain attempt to stifle his mirth.

    He''s got grass stains on his knees and his hair''s a tousled mess, like he''s run the whole way here. The sight of me failing so spectacularly seems to be the highlight of his day. And the day has just started!

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, it¡¯s very funny.¡± a flush creeps up my neck. I¡¯m not really mad though; his laughter may be at my expense, but I¡¯m happy to see that at least one person derives enjoyment from my failures.

    Still chuckling, Ronain steps towards me, and inspects my hands, which I show him freely, familiar with his behavior from yesterday. When he sees the growing blisters there, he winces, and immediately starts rummaging in his satchel.

    A second later, he seems to have found what he seeks, and he presents me with a small tin.

    My expression must make clear that I have no idea what to do with it, because he mimes opening it and rubbing it on my hands. An ointment? He then points at my shoulder and leg in turn, apparently anxious for me to use this medicine.

    I¡¯m not entirely certain how much to trust this medicine, given where it comes from, but I suppose it can¡¯t hurt to rub it on my hands.

    When I open the tin, a milky white substance greets me, akin to hand cream, which is surprisingly similar to what I¡¯m used to from my world. I look questioningly at Ronain, not quite sure how much I should use, and he takes a small swipe from the tin and expertly applies it to one of my burned hands.

    Even given these were minor burns, the relief is instant. It¡¯s nothing short of magical. ¡°The hell is this?!¡± I look at Ronain in astonishment. His small eyes lit up in pleasure at the evidently expected reaction, and he puffs up his chest.

    ¡°Rinn mi sin¡± he points at the tin, then taps the spot above his own heart, and gestures towards the forest all around, and mimes mixing. ¡°Tha e a'' cuideachadh le leigheas diofar se¨°rsaichean rudan, agus tha e a'' lughdachadh pian."

    Well, I¡¯ll be damned. Apothecary Junior to the rescue. That''s more than I expected given our interactions yesterday.

    Regardless, the effects are clear. I waste no time in applying the salve to my leg as well, though Ronain stops me when I want to smear it on liberally, and hands me an appropriate amount.

    ¡°Anns a'' ch¨´is eile, bidh do chas cho faiceallach ''s nach fhaighear a chleachdadh.¡± he says with a smirk.

    I let out a reluctant chuckle. "Thanks, kid," I say.

    After my leg comes my shoulder, and when I take the improvised bandage and moss off, Ronain¡¯s eyes narrow, evidently displeased by what he sees, and he wastes no time in taking the tin from me and spreading out the salve. I notice that he¡¯s using a great deal more than he used on my leg. Strangely enough it doesn¡¯t seem to affect the pain very much, I¡¯m not sure whether that¡¯s a good or a very bad sign, but given the amount he¡¯s smearing on and his demeanor, I¡¯d have to assume the latter.

    That makes me wonder what would have happened to my shoulder if I hadn¡¯t met him. It seemed mostly fine to me, and I was able to use it pretty well the past few days.

    I suddenly feel the urge to thank him in his own language. Gestures seem to carry over fine, even though the language is different, so I bow my head and put my hands together, anything to clarify my intention, then point at my mouth.

    We''ve gotten in some routine for this yesterday, and he immediately grasps my meaning.

    ¡°Tapadh leat". he says.

    That¡¯s a handful, but I try to repeat it as carefully as I can. He smiles, so I presume I got it at least marginally right.

    While the salve is nothing like the magic in stories where the wounds visibly close in front of your eyes, the relief is still palpable.

    When he¡¯s done, he pushes the tin ¡ªstill more than half full¡ª into my hand and wraps my hand around it.

    ¡°Cum e. Tha rudeigin ag innse dhomh gum bi feum agad air."

    The wry grin on his face speaks volumes, even if I have no idea what he actually said. The meaning is clear: He¡¯s expecting me to blunder into more dangerous situations in the future. I¡¯m not really sure what to think about that. It¡¯s not as if I chose to get shot with arrows...

    I put the tin in my sack, and again thank Ronain, but he just waves me away.

    Then, almost as if to tease me¡ªthough he meant well¡ªRonain strolls into the woods and returns with a handful of branches and kindling. He goes on to demonstrate just how many things I had unwittingly messed up when trying to start my fire.

    I¡¯m really starting to feel a bit lacking here, being shown how to do so many basic things by a child. It¡¯s not my first time being instructed by someone younger than myself, but a full third of my age is a novelty.

    I happily swallow my pride if it means I¡¯ll have a way of making my own fire though. Between words, gestures and him showing me I figure it out, and soon I have my own tidy little fire right burning right next to his now larger one.

    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    The lesson doesn''t stop there though, and he shows me how to stack the wood to make maximum use of the little flame. Soon my fire is blazing as merrily as his own.

    As I stare into the steadily growing flames, there¡¯s suddenly a hitch in my throat, and tears come to my eyes. I spent so, so long trying to meet people in this world only to be thoroughly rejected. And here is this boy that hasn¡¯t known me for more than a day going out of his way to provide me with medicine and to teach me how to survive.

    What did I do to deserve that? I glance at him, trying to stop my tears, but when he notices and looks at me questioningly with his completely guilleless face, I instead completely lose it. I begin bawling my eyes out.

    He jumps up and comes to check on me, worried. In lieu of an explanation I simply hug him, pulling his little body against me.

    He tenses for a moment at the suddenness of it, before he relaxes. I¡¯m glad, I really need someone, anyone to hold right now. Someone to remind me that there¡¯s good people in the world. And I couldn¡¯t have asked for a better person to do so.

    I''m not sure how long I hold him. Not very long I''m sure, but when my tears have finally run out, and I look up, he''s just there sitting on his knees, patting my head, like I''m some stray dog that he picked up in the street. The absurdity of a grown woman being comforted by a boy makes me bark out a laugh.

    ¡°Thanks Ronain¡± I say softly.

    It''s not strange as such. Kids have great emotional intelligence, more than we often give them credit for. But I still feel like I should be the adult here.

    He just smiles, and I ruffle his hair. Words cannot convey the depth of gratitude I owe this boy.

    The next two days, we get into a routine, where Ronain shows up every morning after daybreak, and we spend a few hours together exchanging words, and just how to live in the forest. Then he has to go into the forest for his daily task of gathering herbs.

    It appears he¡¯s decided to not inform the village of the thief hiding in the cave, as I haven¡¯t seen anyone else any more. I¡¯m kind of wondering what the people sending him out in the forest every day are thinking.

    As far as they know a dangerous woman and thief is on the loose in the forest, who they¡¯ve twice now failed to kill. I imagine I¡¯d keep my children inside until she were found too.

    After two days of Ronain¡¯s medicine, my arm and leg are feeling a lot better. So much so that I¡¯m reconsidering my evaluation of the salve as nonmagical. I don¡¯t think any medicine in my world acts as fast as this does.

    He¡¯s also brought an actual bandage on the second day, and both my arm and leg are wrapped in something actually sterile now. Or well, as sterile as it¡¯s going to be, considering they probably have no idea about germs if my estimation of the level of technology is correct. I tried to get some answer from Ronain, but it was beyond my ability to mime out.

    Aside from the day we made fire, I followed Ronain on both of his excusions into the forest to gather herbs, and though his explanations still often go over my head, I¡¯m able to recognize a few now and to help gather them. I get the feeling he¡¯s just humoring me though. He could probably gather everything much faster if he were by himself, but he seems to enjoy the company.

    Thankfully this is nothing like gathering the delicate magical plants in my stories, and the distinction is mostly between plucking either only flowers and leaves, or the roots that he¡¯s interested in. The hardest part is recognizing them in the first place.

    It¡¯s a bit disturbing to see Ronain act out all of the maladies that the herbs are supposed to protect against. Headache and stomach ache were fairly benign, but apparently there¡¯s something for an epileptic attack as well. If I hadn¡¯t known it was an act I¡¯d have rushed him to the village and consequences be damned. The boy is entirely too pleased seeing my discomfort.

    It¡¯s kind of funny to think that my vocabulary on the subject of herbs and maladies is increasing faster than any other.

    At some point during our gathering, Ronain regales me with the tale of the aftermath of my theft. Apparently the lady of the house I stole from was entirely displeased with her husband for misplacing two of the six pieces that their wardrobe consisted of, and the recriminations were audible throughout the entire village, which had him in stitches. In the face of that commotion, the disappearance of the foodstuffs was apparently entirely missed, or at least Ronain didn¡¯t say anything about it.

    I do not particularly care how the family felt, but I¡¯m glad that Ronain doesn¡¯t seem to hold it against me. And even more, that what I considered a theft seems to have gone entirely unnoticed.

    At the end of the two days, I''ve learned a smattering of new words, a lot of weird little nooks and crannies in the forest that might hide useful herbs, and the uses for a few of them. He''s even tried to indicate to me how to prepare some simple concoctions, though they¡¯re mostly limited to ones that work by sticking the ingredients in boiling water. I really hope he isn¡¯t giving out restricted trade knowledge here.

    The morning of the fourth day after meeting Ronain brings me a problem though. I''ve enjoyed these past two days too much, and ignored an inconvenient truth. After my breakfast today, I''ve nearly completely exhausted my supply of stolen food and I''m left at a loss for what to do.

    While a lot has been covered these past two days, gathering food wasn''t one of them, and I get the idea that it just hasn''t occurred to Ronain that I might not have enough food to live on. He''s seen me get food from my sack, and drink from my pot, but I get the idea that he considers them like the cupboard in his home. An inexhaustible supply of food that he''s not responsible for providing.

    I could probably make him aware of this fact, and I¡¯m nearly certain that he''d try to bring me food, but some last vestige of pride prevents me from actually doing so. At the same time, I really do not want to go back to starving.

    I''m not proud of it, but my thoughts immediately go to the village, and how hard¡ªor simple¡ªit would be to liberate another round of supplies. Not that I''m concerned about stealing from this particular village, but it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth that it¡¯s literally the first method of obtaining food I think of. As opposed to, for example, hunting a rabbit.

    Ronain''s didn¡¯t realize I stole from his village, but I''m worried that doing so again will make it much harder to hide. I¡¯m fairly certain it wouldn¡¯t really matter to him either way as long as I don¡¯t take his stuff, but I¡¯d rather not risk it. I like this little apothecary. Then again, I need to eat.

    I¡¯m stopped from worrying about it by shouting, and the rapid approach of footsteps. I¡¯m immediately on guard, and grab the spear from the wall next to the bed. Prepared to stab it into whoever comes running into the cave.

    A moment later I realize that it¡¯s actually Ronain¡¯s voice, as he storms into the cave nearly out of breath. He stops in front of me, and heaves a few deep breaths before he tries to speak. A few tries later he gives up, and catches his breath first. His excitement is undiminished though.

    ¡°Tha luchd-cainnte ann! Tha luchd-cainnte anns a'' ph¨¤irc! Thig!"

    There¡¯s something, in the village? And he wants me to follow him? Right, well, this seems like happy excitement, not ¡°you are imminent danger of death¡± excitement, so I suppose it¡¯s fine to follow him?

    Glancing at my now empty stash, I shake me head to myself, and nod to indicate to Ronain that he should lead the way. I suppose I had plans to visit the village anyway.

    He practically bounces out of the cave, and I have to hurry to catch up. We''re heading straight for the village, and when I notice I try to catch Ronain''s attention. He eventually notices when I just grab and drag him back by his arm, but when he realizes what I''m on about, he just makes a placating gesture, and mimes hiding in the bushes. ¡°Falaich d¨¬reach, bidh e ceart gu le¨°r!" I guess that means we hide.

    We swing around the village border in a wide arc, until eventually Ronain motions us forward towards the village. We''re as close as possible to one of the trails that lead out of the village, on the opposite side from where I originally arrived, which leaves the forest. He enthusiastically drags me forward, which has me worried about the sentries until we''re finally in a position to see the village, and it turns out that all the sentries around the village are gone.

    Ronain points towards a caravan of wagons at the edge of the village, and when I finally see what I think he wants me to see, I blink.

 Opportunity - 3

    Caravan was my initial impression, but it consists of just two massive wagons, their wheels clad in iron rims. Initially this looks perfectly normal to me, there¡¯s a man on each wagon, but no horses attached to them, which is curious. A whole contigent of lumberjacks is loading the beds of the wagons with tree trunks from a storage space using a hoist and pulley system that quite impresses me.

    That lasts right up until I see one of the massive wagons reposition itself without any apparent method of locomotion. The front axle turns out of nowhere, and the wagon lumbers forward, before doing the same thing in reverse. All the mechanics of the wagon are on full display. There¡¯s none. I strain my eyes trying to find the engine, or something, anything, that will let the wagon move like that, but the only thing on the wagon other than the trunks is the man in front.

    Ronain is clearly excited about the men on the wagons:

    ¡°F¨¦ach!? Duine channta! An bhfuil s¨¦ fionnuar?"

    He''s trying to keep it simple for me, but I still have no idea what he means. Is he talking about the men on the wagons, or about the wagons themselves? If it¡¯s an enchanted wagon it¡¯d be just as impressive as the two men somehow making the wagon move, so it doesn¡¯t really help me.

    I feel a little flutter in my stomach, and before I know it I''ve settled on the only explanation that makes sense. Regardless of anything else, either through the wagons, or the men, magic is making those wagons move. Either way, this is the first time I''ve seen any evidence of magic outside of the strange symbols in my cave.

    The realization hits me like a stone from a sling - magic is real in this world. Actual, honest-to-gods magic. I stare at Ronain, and he looks back at me with this massive shit eating grin, that tells me my reaction was exactly as he expected.

    My heart races and my mind whirls with possibilities. A tension I didn''t realize was there releases, as I finally find something, anything, that would make my sudden transport here and all its challenges actually worthwhile. It¡¯s like the realization of years of childhood dreams packed into a mere minute.

    I watch as the wagons slowly lumber back and forth. The men on top of them, on closer inspection, actually have their eyes closed. The speed with which the wagons accellerate is extremely slow, but they don¡¯t have to move very far. I can only imagine how much force is necessary to move that much weight.

    Watching the wagons is hypnotic, like I¡¯m trying to will the knowledge of how that¡¯s happening into my mind. It¡¯s only when Ronain tugs on my sleeve that I come back to reality.

    ¡°B''fhe¨¤rr leat iad a leantainn.¡± he points at the wagons.

    Follow the wagons? Where are they going?

    ¡°C¨¤?¡± my vocabulary is barely large enough to ask him that question. Thankfully, the question came up a lot during our gathering. It¡¯s still nice to be able to make yourself understood.

    ¡°Gu a'' bhaile m¨°r. Bidh iad a'' faighinn tlachd bhuat nas motha an sin. Beagan.¡± He doesn¡¯t look entirely certain of himself.

    Ultimately he shrugs as he gives me a wry look ¡°Nimheach na seo, ionmholta."

    Ok, I got part of that. ¡°To the city¡±, and then something else which I have no idea of. I have to admit to wanting to follow the wagons regardless, mostly to figure out how those ¡°channta" ¡ªor the magic¡ª work.

    I¡¯m not sure about leaving. I¡¯ve finally found a friend in Ronain. I don¡¯t particularly want to give that up. I still have the symbols on the bark and the fruit juice to experiment with. The confirmation that magic exists gives me something to work towards, and I might as well do that here.

    At the same time, Ronain is telling me to follow them. Even if he¡¯s not entirely sure, I think he¡¯s proven that he¡¯s trustworthy. Even if he¡¯s wrong it¡¯s worth a shot. I unconsciously shrug. I can always come back.

    ¡°Tha mi duilich.¡± I apologize to him ¡°I¡¯ll try to follow them, but I¡¯ll be back.¡± I¡¯m sure his English is not up to understanding that last bit, but I have no idea how to say it in his language, and I want to have said it.

    Ronain nods, and tells me to wait there, then rushes off into the village. I¡¯m momentarily confused about him suddenly rushing off, then worried that he¡¯ll reveal my position in his enthusiasm, but he actually moved away from me before leaving the woods, and nobody is the wiser.

    I guess I should wait?

    I spend some more time looking at the loading of the wagons. The process is slow, but the pulleys make it certain. Given the size of the stacks, I estimate they¡¯ll be at it for another hour or so.

    Aside from the two channelers, it appears there are 4 more people in the group. Two men that I identify as guards by the fact they¡¯re carrying spears, and two laborers which I can only distinguish from the villages because they¡¯re wearing clearly different clothes. I¡¯d hesitate to call it official, but they do seem to be wearing similar colors to the two men with spears. I¡¯d be hard pressed to call it a uniform, but there¡¯s a clear theme there.

    I have to wonder what the goal of these people is. They have a fairly massive load of trees with them there.

    Eventually I get bored of speculating on what the trees are going to be used for, and as the excitement of seeing actual magic fades, my thoughts turn towards the much more pressing concern of how I¡¯m going to survive when I follow them.

    My thoughts note frightfully fast that more than half the village is out looking at the magic wagons, and that this would make for a prime opportunity to once again resupply myself by liberating some resources from the village.

    Ronain told me to wait, but I¡¯m not sure when he¡¯ll be back, and there¡¯s no telling what the crowd will do when the loading is over. Maybe they¡¯d even depart immediately?

    I tell myself that I¡¯m not going to let myself wallow in indecision this time, and purposefully sneak around the outside of the village until I¡¯m at the side furthest from the commotion. As far as I can determine, it¡¯s completely deserted.

    I keep my eyes peeled and my eyes sharp as I make my way over to the closest house, but nothing keeps me company but the faint breeze through the bushes and trees.

    The house I arrive at is slightly larger than the last one I uh¡­ I try to think of a word that doesn¡¯t make me sound quite so much like a bandit. I frown, and give up. I plundered their house, just as I will this one.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    I find the door ajar, which initially worries me, but it does not appear anyone is inside. I wonder how careless the people in the village are when my latest theft was just a few days ago. But then, it appears that to them it hasn¡¯t even been a thing. If they were worried about something it¡¯d be the evil woman in the forest, not the fact one of their houses lost a little bit of food.

    In any case, I step inside. The air smells of something earthen, which on reflection is not all that surprising considering most of the floor is packed earth. It¡¯s subtly different from the last house though.

    I scan the interior, looking for a similar door as the last house I was in. It stands to reason that they all have a storage space for provisions, and I might as well go directly to the source instead of rifle through the kitchen again.

    The table and chairs recieve no more than a glance. The setup is mostly similar to the previous house, it has three instead of two doors leading out of the living space, and I¡¯m momentarily frozen in indecision, but then pick what I consider the most likely door and open that one.

    Bingo! The door does indeed lead to the storeroom. And what a storeroom it is. Where the last one seemed like it had seen better days, both in terms of quality and contents, this one seems reflective of the larger size of the house. Now, let me clarify that that doesn¡¯t mean the thing looks amazing, it¡¯s still rough wood and packed earth, but it feels like someone spent more effort on making it nice instead of simply functional.

    I feel a mild pang of guilt when I realize I might have stolen my earlier supplies from people that could ill afford it, but quickly squash the feeling. Regardless of how poor they were, I needed it more.

    I move down the line of chests, opening them as I go, then realize I have nothing to put anything in. Ronain basically rushed me out the door, and I left the empty sack and pot behind...

    I go back to the living room, and a quick search gives me what I need. A shoulder bag that¡¯s really a lot more convenient than the sack I lugged along before, reminiscent of Dorain¡¯s pouch, but made out of cloth. And a honest to god waterskin. I¡¯m honestly not sure if I¡¯d have recognized that for what it was if it wasn¡¯t already full of water. It looks nothing like the pictures I¡¯ve seen.

    Nonetheless, it quickly disappears into the bag, and I rush back to the storeroom, where I load my bag with as much as it can carry.

    Surprisingly there¡¯s potatos, I thought those came from America? The people here do not look like Native Americans, and therefore it feels weird to me, but when I think about it there¡¯s no reason for this world to be similar to what I know. There¡¯s a lot to be said for expecting the opposite.

    After what seems like a moment, my bag is full, and even though I put everything in, and should know better, I¡¯m surprised at how hefty it is. I was a lot more reluctant to take anything, much less this amount the last time. I pause for a moment and wonder if that¡¯s because this house seems to have more supplies in general, or whether it¡¯s just become so much easier the second time around.

    Morality is a crazy thing. I do not feel even mildly reluctant. The slippery slope I was worried about appears to be a ravine¡­ Though I guess I¡¯m stealing from the rich and giving to the poor?

    The houses relative aflluence compared to the previous one makes me curious. Why does a woodcutters place hold this appearance of abundance. Does the foreman live here or something?

    I find myself lingering, fascinated by the mystery of the life lived by the owner of this house. A full shelf of pottery, a tiny shawl made from dyed fabrid. Potentially more expensive than anything else in the house. I have no idea how hard dyeing is, but I¡¯ve seen little but natural colors worn by the villagers. One of the shelves holds a woodcarving that must surely have cost something.

    I explore the rest of the house, find myself in front of what would be the bedroom that I was unable to enter last time, and try to pull myself away, to tell myself that I already have what I came for. But curiosity was always one of my best and worst traits.

    I push the door open, and find myself in a room that actually has a wooden floor. A large wooden bed sits in the corner, a slew of nightclothes thrown carelessly on the covers. I smirk. They look a lot better than what I¡¯m wearing, but I still have enough pride to not want to go running around in dirty pajamas.

    Of course, I can only say that because I¡¯m already wearing adequate clothing now.

    On a table next to the bed I see a small pouch. When I pick it up it jingles with coins. That would certainly come in useful. I didn''t steal them last time, but now¡­? This doesn¡¯t look like someone¡¯s life savings. I find myself unsure, but remind myself of my decision to not hold back. If I¡¯m planning to slug innocent girls in the face to prevent my capture, what is taking a few coins? I can use them where I¡¯m going.

    The pouch disappears in my bag, and for the first time since I stepped into this house I¡¯m starting to feel mildly bad.

    I quickly turn my attention to the last main feature in the room, the large chest standing at the foot of the bed. I wonder what¡¯s in there?

    In the end, it¡¯s not very exciting. Many more clothes than were thrown on the bed greet me. There¡¯s pants, shirts, a few dresses, a bunch of tunics, a lot of underwear. I pick something up that looks sort of like a bra, and I hold it up to try to figure out how one would wear that, when I¡¯m suddenly struck by what I¡¯m doing, and I feel extremely foolish.

    I didn¡¯t even come here for clothes, and here I am admiring the contents of someone¡¯s wardrobe. I quickly stash the bra-like thing, and one set of underwear in my bag ¡ªI¡¯ll try to figure out how it works later¡ª and then quickly put everything back as I found it.

    I suddenly feel less like Robin Hood and more like an actual villain. What am I reduced to. Stealing underwear? I can¡¯t deny that I need it, but¡­ Before I can think too much more about it I¡¯m rushing back out the bedroom, through the living, and back to the front door.

    I¡¯m suddenly aware of every footstep, of every breath I take in this quiet space. I¡¯ve taken what I need to survive, but my survival does not give me a blank check to do as I want.

    A tiny voice whispers that it really does. That my notions of morality belong to a different world. But I¡¯m not ready to throw all that away yet, and squash it ruthlessly.

    After a summary check, I exit the house with a swift, determined stride. Ronain¡¯s open, trusting face suddenly flashes through my mind, and I feel a flash of shame. It¡¯s his people I¡¯m stealing from. I shake my head, and quickly move on. It¡¯s also his people that tried to kill me multiple times.

    As I make my way back to the place I came from, I find myself wondering if the fact I¡¯m not so bothered is a good thing. I¡¯m suddenly wondering if my unease comes from that fact, instead of from the act itself. I always considered myself a righteous individual, but was I really?

    There¡¯s an undeniable attraction to the path that I¡¯ve taken a few steps on, and I find myself wondering if I want to move forward along that path or back away.

    When I¡¯m nearly back at the place I expect Ronain to come back to, I spot him running in the distance, converging on the same spot. I suddenly wonder what will happen if he sees me with my recent acquisitions, and realize I do not want to find out. I quickly tuck it in the bushes, before making my way to Ronain.

    When he spots me, his face lights up with an innocent earnestness that twists the knife of guilt a little bit deeper. I can feel my cheeks warming with shame.

    Ronain notices nothing of course, barely containing his excitement, and I can¡¯t help but smile.

    When he reaches me, he thrusts out a small, roughly tied package into my hands. ¡°Tha sin airson ithe! Mar sin faodaidh tu ruighinn don mh¨°r-shluaigh!¡±. His eyes are shining with an odd mix of pride and sadness. I avert my gaze, not trusting myself to speak right now. Somehow there¡¯s a brick in my throat I can¡¯t seem to swallow away.

    "Thank you, Ronain," I manage, my voice barely a whisper. I can''t bring myself to meet his gaze, fearful that he''d somehow see the truth in my eyes.

    He wishes me good luck, or so I think, then pushes me in the direction of the wagons, whose preparations have long since finished, and are currently moving out.

    Once he¡¯s convinced that I¡¯ve noticed the wagons slowly moving away and am going to follow them he stops pushing and looks at me with his unguarded eyes then says ¡°Gur math a th¨¨id leat."

    I nod, and he turns away to walk back to the village. As I watch his retreating back, a profound sadness settles over me. Ronain represents a purity I fear I¡¯ve lost touch with in my few weeks here. His trust in me, a complete stranger, shames me. Here he is, giving me what little he can scrounge together, while just moments ago I was pilfering through his neighbors¡¯ home.

    I sigh, at least I still feel regret I suppose. I hope that means I''m not too far gone.

    As I finally turn away, and grab the much larger bag stuffed full of supplies, I make a silent vow to honor Ronain''s trust. I''ll strive to be better, to make choices that reflect the kind of person I imagine he¡¯d want me to be, choices that would make my sole little ally proud.

    I move slowly after the caravan, making sure I¡¯m far enough away that there¡¯s no chance of them seeing me, and I wonder where this magic parade will lead me.

 Into the Abyss

    The caravan leaves the village straight out of the forest, and into the fields. Suddenly not walking beneath a canopy of trees any more feels weird. The sky is blue, with vague streaks of clouds, and a steady but mild breeze constantly cools me down.

    The lack of forest causes me some headache, as I can¡¯t exactly hide behind the nonexistent trees. Of course there is still vegetation. There¡¯s bushes, and occassionally trees, but nothing like I¡¯ve gotten used to, and it¡¯s just plain insufficient for my preferred method of hiding by putting as much vegetation between me and the one I¡¯m hiding from as possible.

    After walking and desperately trying to hide for an hour, I realize that I stand out more, not less. Even if my clothes are dirty they¡¯re similar to what anyone else here would wear. As long as I stay away from them, I can just walk on the road without hiding at all.

    Thinking about clothes makes me think of over the bloodstained dress that I¡¯m still wearing, and feel extremely silly for stealing underwear instead of a new set of clothes¡­ It was all right there! I had it in my hands! But that¡¯s all water under the bridge now.

    I follow the caravan at a goodly distance. Just enough that I¡¯d know when they turn down a certain road.

    You¡¯d think that¡¯d be pretty far away, but you¡¯d be surprised. The landscape is a patchwork of little roads all criss-crossing one another. Like a massive net was draped over the landscape, which rises and falls like the waves of the sea. Little footpaths, just barely wide enough for a much smaller wagon than the ones I¡¯m following flow everywhere around the fields. It really makes me wonder who travels here, it¡¯s hard to imagine anything but foot traffic here, but coming from a country of cars and bicycles, it¡¯s nearly incomprehensible that people would do everything on foot.

    People are everywhere, for some definition of it. It¡¯s not ¡®everywhere¡¯ like I would have understood in my previous world, where it meant a city packed to the brim with people. What I instead mean is that we are surrounded by fields filled with golden wheat, barley and corn, all worked by farmers. Once in a while, a farmhouse will be close enough that I can actually glimpse what it it looks like.

    The buildings are made of sturdy wood, with thick logs stacked on top of one another. Not unlike the logs the wagons are transporting. The roofs are steep and covered in reeds, looking like a giant hat tilted to one side. I can see smoke curling up from the chimneys, and I imagine it smelling like delicious bread.

    Honestly, they¡¯re not very different from what I saw in the village I so recently left. Everyone uses the same basic layout for their houses. The exceptions are those farms that have a helping of various animals. Sometimes I see barns next to the house that have cows or other animals inside.

    An exception to the persistent wheat and other grains, is those fields that house various fruit trees. I¡¯ve seen apples, pears, and other fruits that I can¡¯t identify at a glance. It¡¯s kind of strange to think that such immense amounts of food were sitting here right outside the forest, while I was inside, desperate for survival.

    But now, the bag I liberated, and the pouch that Ronain gave me are full of food. My task of following the wagons takes no effort at all, and I find myself spending a lot of time fantasizing about the world in which I find myself.

    I¡¯m still baffled that I seem to have been transported into the early middle ages. Like the role playing games I used to play. I keep expecting to turn away and see my room, but it¡¯s not a screen I¡¯m looking at. I¡¯m really here. Every time I glance at the wagons in the distance I know that magic is a thing here, but it seems oddly absent from people¡¯s daily lives. All the farmwork seems to be done by hand. Maybe there will be more when we get to wherever it is Ronain thinks we¡¯re going.

    The caravan in front of me proceeds at a walking pace. I¡¯m roughly two hundred meters behind them, which is close enough that they¡¯d spot me if they look backwards, but I¡¯ve seen no indication they¡¯re bothered by my presence. I figure it¡¯s also far enough that I can turn around and leg it if they are.

    Once in a while they¡¯ll drive over the crest of a hill, and I can look down at the caravan at my leisure while the six men try to stop the wagons from rolling down like runaway trains on the other side. It¡¯s not actually very exciting to see, but it does give me a lot to think about in regards to how their magic works.

    Going uphill does not seem to engender much of a change. The two men ostensibly driving the wagons sit in deep concentration all the while, and the wagon goes forward. Steering seems to be handled by the two non-guards, that move the front fork of the wagon from left to right as necessary to steer. When they get to the crest though, the wagons slow down to a stop right on top. The two drivers wake up out of their concentration, and share a few words with the workers. Who then pick up and hold a rope on either end of a wagon. The driver then resumes their concentration, and the wagon slowly rolls over the crest, where the workers presumably stop it from rolling off on it¡¯s own. Then, after a short pause, the workers let go of the ropes, and resume walking in front of the wagon, which sedately proceeds down the slope. When the first wagon is down, they go back up and do the same with the next, though for less steep hills sometimes there¡¯s only a worker per wagon and they go at the same time.

    Evidently they do not enjoy the process, because more than a few times I see them deliberately going around hills when the option to do so exists. Clearly the drivers are stopping the wagon from thundering down somehow. My guess is it¡¯s the same mechanism that makes the wagons move forward, but in reverse.

    What surprises me is how much concentration it evidently takes to do what they do. The workers steering seems to be plain necessity. The drivers cannot focus on doing more than moving the wagons either forwards or backwards.

    After roughly half a days walk, the caravan slows to a halt on a slight open space next to the road. They just went down another hill, and I¡¯m in a good position to see what they''re doing from the crest that they just vacated.

    The position of the sun tells me it¡¯s past lunchtime, and indeed, the drivers climb off their wagons, and together with the workers and guards, pull provisions from their bags, and sit down to eat. I¡¯m surprised by the way there seems to be little distinction between the workers. Maybe it¡¯s my preconceptions, but I¡¯d have imagined the mages to be more aloof.

    Something about commanding the forces of nature seems like it should make you more arrogant, but the men all seem to speak, eat and laugh together. The mages do have a clearly distinct uniform though¡ªit¡¯d be hard to mistake them¡ªand I wonder if that¡¯s significant.

    Thinking that, I note that it¡¯s indeed only men that I see doing work. The sentries in the village too, all men. I guess I¡¯ve gotten a bit inured to that due to the realities of my job, but you¡¯d still think I¡¯d have noticed earlier. I grimace. I really hope that doesn¡¯t mean that the only options available to me here are getting married and taking care of children.

    I mean, sure I want to get married and have children at some point, but I do not want it to be my only option.

    As I sit there zoning out, I catch something out of the corner of my eye. One of the guards has gotten up and is now squinting in my direction. Now that I think about it, I''m probably pretty exposed up here on this hill, just standing around and staring at the guys enjoying their lunch down below.

    I quickly sit down and start a meal of my own. Which brings to light a glaring omission in my traveling supplies. I forgot the damn pot of water! When Ronain dragged me out of my cave, and told me to go after the caravan leaving right now I didn¡¯t even remember that it was still sitting back in the cave, and now we¡¯re half a day away. I look back the way I came with mixed feelings. At least I have some idea of where I can retrieve it, and all these farms must get water somehow. I should be safe.

    Then I glance back at the men down below. The standing one has sat down again and is eating his lunch, but he seems to be having an animated discussion with his compatriots, with occasional finger pointing in my direction. I doubt this bodes well.

    Eventually, their conversation appears to come to a head, and the guard that initially saw me jumps up, shouts something¡ªprobably rude, from the gestures he¡¯s making¡ªat his companions, and then proceeds to make his way over to me while muttering to himself. The remaining men shrug, and do not follow, but do not take their eyes off their colleague either. I guess I¡¯m not quite as inconspicuous as I had hoped.

    I jump up and look around for a way to get away fast. To my disappointment, but not my surprise, I find none. The hilltop is exposed, and the only place to go is down either of the grassy sides. The only two obvious directions, aside from along, or back down the road, are a farmhouse just a kilometer back the way we came, and a small copse of trees that¡¯s set somewhere parallel down the road, some 300 meters down the hill and 200 meters out on flat land.

    I find it hard to believe that running down to a random copse of trees would be less suspicious than running back to a farmhouse that I could ostensibly live or find friendlier faces, so back down the hill it is. I stuff the food I was eating back into my bag, and pump my legs to get away from the approaching man.

    The big issue with running down the hill on the other side is that I can¡¯t see where the guy is any more. I guess the same thing goes for him, but I doubt he¡¯s as worried about me as I am about him.

    My headlong rush takes me down the hill faster than I¡¯d expected, and I fly past the bottom when I notice that there¡¯s a ditch right next to the field I¡¯m about to run into. I contemplate hiding in there, when I realize what I¡¯m about the run into, and instead pump my legs faster. An enormous mass of corn envelops me as I race into the field. I don¡¯t have to get all the way to the farmhouse at all!

    I¡¯m not sure how long it¡¯ll take the guy to get to the top of the hill and see me ploughing through the field, so almost as soon as I¡¯m in I dive to the ground. The bad part about being enveloped by the waving stalks in all directions is that I have no way to see whether the guy is still following me either.

    I desperately try to calm my panicked breathing, and listen for the sounds of pursuit.

    They come soon enough. I¡¯ve been counting ever since I flopped down in the corn, and not 20 seconds later I hear the guard¡¯s exasperated voice coming from the road.

    "Cuin a theid i? Chuir mi a-mach gu robh i freagair!"

    Of course I don¡¯t respond, leaving him to shout at the world at large. The main thing I can make out is that he doesn¡¯t know where I am, aside from probably on this side of the hill. It occurs to me that I could have run down this side, and then circled the hill in a different direction and he¡¯d have been none the wiser. Even if he sped up when he saw me run away, he still had to go uphill while I went down.

    Images of my pursuit by the sentries flash through my mind, of fleeing through the forest while the eery whistling sound of arrows fills the air. I grind my face into my hands and try not to hyperventilate. There¡¯s a cognitive dissonance between what my mind is telling me would, should, happen when I am found, which is absolutely nothing, because what the hell, I was just walking, and what has happened ever since I came to this world, which is instant hostility and attempted murder.

    I can¡¯t even imagine what would happen if I had to flee from a man with a spear that¡¯s already right next to me. No, I mean, I can. That¡¯s what¡¯s terrifying me. I¡¯d be dead.

    The cursing continues for a bit. He seems to be moving around, as if he can¡¯t decide which direction I¡¯ve disappeared in. Eventually I hear him walking away, and no more sound follows, except the steady swaying of the corn in the breeze. I can¡¯t supress the shiver that runs down my back.

    I think it¡¯s several minutes before I dare to move. I try to sneak my way through the stalks of corn without brushing against them, or getting up. I want to to peek out from the edge, but halfway there, I can¡¯t make myself go any further. My arms feel like lead, and I feel sick to my stomach. What if he¡¯s still there?

    He can¡¯t be there anymore, I keep telling myself. He¡¯s been gone from his companions for a while, and they have places to be. Maybe they just resumed their lunch? But then, maybe he went to get his friends instead¡­

    In the end I can¡¯t make myself chase after them directly, which might be for the best. Is it even worth going after them now that they¡¯re this suspicious? But even if I don¡¯t necessarily want to follow the caravan any more, I do want to find wherever it is they¡¯re going that Ronain said I should go.

    In the end I end up sneaking through the whole field of corn to exit from a completely different side, but when I come out, and look over in the distance to the hill, there is nobody there. I don¡¯t want to go that way any more, so I circle around the hill through paths and fields that border it, instead of going over it once again.

    When the place where they were having lunch comes into view, it¡¯s deserted. It must have been nearly an hour since I last saw them. The tracks dug in the dirt suggest the wagons have moved out though.

    As I realize that the tracks are this easy to follow, I want to slap myself. I didn¡¯t have to be close to the wagons to see which way they went at all¡­ There¡¯s barely any other wagons traveling these roads. I¡¯ve seen some farmers with handcarts, but never anywhere close, and nothing that had a massive load like these wagons.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    Feeling defeated, I plod along the dusty road, following the deep ruts carved by the wagon wheels.

    I takes me a while to notice, but suddenly I hear shouting in the distance. There is a decent size copse of trees that the road leads through, and from inside, I can hear shouting, and the sounds of battle.

    Is that the caravan I was following? I¡¯m tempted to turn right around, but also curious as to what is happening, and the trees give me renewed courage. I used to love walking under the clear blue sky on a sunny day, but now the lack of a canopy of leaves leaves me feeling exposed.

    I dart into the thicket, slipping between the trees, and let out a sigh of relief as I find myself surrounded by the greenery once more.

    A pained scream comes from ahead of me, and I slowly sneak further towards the source of the sounds. It doesn¡¯t take long for me to find out what is happening, as the land swells up several meters, giving me a good vantage on what is happening on the road down below.

    About thirty meters ahead of me, the caravan that I¡¯ve been following has come under attack by a group of bandits, whom are ruthlessly cutting down all resistance. The scream earlier evidently came from one of the guards, who is now bleeding out on the ground with a massive cut through his stomach.

    The mages are slumped over in their seats, one of them with an ugly hole in the back of his head, through which a crossbow bolt peeks out. The remaining guard and the two workers are pressed with their backs to one of the carts. The workers barely avoiding being skewered by dint of the spearman that somehow keeps four bandits off at the same time with wild ¡ªbut evidently skillful¡ª swipes of his spear.

    One of the workers makes a dash for the spear that the first spearman dropped, but two of the bandits break off from their engagement with the spearman and chase him down, then skewer him from behind with their own spears. The other worker takes an unlucky hit from one of the bandits, and sinks to the ground while clutching his neck. Eyes wide as his lifeblood pours down between his fingers.

    One of the bandits, evidently having enough of this, retreats momentarily, opting to grab and reload a crossbow that was discarded on the side of the road. I start when I realize it¡¯s a young woman. The way she walks, and the way she is dressed slightly differently from the others makes it clear.

    The spearman, seizing this brief reprieve, furiously attempts a breakout. Knocking the spear from the sole remaining bandit aside, and making an abortive dash for freedom. The two that chased the worker down are back, and they pin the spearman with his back against the wagon once again.

    The three bandits, while not skillfull enough to defeat him, are enough to trap him, and that seals his doom. The young woman with the crossbow is walking back, while calmly reloading the device with a fresh bolt. There¡¯s something incredibly distubing about seeing someone just a few years younger than me there. She reaches the spearman, and when he sees what¡¯s about to happen, he bellows a warcry and makes one last desperate attempt to get free, but the girl just rolls her eyes, and shoots him right in the gut.

    The mans eyes widen as he drops to the ground, and his last stand ends as three spears pierce his body from various directions. His final, guttural cry echoes before he collapses.

    The first spearman is still alive, and tries to crawl away. With the blood he¡¯s trailing I don¡¯t imagine he would have made it anywhere, but it¡¯s like a red flag to the bandits, and they descend on him like a pack of hungry vultures, stabbing and slashing him with a savagery that I didn¡¯t imagine possible.

    I mean, I did. My mind, and some movies are pretty gruesome, but that¡¯s just it, they¡¯re movies. That¡¯s a human being being torn to pieces right in front of me. Looking away from the gruesome affair, I note that the girl has not joined them, and is instead looking at them with some form of mild disgust.

    I let out a breath, feeling an unexpected sense of relief that she doesn¡¯t seem to be participating in the madness and doesn¡¯t approve of it. But then, at the sound of a groan from the poor soul who just got stabbed in the throat, she swiftly turns and drives her spear right into his chest. With a fierce determination, she twists the weapon, a wicked smile forming on her lips when his lifeless body slumps over, the finality of it making me shudder.

    Bile churns in my throat, a fierce impulse to vomit barely held at bay. I can somehow stomach watching the men brutalize the worker, but that young woman stabbing the worker with a spear? The smile on her face will linger in my mind for all eternity. I can¡¯t, I don¡¯t want to imagine I could be someone like that.

    I can¡¯t bear to watch any longer.

    I find my hands trembling and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I¡¯m horrified, fascinied and terrified in equal measure. I need to get away from here!

    As I start to turn around however, my limbs stiffen, rooted to the spot. Footsteps crunch on gravel, and I see another bandit approaching. He¡¯s dressed similarly to the others, but his clothes are of slightly better quality¡ªor at least, as far as you could call it that. There''s no doubt he''s part of their gang. This one brandishes a short sword and grins without mercy. He clearly sees me for what I am: a terrified woman, his grin widening as he savors my fear. My gaze locks onto the tip of his blade bobbing back and forth as it does. I vaguely register my bladder emptying itself. I¡¯m paralyzed, I can''t run, can''t even move. For what feels like the first time in my life, no clever thoughts spring to mind.

    My thoughts race like a wild stallion, whirling in every direction and yet getting me nowhere. I should''ve just stuck around the village with Ronain. At least then, I¡¯d have one decent friend in this hellhole of a world. My mind goes to the two magicians slumped over in their carts. Fat lot of good their magic did them. Was I really thinking about chasing them down to find out what...?!

    I curse this wretched world, each and every one of these idiots that fill it, and whatever twisted fate dropped me here to begin with.

    A small part of my mind that¡¯s not swamped under the panic tries to joke that I¡¯ve heard that before somewhere, but it¡¯s drowned out in the cacaphony of other throughs rushing through my mind.

    I have eyes only for the wicked looking sword as the dirty man steps closer. I tighten my grip, and suddenly realize what I still have in my hands. My spear! That lovely improvised piece of shit that Ronain thought was mildly servicable. I didn¡¯t finish turning around, and the bandit must not have seen it. Probably has no reason to even suspect, from someone dressed like the poor villager I look like, poor villager I am.

    My hands tighten around the shaft. I¡¯m I¡¯m going to die, I¡¯m going to go out with a bang. I¡¯m definitely dying regardless, the fight ¡ªor rather slaughter¡ª I just witnessed is a testament to that. If this world is so determined to kill me, I¡¯ll at least take one of it¡¯s inhabitants with me! A final last stand, like the heroes I¡¯ve read about. If I had any thoughts to spare on it I¡¯d have told myself I was crazy. But the only thing on my mind is the dirty, evil, grinning monster of a man coming closer with every careless step.

    A fierce desire to prove my worth to him and the world around me rages through my veins, that just because I come from a different age, from a different world, does not mean I am helpless. Somewhere, some part of me realizes that something has snapped, but I¡¯m beyond caring.

    He¡¯s nearly dropped his sword arm now, clearly under no apprehension that I present any kind of threat. The fool!

    He takes one more step, and I notice a frown begin to etch on his forehead, the flicker of suspicion in his eyes. But it¡¯s too late, as he¡¯s within my reach. I whip my body around, and with it the stone-tipped spear that I thought I''d been needlessly carrying all this time.

    I thrust it forward, and feel a jarring impact, almost throwing me off my feet. As I wonder what happened I realize my eyes are squeezed shut. What idiot closes their eyes in the middle of a fight?! As I open them, I see the bandit gazing down in shock at the shard of rock embedded in his throat. Blood pours down around the shard, splattering him, the spear between us, and me, in a deep crimson. The sword slips from his grasp, and he topples forward, his body cracking and dislodging the spear.

    The remains of the haft fall from my hands with a clatter. The smell of his bowels releasing themselves adds to mine, as his hands scrabble at the ground, desperately trying to contain the surges of blood pulsing out of his throat with every beat of his heart. A gurgling sound bubbles out of the hole.

    Tearing my gaze away from the dying bandit, I look back at the group of bandits that are still down near the caravan. And I¡¯m surprised to see that they¡¯ve just barely started stripping their targets of their valuables. The whole thing took less than 10 seconds. It doesn¡¯t looks like they noticed anything.

    I look back at the dying man, and am surprised to find him still spasming. I¡¯m suddenly terrified he¡¯ll find a way to cry out, to gain the attention of his friends he must surely know are there. I scrabble towards the sword he dropped, and plunge it down, again and again, into this body. I close my eyes, and only stop when I can hear no more indications of struggle, or sound beneath me.

    I crumple to the ground, my body draped over his still-warm figure as labored breaths escape my lungs. What have I become? What have I done? These questions flood through my mind, drowing out all the rest. Just moments ago I thought the young woman''s smile would haunt my days, but now...

    The garbled, desperate gasps of the dying man echo in my mind, his struggle, the realization that it was futile, the resignation when he saw me coming with the sword. But most of all, the relief when the sword plunged into him, like he embraced death.

    A thick irony grips me; just moments ago, I condemned that young woman for doing exactly what I¡¯ve just done¡­ I¡¯d call it self-defense, but it somehow feels like a feeble excuse. The body is still warm, the blood is soaking through my clothes, undoubtedly ruining what little of them was still clean, and I¡¯m suddenly disgusted instead of exhausted. I push myself off the body and roll on my back, eyes closed, just breathing, trying to get my panic back under control.

    As I get a moment to breath, I realize that I¡¯m not out of the woods yet, just a few tens of meters away, separated by naught but trees, the other bandits are looting their victims. I¡¯ll have to put my breakdown on hold and get away while I still can.

    I strain my ears to hear if the bandits have noticed, but only their distant chatter reaches me. I don¡¯t want to, but I have to face what I¡¯ve done. I wrench open my eyes, and grant myself a short moment to just look up and stare at the leaves above me. It¡¯s so peaceful like this, no blood, just a slight breeze ruffling the leaves just enough you can see how many there are. I feel the same breeze on my skin, but the sweet scent of pine and earth clashes violently with the rancid stench of death, blood and excreta mixed into some mad combination.

    This is a new smell for me. Dead people at their funeral are always nicely done up. Just as they were in life, no scent at all. No such luck here.

    I push myself up, and look at what I¡¯ve wrought. I¡¯m surprised at how recognizably human the man still looks. In my mind I¡¯d pulverized the body, but there¡¯s simply a lot of stab wounds in his stomach. Of course his neck is a complete wreck, but his face is, dare I say it, peaceful. There¡¯s a vaguely amused twist to it that I can¡¯t imagine the cause of.

    My dress¡­ well, it was soaked with my own blood on the shoulder and leg, but now it¡¯s painted red. God, I look like I stepped out of a shitty horror movie. I feel a mad laugh bubble up from deep within me, and I ruthlessly try to squash it. In the end it comes out more like a sob, as I desperately try to hold on to the little bit of sanity I have left.

    Just when I think I''ve got the nausea under control, it betrays me, and I double over, spewing the remnants of my last meal into the bushes. It feels like a volatile eruption¡ªmy body purging itself of what little I¡¯ve consumed until there¡¯s nothing left to come up.

    Once the spasms subside, I¡¯m left empty and shaking. I force myself to look at the body again. The sight doesn¡¯t get any easier, but the shock¡­ the shock begins to dull, making way for the cold realization that I¡¯m the victor. That I''ve survived.

    It¡¯s tough to tell if any of my wounds have opened up again after that scuffle, considering I¡¯m basically drenched in blood from head to toe. But I¡¯ve gotta hand it to Ronain¡¯s medicine; it¡¯s worked miracles on my injuries. With a bit of luck and the element of surprise on my side, I think I might have actually managed to escape without any serious damage.

    The forest around me hasn''t changed. It remains indifferent to my turmoil, the birds resuming their songs as if nothing had happened. It strikes me as odd, this dissonance between the serenity of the forest and the violence it silently witnesses.

    I have to get away, the looting bandits won¡¯t wait on my leisure to come looking for their missing friend. I quickly look around for anything I might want to take. Even now, the reality of my situation is not lost on me. While I may have obtained food, I have precious little else. I glance down at the sword in my hand, an unfamiliar weight that¡¯s necessary now, since the spear is beyond repair.

    That makes me look at the spearhead still embedded in the mans throat, and I feel an bizarre wave of nostaligia wash over me. I find I do not want to leave the symbol of my survival there. With my thoughts back in order somewhat, I¡¯m able to force myself throught the unpleasant task of making that happen. I crouch down next to him, and give the rock an experimental tug. I must have smashed it in pretty hard since it¡¯s stuck fast. As I wriggle it back and forth, I¡¯m suddenly extremely happy I already voided both my bowels and the contents of my stomach. I nearly leave it, this not being worst satisfying this crazy urge. But in the end I force my hands to wrap around it''s back and tug it out.

    I set the rock to the side for a bit as I turn to the remains. I don¡¯t have a great deal of time, really none at all, but I consider that if I¡¯m still busy looting this man, the bandits are probably still busy looting theirs. The fight didn¡¯t take long at all, though I¡¯m not sure how long I¡¯ve spent recovering from it. Time is a crazy thing under the effect of adrenaline.

    I hurriedly strip off his belt and boots, then make my way out of there. The belt is great, it has a scabbard for the sword, so I don¡¯t have to lug the thing in my hand all the time. The boots are¡­ well, right now they¡¯re just luggage, I can¡¯t affort trying to fit my feet in there now that I need to move quickly. Everything else, well, I really kinda didn¡¯t need all the extra blood covered stuff. My dress is now officially the foulest thing I''ve ever seen since that thrice-cursed kebab stand a world back, but as the pawns say, stuff dead people wore is tainted.

    In reflection, I realize that I stripped the body with an efficiency that should terrify me. Even knowing I needed the stuff, ¡®looting the bodies¡¯ has apparently been ingrained in me so much that even now that it¡¯s not a game, after just literally killing a man, it¡¯s practically automatic.

    At that, I shove the rock in one of the belt pouches, and start a rapid retreat from the copse of trees where this chaos unfolded. A few seconds after I begin my retreat I hear shouting behind me, but I do not turn back to investigate.

    When I start to run, something inside me clicks off, and my brain just goes blank. It''s like a raw, animal instinct takes over. For a stretch of time, I forget about everything¡ªwhat time it is, where I¡¯m headed, even who the hell I am.

    When I come to, I¡¯m nestled among the trees, cradled by the forest¡¯s embrace. I inhale the damp, earthy scent of the forest, letting its stillness seep into my bones, as memories slowly trickle back. When they do, I find it really hard to care much about the whole thing. There¡¯s mostly a lingering surprise that I¡¯d be capable of something like murder. It wasn¡¯t exactly cold blooded, but still.

    I¡¯m vaguely aware that that''s probably not a healthy reaction to the thing, but I really do not want to deal with it right now. A much bigger problem is that I do not know where I am, or where I should be going. With the caravan gone, so have my guides. At the same time, the road we have traveled has been sort of obvious, always following the roads that would actually fit the wagons. I¡¯m fairly confident I could find wherever they were going by just following those same roads.

    I could also attempt to retrace my steps, to go back towards the village, towards Ronain and the semblance of a life I had started to build there. But while I strongly felt that I should have done that when I was in imminent fear of my life, the idea now feels vaguely distasteful. It isn¡¯t even about what Ronain said would be best for me any more. I just don¡¯t want to have gone through all this just to give up.

    I know that sounds like the biggest sunk cost fallacy ever, and it might be, but progress depends on the irrational. Something like irrational people make the world fit them, instead of fit themselves to the world. That¡¯s exactly why I hated the last world, and it doesn¡¯t seem to have changed a whit. It¡¯s just the nature of the madness that¡¯s changed.

    Anyhow, I¡¯ll find out where the wagons were going. They couldn¡¯t have intended to transport the lumber very far, since the men didn¡¯t seem to have more than one days worth of rations with them. Maybe the authorities will be thankful if I bring them news of the raid on one of their caravans? Of course there¡¯s the slight issue I barely speak the language...

    It¡¯s only a nice fantasy anyway, more likely they¡¯d execute me on sight just for the presumption it was me. I hardly look innocent.

    God, I need a bath.

 Death

    I make my way out of the grove I¡¯m currently in, and wonder how I made it here. My remembrance of what happened does not extend to the flight here.

    As it comes time to step out of the trees, I pause. A shiver of fear coming across me. There¡¯s something dreadful about stepping out of the protection of the trees. Which is silly, the whole encounter happened surrounded by trees, but my reason and emotion do not align. Reason proves the stronger of the two, and while I feel like I want to break out into a sprint again, I walk beneath the blue sky once again.

    As I start walking, I feel all the filth on the dress and on my body rubbing around everywhere. Some of it is dried, some of it still wet, and it¡¯s all around disgusting. I hardly noticed while fighting for my life, but now is a different story. Figuring out where the caravan was going can wait. All these farms here must have some way to get water.

    I try to ignore the filth for now, and orient myself from atop a large hill. I think I can locate the place where this all happened. It¡¯s not even all that far away. How much time did I actually spend running? It looks like I literally ran into then cowered in the first place that vaguely resembled the forest I¡¯ve gotten so used to. Regardless, the shadows are beginning to lengthen, and soon it will be evening, so I must have spent a good few hours between running and hiding.

    Now that I have some time, I try on the late bandit¡¯s old boots, but they¡¯re unsurprisingly way too large for me. I was hoping I could stuff them with something, but even if I did so these would be comically large. If only the one that died was the female bandit, then I would have a much better chance. I throw the boots in a ditch to the side of the field I¡¯m walking through. No point in carrying along extra luggage.

    My bare feet are fine now anyhow. Ever since stepping out of the forest, the ground has been blessedly free of obstacles and hidden dangers. I think I¡¯ve walked more since coming here than I¡¯d normally do in half a year, maybe a full one, and all without any shoes. I don¡¯t doubt that I¡¯d have been fucked if I¡¯d ended up on a mountain¡ªwith hundreds of places to cut your feet¡ªat the start, but even if appearing in the middle of a massive forest was messed up, it was a gentle introduction to some things.

    Luckily, farms are not hard to find, the fields are everywhere, and within short order I spot a slightly larger farm. Moving through the grain and corn fields to approach makes me more or less invisible, and I¡¯m once again reminded of how lucky I am to have arrived at exactly this time of the year. Had it been the middle of winter, I¡¯d have frozen to death before even making it to civilization, and even if I had somehow managed that, I¡¯d have had nowhere to hide, which has saved my life more times than I can count now.

    As I¡¯m walking, the scabbard with the sword keeps bouncing against my leg. How does anyone stand this? I want my spear back¡­ I didn¡¯t realize how nice it was to have a solid stick to lean on when going up and downhill all the time. I guess I should find a new solid branch.

    The scale of this farm is slightly beyond what I¡¯ve seen, with several outbuildings in addition to the main house. I sit down to observe from a hidden vantage, and hear the clanging of pots and pans from the house. That one¡¯s clearly occupied. I scan the rest of the buildings. One smaller building, and a much larger one, which has the looks of something that houses animals, the low moo of a cow rumbling through the air. The large building has a cistern right next to it. Guides on the roof lead any water that might fall on there to the cistern.

    A small jolt of joy shoots through me. I can¡¯t believe I found exactly what I am looking for! I hadn¡¯t dared hope they had anything more than a well or bucket full of water, like seemed to be the case in the logging village. Though I suppose a farm needs a great deal more water, it still feels like the universe is throwing me a bone for a change.

    I make my way over to the cistern. Unfortunately between the cistern and the farmhouse is not much more than a circular open area that all the buildings are placed around, so if anyone comes out, I¡¯ll immediately be spotted. Hopefully they¡¯ll think twice about bothering someone covered in blood and armed with a sword. I smirk in mild disbelief at the idea they''d see me like this. I¡¯d run screaming.

    The cistern is large, several meters on a side, and lined with wood. I guess that makes sense considering the location. I can¡¯t see how deep it is, but much deeper than I had expected. This seems dangerous to any kids that happen to run by and take a plunge. Well, I don¡¯t care about that, I know how to swim.

    I don¡¯t want to make too much noise by just jumping in, so I carefully strip off my dirty dress and undershirt, leaving the sword right next to edge of the cistern. I then drag the clothes through the water. When I see how little this changes considering the body underneath is covered in grime, blood and various unidentifiable things as well. I grimace, and I have to hold back some bile. I was going to wait until my clothes were clean, but I¡¯m suddenly convinced it¡¯s better to do everything at once.

    I quickly lower myself into the water, and ¡ªdespite everything¡ª sigh as I feel all the accumulated grime coming loose. How long has it been since I had a proper bath? I don¡¯t even have to worry about any open wounds right now. I let myself sink beneath the water, and finally find out how deep the cistern really is. It¡¯s honestly kind of amazing that they are able to build these things with medieval level technology. Though I suppose it really is just a big hole in the ground, I don¡¯t want to think about how long it took them to dig this all out.

    I keep an anxious eye on the farmhouse, my rapid heartbeat betraying my attempt to luxuriate in the water. It¡¯s unfortunate that I can¡¯t stand in here. I heave myself onto the side and wring out my hair. Red and brown streaks are left all over my body, and I quickly try to scrub off what remains, before taking another dunk. This time I come out looking more or less clean, certainly a lot better than the first time around.

    I turn back to the clothes that are still soaking, a spreading film of disgust emanating from them. I hope people don¡¯t use this cistern for drinking water. One by one, I pick them up, and rub the fabric against itself as best I can, to get the stains out. It¡¯s hard going, and for a moment I contemplate just raiding the farmhouse. What are they going to do against a woman with a sword? If it¡¯s even more than a woman and a few kids inside in the first place. All the men seem to be out working the fields.

    I glance at the sky. With twilight soon approaching, the men might be on their way back. Anyway, I¡¯m not that far gone yet, so I redouble my efforts, and soon have marginally cleaner clothes. Even the dried blood from my earlier wounds has more or less faded. Though the stains are still there, the dress now looks like it has been extremely well used, not like it¡¯s owner had a casual stroll through an abbatoir.

    Unfortunately the fabric is quite hard to wring out, and after I put on the soaked shirt and dress, I feel like I¡¯m dragging a few stones around. But I¡¯m clean, so that¡¯s something. I¡¯m putting on the belt again, when a small jolt of anxiety shoots through me. The door to the farmhouse opens. I take a step back to the wall, but there¡¯s nowhere to go. I¡¯ve been waiting for this though. Given my luck, at some point someone was bound to come out. I¡¯m just glad it happened after I cleaned and put my clothes back on.

    A young woman with platinum blonde hair steps out of the door, lost in thought. At my guess she¡¯s a decade my junior, and quite beautiful. I internally congratulate whatever farmer has managed to snag this girl. Or maybe she¡¯s the daughter? But I feel like I remember girls get married off much earlier? Of course that¡¯s assuming this place works like early medieval Europe, but so far that seems to be a fairly accurate assessment.

    While I¡¯ve been staring off into space contemplating this, the girl has frozen in place, staring at me with her eyes wide. Well, yeah, that was expected too. It¡¯s nearly comical how much her expression mirrors the one of the girl in the village when she saw me first. It should be much less shocking this time though. I¡¯m soaked in water, not blood, and I¡¯m wearing clothes!

    While she looks fearful, she hasn¡¯t sceamed yet. That¡¯s a good sign I suppose. I can¡¯t help but note that she¡¯s wearing some shoes that should be more or less my size. But then, I¡¯ve come this far without any. My feet are perfectly fine for walking when the ground is as soft as it is everywhere here.

    Her mouth opens, and she utters a few hesitant words "C¨°¡­ c¨° thu?¡±. My jaw almost hits the floor in surprise. She¡¯s talking?! I¡¯d expected a lot of reactions, from screaming, to running or an immediate attack. I hadn¡¯t expected her to start a conversation.

    Unlike before, I can actually respond. Thanks Ronain, I wouldn¡¯t have gotten this far without you.

    "Is mise Emma.¡± I hope that¡¯s correct.

    Maybe I shouldn¡¯t have given her my name considering I just ruined their cistern. Eh, I guess it¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯m just happy someone other than Ronain decided to talk to me instead of immediately attack. I¡¯m doubly happy that I managed to wash off all the blood and dirt before she came out. I¡¯m sure the reaction would have been different if I¡¯d looked like a bloody murderer.

    This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

    Of course, I suppose I am a bloody murderer, even if I don¡¯t look like it. It''s still a bit unsettling that I can¡¯t bring myself to care about that. I should be feeling some guilt or something. Honestly, I¡¯m not upset about it. That guy absolutely had it coming, and I shouldn''t feel bad for offing him. I just didn¡¯t expect it to be this easy to not care¡­

    When I stop spacing out and look at the girl once again, her eyes are narrowed at me, her legs tensed, ready to bolt. Like I¡¯ve suddenly become a great deal more dangerous. I wonder what that is about. I just gave her my name. Does she know a terrifying Emma? Then I notice that her gaze is locked on my left hand, which is tightly gripping the hilt of my sword. Damn! I immediately release it. I was trying to come off as less threatening. I don¡¯t even remember grabbing it.

    When I let go of the sword, she relaxes somewhat, but her gaze doesn¡¯t leave the sword, and she slowly backs away back to the farmhouse. Well damn.

    I suppose this is pretty much a hopeless situation now, which is a real bummer. I wasn¡¯t planning on actually speaking; I either wanted to scare them away or just bolt myself, but now that I had a chance to talk and I ruined it, I can¡¯t help but feel like I¡¯ve missed out.

    I give her a small wave, which I¡¯ve confirmed with Ronain does still mean the same thing here. When my hand moves, she jumps, clearly scared out of her wits, expecting me to rush her or something. I¡¯m tempted to do something else, just to see how she¡¯ll react, but even if I¡¯m no actual threat to her, it still feels like bullying. So I just turn around and walk away.

    I guess I could have dropped the bandits boots here as some sort of payment for ruining their cistern, but I guess it¡¯s too late now. I¡¯m not really sure how expensive boots are anyway. I seem to remember it was one of the most expensive things you¡¯d ever buy if you couldn¡¯t make them yourself, but not certain now.

    This diversion was absolutely worth it, but I should go see if I can figure out what the original destination of the caravan was. I can¡¯t exactly follow them there any more.

    As I retrace my earlier steps over the same road, I wonder at the wisdom of it. I have a hard time believing any bandits would still be here after they finished stripping the caravan. I imagine it must have been a very dissappointing haul for them. Who attacks a bunch of wagons filled with trees? The only thing they could have taken was the stuff in the guard¡¯s bags.

    Maybe those mages were carrying some super expensive stuff to power their magic? That¡¯d give a good reason for an assault, but then why would the caravan be so lightly guarded? Honestly, the mages and guards just didn¡¯t seem like they¡¯d have a lot more property than any of the woodcutters back in the village. Possibly less.

    It¡¯s a mystery, but not one I¡¯m especially eager to spend a lot of time on. If there¡¯s no bandits around any more, I¡¯ll just take a quick peek at what remains of the caravan, maybe one of the guards had a map of some kind.

    At the idea of casually strolling into the site of the ambush I¡¯m suddenly filled with trepidation. There¡¯s 6 dead bodies there. Killed in a variety of gruesome ways. Can I really just go there and search their pockets for a map or something of the kind?

    For some reason the whole thing just puts me in the mindset of RPG¡¯s I played. Just as stripping the dead man for loot came naturally, so does the instinct to ¡®Search the bodies for the clue¡¯. Never mind that it won¡¯t be a matter of pressing a ¡®take all¡¯ button. The way to proceed seems so straightforward that I have a hard time thinking about what it actually entails.

    I never thought that all those games would come to bite me in the ass. Am I subconsiously assuming things will proceed along the lines of a classic RPG? At least I responded naturally when faced with the prospect of imminent death, which, everything considered, is a weird thing to be happy about.

    God, that casts so much doubt on my decision to proceed to wherever the wagons went. Going back to Ronain and telling him what happened seems so much safer. It¡¯s only a bit more than half a days journey to get back. But¡­ even if it¡¯s subconcious, I don¡¯t think I want to stop it. I can die, sure, my latest encounter proves that. But, holy shit! There¡¯s some part of me that wants more¡­

    I mean, sure, I was excited about ending up in a sorta low-fantasy world with real magic from the beginning, but I shouldn¡¯t fucking still feel this pumped about it after almost getting myself killed. Lacking remorse about killing a man is one thing. Being excited at the prospect of doing it again is insane. Now that the fear has faded, all that''s left is this rush of excitement about being in a real fight.

    I seriously cannot trust my own feelings right now. I¡¯m certain something is messed up. The world slows down for a moment as I suspicously look at the fruit juice still happily sloshing about in the mental copy of my stomach, but it doesn¡¯t seem like anything has changed since I last inspected it back in the cave. The amount seems the same, or maybe it has increased a little bit?

    I don¡¯t feel like it¡¯s anything that would affect my state of mind, but then, how would I even know if it did. There¡¯s this bizarre feeling of certainty when I think that this must be a different world. Maybe it affects more than just those thoughts, and I just can¡¯t distinguish it as easily? Is someone or something secretly nudging me in the direction they want me to go?

    Well, whatever, I¡¯ll just freak myself out if I keep thinking too much about it. Maybe going to investigate the site of the ambush will give me a reality check.

    The afternoon is turning to twilight as I made it to the site of the ambush.

    The first thing I confirm is whether the other bandits found the body, but the bandit I killed is still in the same location, not moved since I last touched him. The body is now covered in flies and other small creatures though, the forest already busy reclaiming his body.

    My initial reaction is one of disgust, and I turn my head away. As I wonder what to do I find my initial disgust giving way to a different feeling though. I''ve never seen anything like this before. Never in a hundred years did I expect to ever see this, and despite myself, I find myself intrigued.

    My eyes are drawn back to the body, and I feel a morbid curiosity take hold. I squat down next to it, my eyes taking in the details. The flies have already begun their work, crawling over the man''s lifeless face, and I can''t help but wince at the sight. Yet, there''s an odd fascination in watching the process of nature reclaiming what was once alive.

    I reach out a tentative hand, brushing away some of the flies. The skin is no longer warm and supple, but cool and waxy. I feel a mix of revulsion and wonder at the transformation death has wrought.

    For all his brutality in life, there is a strange peace to him now. The anger and violence that had seemingly consumed him have been extinguished, leaving behind only this shell. I find myself wondering about his story, the circumstances that led him here. Was he a husband, a father? Did anyone mourn his passing, or was he simply another nameless bandit, destined to be forgotten? Why didn¡¯t the other bandits find him and take him away? Was this man even part of their group, or did he just look like it and was simply passing by like I was?

    Seeing him like this, I find myself surprisingly reluctant to simply leave him to the elements. In some way I feel like this man is my responsibility. I figured the other bandits would take their friend with them, but they just left him here like this. Even if he was a disgusting ox of a man, he¡¯s not anything now. With a resigned sigh, I strip a large piece of bark from a nearby tree to use as an improvised shovel. Then I set about at least covering the body with a shallow layer of dirt, determined to provide him with a modicum of dignity in death.

    Doing this little thing somehow eases a tension I didn¡¯t even realize I was carrying.

    As I shovel the loose underbrush onto the body, I suddenly know with absolute certainty that old Emma would have died here. If not for my experiences in this world, I¡¯d have frozen in fear and been cut down, either before or after he had his way with me. I honestly find it hard to imagine I¡¯d have carried a spear in the first place, much less that I''d have been able to use it on a fellow human. Even one coming at me with a sword.

    So do I like being this Emma more or less than the Emma I was before? It¡¯s undeniable that I very much prefer being alive, and by that measure new Emma is clearly superior. After all, old Emma would be dead. It¡¯s also true I don¡¯t want to feel guilty for killing someone that intended to do the same to me, but can I let go of morality just like that? That¡¯s a bit¡­ But then I guess that wouldn¡¯t be wrong before either? Isn¡¯t there something about proportionality in force? Maybe if I¡¯d torn his soul out and shredded it with magic it¡¯d be disproportionate? Not that I could actually pull that off, but it is amusing to think about. No, wait, it¡¯s not amusing at all! Bad Emma, you¡¯re slipping down that slippery slope like you¡¯re on skis!

    I shake my head, and keep digging. No easy answers are forthcoming, and the only way to find out is to proceed and see where my actions take me. A slight smile comes to my face, at the idea of some of my friends from my previous world seeing me like this, digging a grave for a man with a piece of bark. Most of them would be horrified, but I like to think that a few, just a few, might understand how I feel. I know without a shadow of doubt that my brothers would, and that thought brings both a measure of reassurance, and a profound sadness at the reminder of what I¡¯ve lost.

    Eventually, the grave such as it is is done. I keep thinking of it as a grave, but it¡¯s really more like a mound. It''s not much, but considering he tried to kill me before, I think he should be happy with even this much.

    What do people say in these circumstances? I try to think of something, but suddenly my mouth is on autopilot:

    "May your soul find peace in the embrace of the eternal light, and may your name be whispered in the winds of memory. Let the spirits of the ancestors grant you rest in the arms of the earth, and solace in the hearts of those who remain."

    My eyes widen, and I slap my hand over my mouth. What in the actual fuck? Where did that come from? That¡¯s definitely not any prayer I knew before, and much more certainly not something I could come up with on the spot. I can¡¯t deny that it sounded a whole lot more profound, but I didn¡¯t come up with it. Did I get that from Ronain? No, I definitely spoke those words in English. Did I secretly get some knowledge implanted without realizing? Then what else do I not know I know? And couldn¡¯t it have been something like, the local fucking language?!

    Oh well, I¡¯ll take what I can get. There may actually be a next. If there''s whole new worlds that you can be transported to, then who''s to say there''s no afterlife. There might even be gods. Maybe even I¡¯ll become religious in this world.

    I glance at the mound one more time, then head down the hill towards the remnants of a massacre.

 Death - 2

    As I approach, I carefully study the remains of the battle. As far as I can see everything and everyone is still more or less in the same positions that I saw them being cut down, with the absence of the bandits of course.

    Before getting closer, I circle the whole ambush site, but find no trace of the bandits. Trying to figure out where they went or came from by their footsteps is an exercise in futility. I¡¯m just not adept enough at tracking anything that doesn¡¯t barge through the forest like a small mountain.

    When I¡¯m satisfied this whole small forest is empty, I slowly make my way over to the caravan.

    The wagons stand unmoving in the fading light, the two mages still slumped where they fell, two blobs in the twilight, lifeless. The spearmen and workers lie scattered, their faces frozen in the rictus of death. My gaze drifts, unbidden, to where I know the most brutalized of the bodies lies, the spearman who had tried to flee, only to be ravaged by the bandits.

    Honestly, that body is what worries me most. I''m sort of certain I can deal with just seeing dead people, but I don''t feel there''s much left. Like what I imagine happens when someone gets hit by a freight train? Thankfully I''ve never seen that either.

    I''m tempted to just ignore the body, but then I''ll constantly feel like there''s something at my back. So resolutely, I walk up to the corpse. One shuffling, halting step at a time. Like I said, resolutely.

    Halfway there, the shape of the mound starts to resolve itself, and I involuntarily gasp. I thought it¡¯d be bad, but once in a while, reality is worse than anything your imagination can conjure up.

    Deep gashes crisscross what used to be the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath, each telling the tale of an uncontrolled strike. The most haunting part is the face¡ªor what¡¯s left of it. It¡¯s been so brutally disfigured that his identity has been wiped clean, leaving just a mass of blood and tissue that no one would recognize. One eye socket is the only thing recognizable, a hollow void, gazing into nothingness. The remnants of his jaw dangle loosely, as if frozen in a silent, eternal scream. Just how far did they go to leave even his skull like this?

    I should be repulsed, should feel an urge to look away, to throw up, but weirdly I don''t. Instead, I find myself analyzing the violence with a detached curiosity. The man isn''t going to get any more dead or hurt because of me staring, but I can''t help feel some form of discomfort that has nothing to do with the state of his body. It¡¯s like I''m doing something I''m not supposed to, like peeking when someone is changing.

    What drove the bandits to do this? I can''t fathom why they needed to keep stabbing so long after it was necessary. It feels like they reveled in tearing the body apart. Are they really that lost, or are they driven by some kind of drug? At least the poor guy likely died well before he had to endure any of it.

    Then, my gaze catches on something that shatters my reverie, something so unexpected it sends a shock through my system. It''s not the visceral damage that does it, not the blood, the innards or the torn flesh, which are hard to even associate with a human being. It''s the soldier''s hand, or rather, what he''s clutching in his stiff fingers¡ªa crude, handmade toy, unmistakably fashioned from scraps. It''s far from fancy, but there''s a heartfelt, homemade feel to it, like something a child would create. Did he pull it out in his last moments?

    The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I''m suddenly, violently ill. I stagger back and double over, dry heaving into the underbrush. I haven''t eaten since before the ambush, and so it¡¯s all nothing, but even so I can¡¯t stop. My stomach spasming like it¡¯s trying to kill me. Even so, the anguish is worse.

    It''s not the gore that has undone me. It''s the humanity, the reminder that this mutilated form at my feet was once a person. One that had a wife, children. Ones that cared enough to give him that figure, and that he cared enough about to make pulling that out his last act in life.

    I suddenly feel a seething hatred for these bandits, unlike anything I¡¯ve ever experienced in my life. It¡¯s somewhat akin to learning of those US airstrikes that killed more children than insurgents, only to have them shrug and say ¡®collateral damage¡¯. Only it is ten times worse.

    As I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, a bitter laugh escapes me. Is this going to be a thing? I see or do things that should make normal people weep, and I''m fine. I see something commonplace, something that reminds me that people have lives, and I break.

    I wonder if this is related to the books I always read, the games I played? In stories, people that die are always shown dying like puppets. Seeing people die when transported to some fantasy world is almost expected, even if the brutality of it is beyond what you usually see.

    What the books never reveal is who gets left in the dust when that ''Stormwind Guard'' falls. The realization that they have families and lives outside of that brief moment you see them before their demise is¡­ well, it''s heavy.

    I push myself up from the ground, still reeling from the shock of the discovery. My mouth tastes like bile, and there''s a jitteriness in my limbs that wasn''t there before. The emotional toll of everything that''s happened today is catching up to me. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image of the figure clutched in the dead man''s hand. "Move, Emma," I mutter to myself, knowing that I cannot afford to linger long.

    I make my way over to the wagons, my steps hurried, trying to get through this as quickly as possible. The mages present the best opportunity for information. Or at least, so I¡¯d expect, though that may just be my preconceptions speaking.

    I¡¯d expected this to be easier, but it couldn¡¯t be further from the truth. I didn¡¯t see what happened to the mages from further away, but the one whose wagon I¡¯m now standing next to has a crossbow bolt protruding from the front of is face, a gruesome ruin where his face once was.

    At that, I first check the other mage, who fared a bit better¡ªor worse, depending on how you see it. He¡¯s been hit in the stomach and is pinned to the wagon by the projectile. His face is stuck in a mix of confusion and pain. Remembering how focused they looked while steering those wagons, it¡¯s possible they didn¡¯t see this coming at all.

    In what I consider a completely misplaced realization, I focus on the fruit juice in my second stomach, and the world slows down around me. Aside from everything happening like two to three times slower, I can see the rest of the world just fine. I can really only see this being an asset in a fight¡­

    Uh, yeah. Asset in a fight. That would have been damn useful thing to realize before I almost got myself killed fighting that bandit. I don¡¯t imagine it¡¯d help me dodge a crossbow bolt fired at me without notice though. My body still moves just as slow as normal.

    Well, I guess better late than never. I can¡¯t say I look forward to testing out how much use it will be, but at this point I¡¯m almost certain that an opportunity will present itself sooner rather than later. This world has it out for me.

    Once again, searching the bodies feels mechanical somehow, a necessary process I''m unsettlingly adept at. The mages¡¯ rough, but elegant blue wool tunics, though sullied by the violence of their ends, represent a large upgrade from my current dress. But I have no idea how to get them off without being either really rough with this guys poor body, or¡­ fuck no, I¡¯m definitely not pulling the other one over that head. If it doesn¡¯t get hooked on the bolt it¡¯ll be covered in bits of brain matter, and if it does¡­ don¡¯t want to think about that.

    My imagination is quickly catching up now that it¡¯s seeing all this gross shit up close for the first time, and I find myself able to imagine much, much worse things than the current state of that man''s head. Gotta love being imaginative sometimes.

    For some reason, the mages appear to be missing their boots. So are the rest of the workers and soldiers, even the brutalized body is barefoot, and I imagine it¡¯d have taken some effort to tug off his boots without accidentally taking a leg with it. Are these bandits truly so desperate for boots that they¡¯d bring them all along?

    I''d laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all if the situation weren''t so profoundly grim. Guess I gotta inject my own humor into my story.

    Yes, the violence I''ve witnessed¡ªand perpetrated¡ªwill probably haunt me. But I''m still here. And I''m not a gibbering wreck. I take another look at the ruination all around me and decide that I should feel very proud of that.

    As I sweep my gaze over the scene, I realize that I can¡¯t leave things like this. I buried the fucking bandit, am I going to leave these guys to slowly rot? Who knows how long it¡¯ll be before someone else comes by? While the small roads are pretty well traveled, the larger ones the wagons took are pretty empty.

    I groan at the idea of burying these 6 bulky guys. It would be so much easier to leave them. But I can¡¯t. Just not wired that way, even though I often wish I was.

    I¡¯d just tell other people about them if I could, but¡­ one, I couldn¡¯t explain it in the few broken words of the language I know, and two, I very much doubt any of the farmers that live close enough would be happy to venture out here to bury a bunch of guys they probably don¡¯t even know.

    That does leave me with the question of what do do about these bolts though. I''m not going to bury a man with a bolt lodged in his face.

    I find myself stripping off my newly washed clothes. While I¡¯d gotten sorta used to finally being clothed again, I¡¯m not going to have it get dirty now that I finally have it clean again. The dress and shirt pile up beside me, a little monument to practicality over propriety. This feels fucking insane, am I really going to try to this?

    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    I know myself a bit though, and if I let myself, I¡¯ll just stand around here for an hour waffling before I finally commit myself anyway, so I might as well get on with it now.

    I approach the mages body with a reluctant sort of resolve, reminding myself why I''m doing this¡ªrespect for the dead, an inexplicable need to handle things properly, even if ''properly'' involves a grisly task I''ve never imagined undertaking. The bolt, lodged deep in the mage''s stomach, seems to mock me with its solidity, as if it knows the challenge it presents.

    I crouch beside the body, the metallic odor of blood filling my nostrils. It''s a bitter smell that I''ve become uncomfortably familiar with in this world. I take a deep breath, trying to suppress the rising bile in my throat. That causes a moment of wonder. I guess disgusting things do still cause this reaction if I actually need to touch them. Fucking inconvenient now, but a relief too.

    There''s a moment of hesitation, a brief second where I again contemplate the sanity of my actions. But that moment passes, overridden by a dogged, stubborn streak in me that refuses to back down from a challenge, no matter how stomach-turning.

    I climb on top of the wagon¡¯s seat, and move over to the side of the mage. The bolt is stuck fast to the wood behind the man, and when my fingers slip around it¡¯s edge, it feels like it¡¯s going to stay there forever. I slowly increase the force I use, until I feel the bolt moving. The sensation of flesh giving way under my hands is unnervingly soft, I¡¯m thinking about how strange it feels, when the bolt suddenly gives way under my increased force. It''s not the gentle release I hoped for, but a sudden, violent expulsion.

    The body shifts with the motion, an arc of decomposition accompanied by the heavy clatter of the bolt falling to the ground. But it''s the splash of viscera, wet and unexpected against my skin, that shatters any semblance of composure I had. For a moment, the world narrows down to the feeling of warmth and weight against my body, and my stomach lurches violently.

    I scramble back, and mute the urge to throw up by sheer willpower. I stare at my hands and forearms that got the worst of it, wondering what the hell is even covering them. I suppose it¡¯s a small blessing I couldn¡¯t do this by sitting right in front of the man.

    Clearly, any hopes I had of putting that tunic to good use have been thoroughly dashed. But the fuck am I going to do about this? I won¡¯t be putting my existing clothes on like this either.

    Whatever, I shake the worst of it off my hands, and jump of the wagon to proceed to the next mage. Might as well get this all over with before thinking about how to solve this new problem.

    I¡¯m finding my reasons for feeling like murdering these assholes that did this change with every step I take. Killing these people is an insult against my morality, but forcing me to go through this is an insult against me. It doesn¡¯t matter one whit that that wasn¡¯t even close to their intention. It¡¯s kind of crazy how much it feels like my coworkers messing something up that I told them would go wrong, them doing it anyway, and me having to clean up the mess. I¡¯m not sure if that means that I¡¯m just unreasonably aggressive towards my coworkers, or that I somehow consider this to be similar to fixing a stupid bug someone else introduced.

    Huh. I look at my disgusting hands from fixing the last problem, at the next bolt, still lodged in the mages head. That someone else introduced there, and that I have to take out when I really, really want to make them do it themselves, but can¡¯t because they already fucked off somewhere safe. That does sound eerily like a problem I¡¯ve had before. The actuality differs of course, but the semantics don''t.

    Shaking my head, and jumping on the next wagon, I hold the mages body back with one hand, while I grasp the bolt lodged in the mage''s skull with my other. My fingers clench around the shaft, slick with the turd sandwich from the last one, and blood that''s turned tacky with time. It''s a surreal image. The absurd thought flits through my mind that there''s probably not a YouTube tutorial for this. I pull, expecting it to slide out smoothly like a sword from a stone, kinda like the last one. The bolt doesn''t budge, and the force of my effort pulls the body slightly toward me despite my attempts to hold it back. A viscid, sickening sound escapes as the fabric of what once was a person shifts against the wood of the wagon.

    I curse under my breath, a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush running on repeat as I make another attempt. "Bloody hell! What the flaming fuck was that? I wouldn¡¯t wish that on my worst enemy¡ªeven a cockroach with a grudge would have better taste!"

    My hands reach out towards the bolt once again. This time, I''m not just pulling; I''m trying to twist, to coax the bolt out of its fleshly sheath with as little force as possible. The logic is sound in my head, but the reality is messier. My grip slips the first couple of times, slick with blood, forcing me to grit my teeth in frustration and reset my posture.

    The second attempt requires a strategy¡ªfoot braced against the edge of the wagon for leverage. I pull again, harder this time, and twisting the bolt, my face twisted into a grimace. There''s a moment of resistance, a moment where I''m sure I''ve miscalculated and this will end in disarray. But then, with a sound that''s more a pop than a squelch, the bolt comes free, showering me with an assortment of blood, skull and brain matter.

    With the bolt finally free, I stand there, panting, the macabre trophy in my hand much lighter than I feel it should. Something this light has no right to pierce a head, or get this stuck in it.

    My gaze flits over my body, noting and being a little disgusted by this further damage to my cleanliness. Maybe it would have been better to wear the dress, then I could have stripped it off afterwards.

    I sigh, a deep, long-suffering one that relieves a bit of my frustration. Well, I guess from here on it can only get easier.

    The universe throws me a bone, and it actually is. I tug the two bodies down from their perches, and after subjecting them to a careful search¡ªwhich gains me exactly nothing¡ª I drag them over to the side of the road, where I put them close together side by side. I¡¯m too tired and frustrated to make this an individual grave. God, I don¡¯t even know if people actually get buried here. Maybe they usually get burned? Whatever.

    I look back at the remaining bodies. There¡¯s the mangled one, which¡­ I will leave for now. Then there¡¯s the guard and worker sprawled against the second wagon. And the worker that attempted to get the guard''s spear, but was cut down.

    I¡¯m suddenly anxious about the state of the guard that got a bolt to the gut, but when I rush to him, the bolt has mercifully passed clean though, and ended up somewhere in the mechanism of the wagon behind him. I really did not want to try and yank out another one. It¡¯s quickly getting dark now.

    Dragging him and the two workers to the pile takes but a few minutes. Just like the mages, they have nothing of value to me either, having been thoroughly stripped by the bandits, and I suddenly wonder at the idiocy of coming here. Of course the bandits would have taken anything the men had, that was the whole point of their attack after all.

    Oh well. I slowly turn to face the source of my deepest uncertainty. The mutilated guard. The thought of moving him, of potentially watching the body fall apart before my eyes, fills me with a dread that¡¯s hard to swallow. It¡¯s not quite a physical thing, I feel like I¡¯m past the disgust.

    A quick sweep over my body tells me that yes, I¡¯m past the disgust. People are really going to need to learn how to use relatively clean things like bullets here. I¡¯m sure it¡¯s something about the size and relatively slow speed of these bolts that makes them create such a mess.

    What I¡¯m instead worried about is the very banal thing of picking up any pieces left behind. Dragging bodies is heavy work and I just don¡¯t feel like I can be bothered to pick up any pieces any more.

    Surprisingly, or perhaps mercifully, my fears are unfounded. While the body is indeed in horrific condition, it holds together pretty well under the careful steering of my hands. Human bodies are surprisingly well put together. By the time I have him with the others, darkness has fully claimed the sky, and the stars gaze down indifferently upon my great work.

    A pile of bodies...

    I can still more or less see by the light of the moon, thanks to a much sparser canopy here than in the deep woods. Forcing myself through the motions, I find another large piece of bark to use as a shovel, then heap the bodies with the lovely layer of loose soil and leaves that covers the floor of each forest. It¡¯s not quite like being buried in the earth, but it¡¯s infinitly easier on my poor tired muscles, and all I can manage right now.

    When it¡¯s finally done, I sit down on my ass, and just enjoy the silence for a minute. I tense as I imagine that that is the moment that I¡¯ll inevitably hear some sound, but relax again when nothing comes. The night is silent and empty.

    I struggle up once more, and make my way to where the mutilated one originally fell, then reach towards the small figure that fell out of the man¡¯s hand. I stop, and look at my gore covered hands. That¡¯s just wrong. It¡¯s the only clean thing in this whole place. Damn it, might as well do this properly. I walk back to where I dropped my clothes, and grab the shirt, then wrap it around my hand and place the sorry little figure on top of the pile of dirt.

    I choke out the words that came to me before past a lump in my throat "May your soul find peace in the embrace of the eternal light, and may your name be whispered in the winds of memory. Let the spirits of the ancestors grant you rest in the arms of the earth, and solace in the hearts of those who remain."

    Then I burst out in tears, sinking to my knees and heaving great, hacking sobs. I don¡¯t even know why I¡¯m crying. Whether I¡¯m upset at their deaths, my own killing, my current state, having to do this, or at the world itself. No matter the reason, the tears keep flowing until I have nothing left.

    When they finally stop, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin, pulling at my muscles with leaden fingers. Covered in the remnants of death and conflict, I''m acutely aware of every speck of foreign matter on my skin, every droplet of blood that''s dried to a tacky residue.

    Fuck me to hell and back, I¡¯m going to need to get away from here. I don¡¯t think the bandits will be back if they haven¡¯t already, but sleeping here is just downright foolhardy. I struggle up, and briefly contemplate just lying straight back down.

    But instead I put one foot in front of the other, picking up the bundle I¡¯d made of my belongings. It¡¯ll get dirty, but I don¡¯t care at this point. Just have to make sure the food is safe. Holding the sword, with everything else slung over my shoulder, I drag my sorry ass along the road in the direction the wagons were going before their unfortunately demise.

    After struggling forward for a while, I make my way up to another small hill, and the edge of this forest.

    Beneath me, just a few kilometers away, I see torchlight, and what amounts to a large town.

    I¡¯m bitter and sad, and I really do not feel like walking all that way, so I instead drift in the direction of what I imagine is a small farm which for some reason has light shining from their windows.

    I don¡¯t know how accurate my knowledge of this time is, but I thought people went to bed with the sun, so why someone would make a fire now escapes me. It¡¯s convenient for me to navigate by though, and in short order I¡¯m standing next to the farmhouse.

    Sounds are drifting from inside. Apparently these people are still awake and having a discussion. I don¡¯t really care, wouldn¡¯t understand what they were saying anyway, and move towards the one small barn they seem to have.

    I debate just laying down somewhere in the fields, or along the side of the road, but I¡­ I¡¯m incredibly, unreasonably afraid of sleeping outside today. I know sleeping here is foolhardy, dangerous as hell, and incredibly likely to get me discovered, but it all seems so irrelevant compared to my burning need to feel human for a bit, to sleep in a house, in a structure.

    It¡¯s been only a day since I left my cave. I said goodbye to Ronain just this morning, but so much has happened it feels like years.

    I open the door of the barn carefully. It makes a low creaking sound, but not enough that anyone in the house could have heard it. Inside is dark, and smells like animals. There¡¯s a snort from somewhere to my right, but without the light of the moon I have no idea what kind of animal made the noise.

    There¡¯s a ladder though, which reminds me of haylofts being a recurring feature in these kinds of stories. Without thinking about it much more, I stumble my way up, and when I find the surface at the top stable enough after some careful probing, I roll over on it and instantly pass out.

 Nightmare

    I¡¯m standing on a dimly lit street. The sky over my head overcast. Dark clouds roiling through the sky. Raindrops are drumming down on me, soaking through my t-shirt. The streetlights lining the concrete road flicker in a steady rhythm. The air is thick with the scent of dust. Like a musty old attic that hasn''t been cleaned since it¡¯s owner passed away.

    I pull my damp hair back from my face, and squint into the darkness. The smell is entirely out of place for a rainy day, and it not so subtly sets me on edge. Besides the street, there is nothing. I can make out a vague shape of grass beyond the pavement, but then it¡¯s just void, as if the shadows have come to life and devoured everything. A glance back tells me the road similarly vanishes there. The only way is forward.

    I warily shuffle along the road, the sound of my shoes splashing in puddles breaks the silence, echoing against the oppressive stillness that surrounds me. A chill crawls up my spine, a shiver that has little to do with the cold rain soaking into my skin.

    As I move deeper into the suffocating darkness, a thought starts to take form. Where is everyone? Has everyone left me? Willem? Johan? Mum? Dad? I mouth the names, but hardly any sound comes past my lips. Saying them once makes remembering easier somehow, and I frantically look around, shouting their names into the gloom.

    The echoes of my voice dissipate into the thick air, swallowed by the shadows. The lack of response is almost mocking somehow, as if the world laughs at my inability to reach them. Panic begins to bubble within me, turning my stumble into a run. I have to find them!

    I rush forward, but suddenly something flashes out of the shadows in front of me and my legs go out from under me, blocked by something heavy and soft. I can¡¯t throw out my hands quickly enough, and my nose smacks into the concrete. Blood pours down my face, as I work myself back upright.

    What the fuck was that?

    I turn back to the thing still on the road, and inhale sharply. No. No¡­ NO!

    My path leads on, as I briskly move onwards, but the streetlights all flicker in the same pattern once, and a shape resolves out of the gloom. In exactly the place it was earlier. I ignore it. It¡¯ll go away if I leave it behind me. I step over the thing and move on.

    But soon, there it is again. A deep rumbling piano chord plays through my mind. My vision melts into a point, and expands outward again, encompassing the same scene, but instead staring down at myself. Standing there, soaked in my t-shirt, looking at the body.

    The clouds suddenly come boiling in, down, and onto the body in front of me. Pouring in through every orifice, until it seems as if if the body should explode from the sheer volume. Suddenly I look through my own eyes again, and stare into the malevolent eyes of the bandit I killed. His neck is a ruin in which a single shard is lodged.

    The mouth turns into a rictus grin that tears all kinds of things loose by it¡¯s movement. And gravity inverts as I fall into it, swallowed by the void. I scream, but as before, my voice doesn¡¯t reach beyond the gloom. Only I hear myself screaming.

    I drop back on the pavement. The body is gone. The clouds are gone. The road, and the flickering lights, are still there. I remember my original goal, and go to push myself up, only to find the pavement stained with blood after I do so. My hands are covered with viscous red blood, dripping down onto the pavement, no matter how much rain falls, it never seems to wash my hands clean.

    I desperately rub my hands on my pants, but it doesn¡¯t help at all. I look at them in terror, but there¡¯s no escape. I take off again.

    Suddenly, from one step to the next, the world is inverted, and I feel gravity take hold of me as I fall into the void, straight down into the rain that is now coming from below.

    There, I see a line resolving out of the darkness, red tiles, and large windows growing bigger as I barrel down towards them. My house? No, my parents? As I get closer, I find myself wanting to get away from there, but the pull is relentless, dragging me down towards nr 28, as I was certain it would.

    I find it hard to look away right until the moment of impact, but as soon as I hit the roof window, expecting to shatter into a thousand pieces. I swirl through it, passing throught first the top floor, drifting past my childhood bedroom, memories flickering like dying embers, then slide through the first floor and the bathroom before spiraling down the stairs into the living room, where I find myself sitting on the old sofa, staring at my brothers and parents.

    I desperately shove my blood-soaked hands behind me, underneath me, anywhere they can''t spot them. But as I do, I realize that my t-shirt is gone¡ªno wet fabric or anything. My clothes have vanished, and I¡¯m covered in all the blood and nastiness that has clung to me since I came to this godforsaken world.

    I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate. Not them! Not¡­ I shut my eyes, stare at the floor, look anywhere but at them. But my eyes are open, not shut, and there¡¯s my mother, my father. They¡¯re speechless. Willem looks repulsed. Johan¡¯s frowning. My head feels like it¡¯s stuck in place as their faces shift from fear to disgust to sheer horror.

    My mom begins to rise, her hands stretching out for me, but Dad yanks her back, his grip firm and unyielding. Willem and Johan surge forward, their bodies forming a barrier between us, as if I¡¯m some sort of beast that threatens her safety. Can¡¯t they grasp that I¡¯m still the same person? ¡°It¡¯s me! It¡¯s Emma!¡± I scream, desperation clawing at my throat. I search their eyes for recognition, for understanding¡ªonly to find nothing but dread staring back.

    I jump up, rush out of the house, the back door is right there. Locked, but unlocking this door is second nature. As I swing it open, I suddenly hear a gasp and rattle behind me, and I spin, almost tearing my body apart in my haste to look back, terror clawing at my insides, an awful foreboding filling my mind.

    Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Willem, Johan, mom, dad. Mom¡¯s head is gone, a crossbow bolt through her face, Dad is pinned to the sofa by another. Willem lies torn apart on the floor, and Johan gasps out his last breath with a spear lodged in his gut, looking at me in shock, blood pooling around him on the floor.

    I rush towards them, but they all turn to dust before I can take a single step. Then the house is gone, and the rain crashes down around me. It engulfs me as I scream into the sky in fury.

    I stagger backward, my heart pounding in my chest, the echoes of their faces haunting the edges of my vision as I get swallowed by the darkness.

    ¡°Em!¡± Willem¡¯s voice.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be ok Em. Don¡¯t cry.¡± Johan.

    ¡°You¡¯ll always be my little girl!" Mom.

    A snort. Dad.

    My eyes open, and for a moment I¡¯m disoriented by the wooden roof above my head. The first rays of dawn sneak through the gaps all around. The air is thick with the scent of fresh hay and the earthy musk of animals. I was just home wasn¡¯t I? The memory of the dream ¡ªor was it a nightmare?¡ª fades quickly. As they fade, reality comes crashing back.

    God I hope it was a good dream. That snort at the end, that was dad. Like every time I hurt myself and everyone was fussing over me. He¡¯d snort like that. Like he found the whole thing endlessly amusing because he knew how quickly I¡¯d be back on my feet. Off to the next tree to climb, the next story to dive into, the next adventure waiting for me.

    But if it was a nice dream, why are my eyes all teary, and why do I still feel like I¡¯m about to break down in tears? I sob, the sound escaping before I can catch myself. Oh god, I miss them.

    As if that admission gives me breaks me out of my reverie, suddenly I truly notice my surroundings. If this isn¡¯t home, then where the hell am I?

    Yes, yes, different world, that part I remember. There was¡­ stumbling through the dark. That¡¯s right, I¡¯d just¡­ killed a man, found absolutely no clues on where the caravan was headed. Finally buried those guys, and then¡­ I ended up here somehow. I know I was exhausted, but this is worse than I expected. I can¡¯t for the life of me remember anything since stumbling out of that forsaken clearing.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    I give up on thinking about it for a while, closing my eyes, and instead savoring the lingering memories of my family¡¯s words.

    Eventually I have to force myself back to reality though, and I slowly push myself up. Crap, I went to sleep complely covered in filth. At least my clothes, which are awkwardly stuffed in my pack, are still relatively clean. I¡¯ll only have to wash myself this time.

    There¡¯s a foul taste in my mouth, and I realize that in all my time here, I¡¯ve never once thought about brushing my teeth. I guess it doesn¡¯t get too bad if you¡¯re not eating so much unhealthy shit? It¡¯s certainly bad now though. Guess related to the dream? Though I¡¯d have a hard time saying why exactly your mouth tastes like shit, it¡¯s something I¡¯ve experienced before even before coming here.

    I¡¯m lying on a little hayloft, right on the lip. It¡¯s pretty empty, containing only a sparse assortment of bundles of hay tied together. The rest of the surface speaks to a large volume having been here before though, with scattered hay everywhere. You could fit four people here easily now, if they weren¡¯t too bothered by lying directly on the rough planks that make up the floor. It¡¯s clear nobody took much care how the planks were put down, as long as they covered most of the surface. Though I¡¯m kind of surprised there¡¯s something like this in the first place. Someone went out of their way to add this extra floor to a barn.

    I glance over the edge and find myself surrounded by a variety of animals. There¡¯s a cow, a bunch of what I assume are pigs ¡ªthough they¡¯re incredibly ugly¡ª and chickens. Most of them still peacefully sleeping. The light that pierces through the holes between beams apparently not enough to wake them. I wonder what time it is. One of the pigs is wandering around. It¡¯s a smaller specimen, maybe slightly bigger than a house cat, sticking its snout in the hay that¡¯s lying on the floor and desperately shaking it back and forth. Like it lost something important and is trying to find it.

    Maybe I better get out of here before anyone wakes up and comes to check the animals, or to milk that cow.

    I have a moment of indecision where I wonder if I should put on the clothes or not. All the nasty is dried up, and it¡¯s clear that wearing something will make me look a lot less suspicious. In the end I decide that getting my clothes a bit dirty again is worth it. I grimace at that thought. When did smearing my clothes with blood become only a ¡®bit¡¯ dirty. I hurriedly change, fastening my belt and letting my sword hang where it usually does.

    Having done that, I realize that I haven¡¯t actually checked any of the things that hang from the belt beyond the sword. They never seemed important compared to that. There¡¯s three other pouches on the belt, one of which I stuff the stone tip of my broken spear in. Another has a bunch of odds and ends that I can¡¯t really identify, little strips of leather and metal, presumably things that come in handy to a bandit. The last pouch is empty, and I wonder what had been in it. The last thing that hangs from the belt is what I imagine is a waterskin, but it¡¯s empty. I should really try to wash and refill that.

    I throw my bag over my shoulder and make my way down the ladder leaning against the loft. I keep being baffled by the construction of things in this era. I It¡¯s not that they¡¯re complicated; it¡¯s just impressive how much they accomplish with so little. They carve some flat edges out of branches, stick them together, and then tie them up with rope. There¡¯s probably a fancy term for that kind of joint, but I¡¯ve got no clue what it is. It does make for a surprisingly sturdy ladder though.

    When I reach the bottom, the pig-like creature comes charging toward me, letting out adorable little oinks all the while, though it crashes into me with some force. Maybe it¡¯s hungry? ¡°Sorry little fella, I don¡¯t have¡­,¡± then it hits me that I actually do have food. I''ve gotten so used to having nothing that I didn¡¯t even think about sharing. Not with a pig, anyway. ¡°¡­ no food to offer you."

    I gently nudge it aside and head back to the barn door. As I open it slowly, and look out to see what is there, I¡¯m greeted with the sight of a little girl skipping toward the barn. She looks about five years old, dressed in a plain linen dress similar to mine, with straw-blonde hair that frames her round, cherubic face. I can''t help but notice how vibrant and healthy everyone appears. The Middle Ages were supposed to be a time of hunger and hardship, but all these folks, even in Ronain''s village, seem perfectly normal¡ªhealthy, even.

    Her face shifts to one of astonishment, her mouth making a perfect O shape as she looks up at me. The bucket she was carrying plonks on the ground with a soft thud.

    My shoulders tighten. How do I fix this mess? I put my finger to my lips and wink at her like we''re in on a secret. I''m really glad I decided to wear my dress first; it covers up almost all the blood, and what little''s left can easily be passed off as just some reddish dirt. Nice work, me.

    Unfortunately, it doesn¡¯t quite work as I had imagined, and the girl¡¯s eyes narrow. "C¨° thu?"

    ¡°Emma¡±, I say, as I fully open the door, and very slowly shuffle out of the barn. She¡¯s only a few meters away, and I do not want to spook her prematurely, but I absolutely can¡¯t stay inside the barn. I mean, I can push a little girl out of the way, but what if her father shows up? He¡¯ll be a man, which is already basically a guarantee they¡¯re stronger, but he¡¯ll also spend his days working the fields, which drops the chances of me being able to beat them in a contest of strength to infinitesimal levels.

    ¡°Emma¡±? The little girl looks puzzled, even if she gets my name correct the first time around. She¡¯s taking in my whole appearance, her eyes widening slightly when they see the sheathed sword.

    I¡¯m really going to have to consider whether I should keep that there or not. It just seems to scare people.

    I try to placate here. ¡°Caraid¡±, a friend. Well, really I just say the word ¡°Friend¡± in the hope that she doesn¡¯t notice the surrounding sentence is missing. That shouldn¡¯t be all that uncommon for a five year old. I¡¯ve now completely left the doorway, and let it close. I step out of her way, motioning for her to go right ahead with whatever she wanted with the barn.

    Unfortunately, that damnable pig thing that was behind me has its own ideas, and it bursts out of the door right before it slams shut, blaring its weird oinks all over the farm. The girl and me both swivel towards the animal. For a moment, the pig thing can¡¯t seem to decide where it wants to go, its head swinging between me and the girl, beady little eyes blinking.

    It really is out for the food isn¡¯t it?

    It seems to make a decision, and rushes the girl. Or rather, the bucket the girl let drop. She lets out a most adorable squeak when she realizes what is happening, and immediately picks up the bucket. Which the pig thing jumps after. The girl keeps pulling it away, but even if she¡¯s a lot bigger than the pig thing, it¡¯s still big enough that she can¡¯t quite get the bucket completely out of its reach, and it¡¯s doesn¡¯t show any signs of tiring of that game.

    In a spare moment, she looks my way and shoots me a glare that I can only guess she perfected on her parents or someone. It''s a huffy look that only a kid can pull off, as if all the unfairness in the world has just been dumped on her by¡ªnaturally¡ªan adult.

    I can¡¯t help myself, and I burst out laughing. This is just too absurd. I went from being the suspicious stranger to ¡¯that idiot that let the pig out¡¯, and I guess that¡¯s what I¡¯ll be to her until that pig settles down. I¡¯m almost tempted to help her, but this is a prime opportunity to get away.

    I smile at her and take a step back slowly. The shocked look of betrayal on her face is just too precious.

    Of course, karma is a bitch, and the door to the farm slams open. In it stands a hulk of a man, wearing what I assume are his underclothes. His chest is more hairy than I expected, but then, I don¡¯t really have a broad range of comparison. And I know nothing about this world at all, maybe they¡¯re all gorillas?

    His voice is irritated, as he yells at her "Blair, d¨¨ tha a'' dol air adhart anns a'' diabhal?"

    The girl turns to him, while still keeping the bucket out of reach of the pig. Her voice is indignant, as she points to me "Cha do rinn mi dad, leig an duine seo a-mach Gwennie!"

    His gaze follows her finger, and when he sees me, his face morphs very rapidly from suspicion, to shock, to determination. There¡¯s zero hesitation as he bursts out of the farmhouse, not towards me, but towards the girl.

    That doesn¡¯t stop me from scrambling back. The man looks like a freight train on a collision course. I might be dead before I even had a chance to pull the sword out if he barreled into me like that.

    "Na gabh dragh, Blair, bheir do athair d¨¬on dhut.¡± he shouts at his daughter as he¡¯s running. The girl just looks... confused.

    Right before he reaches her, he slows down just enough he doesn¡¯t blast the girl away, and in one fell swoop, grabs both the pig and the girl, whose name I guess is Blair. She was clearly not prepared for all this, because the bucket she so carefully kept out of the pigs reach goes flying, spraying scraps of food everywhere. She almost looks like she¡¯s going to cry, and I feel bad for her.

    Only for a moment, because the man whirls on me. His gaze roams over my appearance, and the unbridled rage in his eyes sends a shiver of fear through me. The man thought I was going to hurt his daughter?! I¡¯m halfway between frustrated and afraid. I want to run away, but something in me doesn¡¯t want to let this stand.

    Apparently he thinks better of whatever he was going to do and instead turns to run back to the farmhouse as quickly as he came. The pig and the girl under his arm.

    Helpless, I stand there. Right before he enters the house I shout "Duine math, Blair.¡± hoping the girl at least will hear me. I must¡¯ve really ruined her morning, and if nothing else, I can apologize.

    The man pauses half a second, but catches himself, and rushes through the doorway before closing it with a slam. Not before I see the girl look back at me with something approaching, well, it¡¯s not fear I suppose, so I¡¯m going to believe it¡¯s forgiveness. She definitely didn¡¯t look at me like she couldn¡¯t believe I said that after all I did.

    But she did, didn¡¯t she? I don¡¯t think about it more though, and instead race away from this farm, whose resident I add to my mental list of people that think me dangerous on sight. Seriously, what is up with these people.

    I couldn¡¯t look less dangerous if I tried. I¡¯m a bedraggled woman in a simple dress. I don¡¯t even wear shoes! I feel some mild annoyance at the realization that I¡¯m wearing a sword. But logic wins out, and I realize that given the rest of me that just isn¡¯t enough. No matter how you see it, I do not look like a warrior, at least to myself. Maybe the impression I give off is completely different?

    It¡¯s not long before I reach what I consider a safe distance from the farm, considering nobody is chasing me. I pause on the road, and wonder where I should go.

 Town

    Down in the valley there¡¯s a town. I¡¯m not really sure if this is where Ronain intended for me to go, were the wagons destined for this place? Or would they go elsewhere. Clearly the road that they were traveling on led straight here, so it¡¯s at least likely they¡¯d pass through.

    Damn, I feel a bit like a detective wondering if I should take a case. Would it even be possible for me to figure out where they were planning to go just from the entering that town? How would I even go about entering it? People seem to have a nasty penchant for assuming I¡¯m their enemy whenever they see me, or rather, I guess it¡¯s the combination of covered in blood and black hair that triggers them somehow.

    I mean, I guess I can see how the whole ¡®covered in blood¡¯ thing works, just not how having black hair figures into it. I mean, nobody has it here, so I can see it being strange, but not worthy of fear. It¡¯s still just hair. Do they have devils or monsters with black hair or something?

    Kids do not seem nearly as affected though. Why is it always adults? Maybe it¡¯s something that happened in the distant past? Or something parents don¡¯t tell their children about? Kind of hard to see why they wouldn¡¯t if it¡¯s so dangerous though. Blair seemed to be upset that I was in their barn, and that I let the pig out, but didn¡¯t blink twice at the hair. Ronain did notice, but he didn¡¯t react nearly as violently as the adults in his village.

    Either way, if it¡¯s the hair that triggers people, maybe I can hide it somehow? It doesn¡¯t feel great. I kinda like my hair, but not so much that I¡¯m going to keep risking my safety over it. I guess I can tie it up, and then try to cover it, but what would I even use to do that?

    I really need some kind of scarf. I can cover it with the bag, but that¡¯d look silly. I¡¯m suddenly sorry I didn¡¯t take the clothes from the workers or soldiers. I could have definitely fabricated something usable using the sword.

    I mean, I suppose I could go back. It¡¯s less than an hours walk away. But the idea of digging the bodies back up again is too much, even if they¡¯re covered in only a token layer of soil. I¡¯m guessing, but I imagine the smell of decay wafting off my head wouldn¡¯t be any better than black hair. How quickly would that even start? Yesterday the bodies were but a few hours old, but now¡­ Nope. Definitely not going to spend more time thinking about that.

    Well, I have an alternative. I strip off my dress again, and take off the shirt that¡¯s been under it all this time. Both of them are made of the same fabric, so it¡¯s not as if I¡¯d really lose anything, though the inner shirt is marginally finer. I spent a little while planning, drawing some examples in the dirt, to figure out how to transform what I have into something that can completely cover my head and keep all the hair inside. Slightly complicated by the fact that the only thing I have to work with is a sword.

    I unsheathe the sword, and attempt to cut the fabric experimentally. It works a lot better than I¡¯d have any right to expect, taking nearly no pressure to cut it cleanly. Who was this bandit, and why does he have such a razor-sharp sword? It doesn¡¯t look like much¡ªpretty much the most basic sword you can find. It¡¯s not huge either, which works for me, but it¡¯s clear he took the time to sharpen it to a fine edge. Is that really necessary for a bandit? The others were managing just fine with their spears. Maybe he stole it? That¡¯d actually make a lot more sense, but it leaves the question of who the original owner was.

    I inspect the sword more carefully, suddenly being more interested in that than in fabricating some scarf. There¡¯s nothing like a crest on the sword though. It¡¯s just a pointy blade of metal with a small cross-guard¡ªif it can even be called that¡ªand a round pommel on the end. The whole thing is almost entirely a dull metallic gray. The blade is marred with nicks and scratches from countless fights, but the edges are still razor-sharp. If there¡¯s one thing that stands out, it¡¯s how utterly unremarkable it is. I would¡¯ve expected at least something to catch my eye.

    I can¡¯t look at the boring thing forever though, so eventually I just have to be happy with the sharpness, and finish my work.

    Somehow, the end result isn¡¯t completely terrible. Cutting off most of the torso and trying that around my head covers quite a bit of hair, unless someone lifts up the fabric dangling down my back and looks inside anyway. But I still have the issue that there¡¯s just too much hair. As I feared, with this naive version it feels like it¡¯d take only a little bit for everything to become visible. It¡¯d be fine as long as my hair stays tied up. I could do that by cutting some other strips of fabric, but using such improvised stuff does not give me a great deal of confidence.

    I guess I¡¯ll just have to cut the excess off? I¡¯m pretty annoyed at the thought of changing my look for these folks. But I¡¯ve got to make the best of what I''ve got, so whatever, it¡¯ll grow back. Turns out, I¡¯ve got the perfect tool for the job anyway. Well, not exactly perfect¡ªa sword isn¡¯t exactly what you¡¯d want for a haircut¡ªbut it might be better than anything else I have.

    The improvised scarf flops back on the floor, and I take my lovely, sleek black ponytail and get ready to cut it with the sword. Well, that was the plan, but the sword has other ideas and slices right through my hair without me even having to think about it. I¡¯m not sure if I should be offended or not. I wanted to build up to this moment, but now it¡¯s too late¡ªthe damage is done. I look at my precious hair for a moment before tossing it in the bushes by the road. Then, without mercy, I turn the sword on my bangs on either side and whatever I can grab from the top of my head, being super careful not to actually touch my scalp. It feels like using a razor on your head¡ªtotally terrifying!

    I can¡¯t really see how much remains after I¡¯m finished, given how I¡¯ve never seen anything like a mirror in this world. I guess I could look for another farm with a cistern and use the water as a makeshift mirror. Or maybe find a natural water source. There¡¯s no way a town this big could exist without some surface water nearby. It would be impossible to supply it all from a well like Ronain¡¯s village, so if I can track that down, maybe then I¡¯ll be able to see my reflection.

    Honestly, I¡¯m fairly certain I¡¯m ok at this point. From what I can feel, I''ve got just a thin layer of hair left¡ªmaybe a couple of centimeters? It''s definitely not cut evenly at all. I must look like a boy, one whose hair was attacked by a mad barber.

    The scarf in my hand doesn¡¯t look anything near as elegant as what I¡¯ve seen other women wear, but maybe I can finally enter society as merely tasteless, poor, or likely both. I guess it isn¡¯t all that uncommon for people to repurpose their old clothes though. Fabric is precious. At least I seem to remember it is.

    The remainder of my shirt, mostly the sleeves, is stuffed into the sack. This time I¡¯ll keep it for those moments that another brilliant idea like this suddenly comes to me.

    I feel like a complete mess, but since I can''t really check how I look anyway, I make my way down the hill.

    About halfway down, I frown and dash back up to find the ponytail I threw in the bushes, tossing it in my bag as well. You never know when you are going to need fine hair like this. I''m not one for sentimentality¡ªnot at all. Yet somehow, my mind insists I''ve got two totally useless keepsakes with me, and my heart just brushes it off and says it doesn''t matter.

    The sword that was so handy goes right into my bag too. I really don''t want to be seen lugging that around. Who knows, it might be illegal. I didn¡¯t see anyone with a sword in Ronain¡¯s village. It definitely stands out since it''s the only long thing in the sack, but it¡¯s way less obvious than when it¡¯s hanging from my belt, shouting ¡°I¡¯m a sword!¡± to everyone giving me even a casual glance.

    As I walk down the hill, and reflect on what just happened, I realize that I just had my very own ¡°cutting off hair¡± scene. Somehow, it doesn¡¯t feel nearly as significant to me as those usually are in the stories. Generally it means the people cutting off their hair are going to be more true to themselves. For me it means I can more easily pretend to be something I¡¯m not. I mean, it¡¯s not that I care very much, but it would have been nice for it to be like the stories instead.

    This is a pretty large valley, and I spend a while walking down the road. I briefly wonder how the mages were going to pull off this one. The slope isn¡¯t very steep, so to let the wagons roll themselves down seems hard. Maybe they¡¯d just move the wagons forward a little bit and leave the effort of controlling the descend to the workers with the ropes?

    I feel some slight regret that I¡¯ll never know the answer.

    I practice with my juice-sight, maybe as a sort of homage to the mages? I dunno what else I¡¯m going to call it, I guess this¡¯ll stick until someone of this world tells me what they call it. Of course I¡¯m not certain this is related to what the mages did, but dear god, it came from glowing blue fruits, time literally slows down when I do it, and I have a sorta second body that controls where the juice goes. I¡¯d have to be insane to not suspect the two were related. It¡¯s the only thing that¡¯s not bog standard medieval history either.

    Frowning, I knock my hand on a wooden fence next to the road in extreme slow motion, the resulting sounds muffled when they reach my ears. I¡¯d very much prefer things to stay within the realm of reason. I don¡¯t need any dragons, draugr, or nymphs to come spicing up this world. I mean, yes, of course, they¡¯re awesome. But I barely survived as is, and the only thing I met was humans. I don¡¯t want to think about how it¡¯d have gone if I¡¯d first met dragons.

    Starting and stopping the effect is really disorienting, and more than a few times I stumble when coming out of it. I¡¯d have stumbled when going in too, but the extra time makes it easy to adjust my steps to correct for it. Though moving your body when everything goes three times slower takes some getting used to. You¡¯ll think you¡¯ve placed your leg in one position, only to find it only a third of the way there. The effect does not seem to compensate for how long human brains seem to think something should take.

    I¡¯m beyond excited to be doing literally anything related to magic though. Even if it¡¯s as tedious as this. There are incredible moments too, like when a butterfly flutters by and you can watch its wings moving in slow motion. The whole thing is very much like when I got my first microscope, and I had to stick everything I could get my hands on underneath it. Fabric is fucking weird when magnified a few hundred times.

    At some point I try to talk while under the effect, and while I can¡¯t really hear myself, I¡¯m fairly certain it doesn¡¯t sound like anything human.

    The town I¡¯m walking towards is not surrounded by a wall, as you sometimes see in the stories. It¡¯s more like the density of buildings slowly increases towards a certain point. The farms are spaced closer together. Where closer together means you can see the next one over when standing at one of them. There are more people too, though nobody seems to pay any extra attention to me.

    Sure, a few farmers glance over when they see me pass by. Some nod, others wave, but nobody pays more than a moment of attention before returning to work. I never expected to be so happy that nobody cares.

    As I get closer and closer to the town, I note that more and more people join me on the road. It appears to be the main street leading to the town, which given its size is probably unsurprising. It¡¯s still packed dirt, but the large wagons could have driven over here, and all smaller footpaths and roads lead toward this one.

    About halfway between the farm I left, and the town, I see something that nearly makes me rush over and throw myself in. A small stream. It¡¯s far from a river, but it¡¯s more running water than I¡¯ve seen since coming here, you couldn¡¯t push a barge over there, but I could maybe sink in all the way to my hips? I guess the road was built next to the stream, as it follows all the twists and turns, before, a few hundred meters from the village, there is a bridge, and the road crosses the stream.

    The bridge is extremely solid. It¡¯s one of the few things in this world that I¡¯ve seen that¡¯s constructed of stone. Shaped from two arches that seem nearly unnatural in how straight they are. It¡¯s completely at odds with the all the surrounding organic stuff, and I can¡¯t help but feel like magic was involved in its construction. Only for the two supporting arches though. It¡¯s like they magically shaped those arches passing over the stream, and then heaped them with rubble. It makes for a very solid road, and not one I imagine is going to come down in the next two hundred years.

    What is more relevant to me, is the water. I know I was hoping to find it, but this is better than anything I expected. I throw a quick glance back along the road. There¡¯s a family with a handcart making its way down a few hundred meter back, and a few scattered people in front of me, but nothing that gives me cause for worry, as I jump off the road and follow the stream though the fields. There¡¯s not as many farms in this direction, as the stream now leads directly away from the town. I¡¯m not particularly concerned with where it¡¯s going, as long as I can take my clothes off without anyone seeing me from the road. I¡¯m not sure if they¡¯d consider it normal for people to bathe in full view here, but they¡¯d see my hair regardless, so I need to be careful.

    Eventually, the stream has turned back and forth so many times that I feel like I can safely descend and take a dip. There¡¯s a bunch of bushes providing cover on one end, and the land dips down roughly a meter towards the water anyway, so if I¡¯m standing in the middle of the stream I¡¯d be nearly impossible to spot for anyone not literally standing on the lip of the stream.

    Before I dive in though, I take off the scarf and inspect myself. A strangers face stares back at me. I don¡¯t know how long I¡¯ve had that ponytail, but¡­ I can¡¯t think of myself as having anything but that. It¡¯s not that I was attached to it as such, it was just me. Now I look like¡­ not me. My head is an awful mess, and it¡¯s kinda like what I imagine ¡®tomboy¡¯ means if the only thing they had to cut their hair was a pocket knife or something.

    At some point in the distant past I stopped caring about what I was supposed to look like and figured my current appearance was fine. Then I just kept asking for the same thing whenever I went to the barber. Though I guess it helps that the people I was working with weren¡¯t prone to noticing any changes to my hairstyle anyway. Maybe I just enjoyed not having to worry about it?

    That said, being able to move my head without feeling my hair swing around is pretty nice, in an utterly practical sort of way. I still feel kinda lost without it right now. Who knows, maybe I¡¯ll get used to this and never want anything else.

    I won¡¯t lie. Taking an unhurried bath is nice. Unlike before, I¡¯m not mucking up the water this time. It all flows away downstream, far from me. Nor is there a chance of a random farmer suddenly stepping out of their house and chasing me off.

    That doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m stupid of course. My sword is always close at hand. I just have no occasion to use it.

    When I¡¯m clean, I wash the clothes again, rubbing them together properly, and thoroughly. It¡¯s not perfect, but it¡¯s a sight better than the last time I did this. I hang the clothes over some bushes and rocks, while I sit myself down on another and spend a long time just staring at the water, lost in thought, wondering what I¡¯ll find in the village.

    Miraculously, I''m not bothered or attacked by anything, and the morning sun dries my clothes in no time. After a couple of hours, I find my way back to the road, just as another family with a cart goes by. They look my way but don''t linger; still, I think I catch a hint of an amused smile from the mother. Oh well. As long as they leave me be, I can handle a little laughter at my expense.

    Not long after I resume my trip, I get to a part of town where buildings actually line the street. The street isn¡¯t exactly busy by my standards, but it¡¯s still lively compared to the outlying farms. There¡¯s more to the town, but this here looks like one of the main streets, considering the number of shops, and other commercial buildings that line the street.

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    How do I know they are shops and commercial buildings? My amazing powers of deduction of course. People come and go from these buildings, but they go in with nothing, and come out with bags or hands full. Many of the buildings have a sign of some kind indicating exactly what you can get in there. Some other buildings are even more straightforward. I may come from an entirely different era, but there¡¯s no missing the smithy. Can¡¯t tell what exactly they make, but I very much doubt it¡¯s weapons. Fruit and vegetables stands have apparently changed in only very minor ways since this period. All in all, some 40 different stores of different varieties encompass the street, each with several patrons in and around them. Men, women, families with children. I wonder if it¡¯s a holiday. More and more people flow past me as I stand there too, clearly intent on a destination.

    I¡¯m going to guess that this town hold somewhere between two and four thousand people in an area encompassing some nine square kilometers, giving it a massive population density of some 330 people per square kilometer. Of course it¡¯s a bit misleading since like a thousand of those probably live in and around the street I¡¯m now standing at one end of. It sort of makes me nostalgic, and I suddenly regret I don¡¯t have any coin for shopping.

    Dare I walk into the street? So far nobody has given me a second glance, but if anyone does while I¡¯m there, it¡¯s going to be much harder to get away. I inspect the people walking past me and on the street nearby. None of them appear to be armed. Maybe I could just let my hair down and whip out my sword to keep them at bay? Assuming I can actually get it out before they grab me, that is. Trying to pull it from my bag in a panic is likely going to be pretty tricky.

    Taking a deep breath, I walk into the street. The air is thick with the scent of baked bread and spices, with the laughter of children darting between stalls. I watch as a woman with a basket full of ripe apples exchanges pleasantries with an elderly man selling trinkets, their smiles almost infectious. Vendors call out their wares with practiced enthusiasm. It reminds me of nothing so much as a market back home, because that¡¯s basically what it is. A lot of the buildings here are shops, but nearly all of them have their goods set outside, the sale happening there while the actual work proceed inside.

    I stop to watch a group of children playing a game of tag, trying to figure out the rules of their mayhem. Their joyous shrieks cut through my muddy thoughts like sunlight piercing clouds, reminding me of the time I was young. Did I run around like this? I have vague memories of playing in the street, at the shopping center. Guess this is another one of those things that¡¯s as old as time. Parents can hardly leave their kids at home, so they bring them along wherever they need to go. I wonder how many of these kids relish having the opportunity to visit town. I guess all their time is spent at the farm.

    My inattention in the presence of a horde of kids costs me, and one of their group bowls right into my back as the rest of them rush past me. I stumble forward, catching myself just in time before I frown at their retreating backs. When they realize what happened, they scatter, eyes wide with surprise before¡ªwhen they find me more bemused than angry¡ªbursting into giggles. As if me face-checking one of their own is the funniest thing in the world. To them, I¡¯m not a scary outsider, I¡¯m just another adult that became an incidental part of their game. The fact I don¡¯t speak a word of their language matters nothing to them.

    I check to see that my hair is still hidden, but I needn¡¯t have worried. The veil is pretty solid, even if it looks terrible. That said, there are a few people looking my way. Given the way they appear to be suddenly hurrying their business along though, I imagine that¡¯s a bunch of concerned parents. One man even hurries over to me¡ªleaving the merchant he was buying a sack of grain from standing there high and dry in the process of handing over the merchandise¡ªand apologizes profusely.

    I wave him off, still bemused by this whole thing. Simply¡­ hiding my hair, and suddenly I¡¯m just a normal person on the street. It¡¯s really that simple?¡­ I almost want to hit myself. How much trouble could I have saved myself by finding a hood, or I dunno, a fuck-off big leaf before doing anything else in this world. Maybe I could have use the rabbit¡¯s skin to fashion myself a crude hat? I still can¡¯t fathom why they¡¯d attack people with black hair on sight. I mean, sure, lots of theories. Just nothing definitive, but man.

    Shaking my head, I finish my traversal of the street, being enticed by many different sounds and smells along the way. It¡¯s a shame I don¡¯t have any¡­ wait a second. I dig around in my bag, and pull out a small pouch of coin. That¡¯s right. I took that on the spur of the moment in the village and then completely forgot about it.

    I open the pouch and glance inside. There appear to be 7 square copper coins with a hole in the middle in the pouch. I¡¯m not sure how much value these actually represent though, and I try to surreptitiously look around if anyone else is using coins.

    Most people are bartering with goods though. Probably all the stuff they brought in from the farms. Now I wish I¡¯d brought that bandit¡¯s old boots. The cobbler seems to be getting nearly a bucketful of supplies for every pair of shoes he sells. Not that I see him selling more than one, but they¡¯re not even very nice ones, and like, that¡¯s a lot of cheese. I can totally see those boots fetching a cartload of supplies. Not that I could carry that, but maybe I could get it in coin? Dreaming is nice.

    At the end of the street, there''s a square¡ªwell, it''s more like a large circle¡ªbut it looks like a spot for people to come together. There¡¯s some grass, and families are settled down enjoying what looks like breakfast. Or is it lunch? Now that I think about it, it should still be morning, but with all the activity around, it feels more like afternoon to me.

    What am I going to do? I have been feeling like an adventurer ever since I came here, but, is that truly a way to make a living here? Is that even the way I want to make a living? There¡¯s all kinds of professions I¡¯d never even considered just in this street here, and my wild chase after those wagons is starting to feel more like a silly daydream. Sure, I want to learn magic, but my supplies run out in a week, and then what am I left with? I can¡¯t deny suddenly feeling extremely comfortable now that I¡¯m back in what I consider civilisation. It¡¯s some thousand years out of date, sure, but this here is a true community.

    What I¡¯m worried about is that I¡¯m deluding myself. I¡¯d love to be cobbler, sure, well, maybe not, but I¡¯ve spent my life making things, and I¡¯m confident I can find something to make here that will bring me joy and give me a steady paycheck. If it involves magic, great; if not, I¡¯ll manage. What I¡¯m not sure about is how I get from where I am to where I want to go. What I think I need to find is a true city. Some place that someone like me, someone clearly considered an oddity will just get lost in the noise. My home was like that, and I''m sure there¡¯s somewhere in this world that''s similar. Not nearly to the same extend of course. I doubt there¡¯s a lot of tourism going on here. But any place with access to the sea, if such a place exists here, is sure to have all sorts of people around.

    Now how do I find a city? I guess that¡¯s where I expected the wagons to go. Supplies for some merchant? For a large smithy? I seem to recall that the world runs on wood in this era, or coal, but I¡¯m not sure if that¡¯s available yet. It seems like I only really started to hear about coal usage in the industrial revolution. Which is kinda weird, considering it should be around in the same places now. Maybe I can use my foreknowledge of its uses to start a business empire? I struggle to imagine myself behind a massive mahogany desk, puffing cigars. If only I were reincarnated into a young body, then it¡¯d be fun to play the prodigy. Right now I¡¯m just a dolt.

    Well, if there¡¯s one caravan going to a city, there¡¯s going to be more, and this town would be a prime place for them to gather, or pass through. I need to see if this place has something like a tavern. Or like a roadside inn.

    I stand at the entrance to a large courtyard, filled with a variety of wagons and carts, from small to large, though nothing quite as massive as the lumber wagons I was following. None of these appear to be operated by mages, given the large number of pack and draft animals I see bound to the a hitching post. Donkeys, mules and a single horse. But the large majority seem to be oxen. Massive beasts that I haven¡¯t had much occasion to see before. Then there¡¯s that one guy that tied a cow to the post, I really wonder where they are going. There¡¯s a small stable, but it¡¯s more like a roof over the otherwise open courtyard, and the only thing in it is the aforementioned horse.

    Beyond the courtyard, is the inn. A sturdy wooden building that¡¯s two floors tall. A rarity in these environs. It¡¯s hard to not be intimidated by the sheer size of the building, it being nearly twice as large as the largest farmhouse I¡¯ve seen so far. The roof is surprisingly not thatched, but consists of wooden shingles. The bottom floor has small slits for windows, while the top floor boasts larger openings, all of which are closed with shutters at the moment. A sign hangs over the entrance, featuring a very worn-out painting of a bed, and I can¡¯t help but wonder when it last got a fresh coat of paint.

    All that to say, I find myself intimidated. It¡¯s not that I might need to talk to people there, though there is that. Or that I don¡¯t know what¡¯s inside, and anything could happen. Those would be sensible reasons. No. I find myself intimidated because this is a real, honest to god inn, like from the stories. Where Bilbo and the dwarves sleep on their way to the forgotten mountain, where Kvothe told his stories, where like, every goddamn adventure starts. It¡¯s the stuff of legends! I¡¯m just worried that I¡¯ll destroy all my fantasies by actually going in. This world has been a hard reality check in many ways, and I really don¡¯t want to lose this little bit that I¡¯m still desperately holding on to.

    In the end, my curiosity is stronger. And a good thing too, because it¡¯s nearly everything I imagined. I open the door, and the pungent smell of unwashed bodies hits me right in the face. I frown a little, but I suppose I¡¯ll get used to it in no time. A quick glance through the room I¡¯m standing in confirms it¡¯s the common room, and¡­ bar, check. Long tables and benches, check. A fireplace, check. Rowdy patrons, check. Suddenly, my gaze snaps back to them. I can¡¯t believe these folks are downing ale at 9 in the damn morning! I shake my head in disbelief and continue my inspection. There doesn¡¯t seem to be anyone behind the bar, but there¡¯s a girl who looks about 15 serving up bowls of porridge to the drinkers.

    I can only imagine how ridiculous I must look, standing in the doorway with my eyes practically popping out of my head. I¡¯m one step shy of a screaming fangirl here. Aside from the screaming, I just can¡¯t see myself ever doing that. But I can¡¯t keep blocking the entrance, so I sink down on the nearest bench. The only person sitting at this table is an older man that doesn¡¯t even give me a glance.

    There are six tables altogether, each set up to seat about 8 people, with four on each side. If you really wanted to, you could probably cram in 5 on a side. At the moment, there are around 15 folks in the common room, all dressed in various tunics that range from decent to pretty worn out. Naturally, they all have charming blonde or maybe a touch of brown hair.

    Before I can think of what to do next, the girl I saw earlier is standing next to me. "An eil thu a'' dol a thaghadh rudeigin no d¨¬reach a'' suidhe an sin ag iarraidh?" she asks, her hands resting on her hips in a way that suggests both impatience and a hint of amusement. Her voice is surprisingly confident for someone so young, and I wonder how long she¡¯s been doing this. I fumble for words. She¡¯s clearly expecting me to order something. I should have thought of that before I let my fantasies guide me in here. Will they let me stay if I say no?

    Panic surges through me, and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck as I scramble for a response. My mind races, flitting between the various fare I¡¯ve heard of in tales and the more mundane options they might actually have here, then discarding all of them because I have no clue how to say any of them. I want to say porridge, but it¡¯s not a word Ronain ever covered. "Uh, p¨¤isde?" I finally manage to stammer out, hoping bread is a safe choice that won¡¯t reveal my utter lack of experience with tavern life. The girl raises an eyebrow, her amusement deepening as if she can see right through my facade of calm. ¡°Gu dearbh, tha arain againn,¡± she replies with a smirk, before gesturing towards a large basket on the bar that¡¯s brimming with rolls. ¡°Ach bu ch¨°ir dhut beagan c¨¤ise no fe¨°il a chur ris ma tha thu ag iarraidh biadh freagairteach.¡±

    Something about cheese. Oh man, this was a terrible idea. I can just imagine my face looking like a ripe tomato right now. I better leave before I make it any worse.

    But before I can rise from the bench, the older man at the table glances over at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sizing me up. There''s a certain wisdom in his gaze, a hint of mischief that suggests he¡¯s seen many travelers come and go. ¡°Chan eil thu ¨¤ seo, an e?¡± he asks, his voice gravelly yet warm.

    I hesitate for a moment, caught off guard by his directness, I thought he was going to keep to himself, but apparently I was wrong. Something about me, and here? What do I do here? Fuck I don¡¯t know. I should have asked Ronain how to say I don¡¯t speak this rotten language. Would they react as violently to someone speaking English?

    The older man¡¯s gaze is unwavering, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on me. Finally, I can¡¯t stand it any more, and I jump up from my seat ¡°Chan eil fhios agam, duilich.¡± I finally manage to reply, using the full extend of my vocabulary to tell him I don¡¯t know, my voice barely above a whisper as I back towards the doorway.

    But before I can make my escape, the girl who had been serving porridge steps forward, her expression shifting from playful to sympathetic, curious. "Tha e ceart gu le¨°r," she says in a softer tone, her words incomprehensible, but her tone one of reassurance. "Chan e thusa an toiseach a tha air chall ann an eadar-theangachadh." She looks at the older man questioningly, who merely raises an eyebrow at her.

    Then he sighs and, with a long suffering look at the girl, says "Kanntu tetta tungum¨¢l?¡±, and at my uncomprehending expression, continues, much more haltingly with "Poso gia afto?¡±.

    This man! He knows multiple languages! There are multiple languages! Unfortunately, they¡¯re all equally incomprehensible to me. I¡¯d have a better chance of understanding him in the original one. ¡°Duilich¡­¡± I can only say. He presses his lips together, thinking while he mutters to himself "C¨¤it a bheil i air tighinn ¨¤?"

    I have only a moment to think about it, but I take a chance ¡°Do you? Understand English?¡± I ask him. Ronain wasn¡¯t upset with the language, so I guess it should be fine.

    The man and the girl both look at me like I¡¯m speaking in riddles, and my heart falls. The girl and the man have a rapid fire conversation that I have no hope of following, but eventually the girl walks off to the kitchen, and comes back with a bowl of steaming porridge, which she places in front of me with a slight smile. ¡°An seo, tha an seann duine sin a'' p¨¤igheadh."

    I shift my gaze back and forth between her and the man, who offers me a faint smile and gestures toward the bowl. He seems lost in thought himself. I want to believe he¡¯s some kind of secret wizard, ready to finally guide me on the adventure I should have been having all along. But no matter how I try to see him that way¡ªfaded tunic, bushy beard, nearly white hair cascading down his back¡ªI just can¡¯t manage it. His clothes are shabbier than what the mages on the carts wore. Even if he knows multiple languages, that just makes him learned or well traveled, not a wizard.

    The girl has gone off to take care of other guests, but I can¡¯t help but feel grateful to her as I blow on my porridge. I scoop some out with the spoon, giving it a gentle puff before shoving it into my mouth. Eating it feels like finally coming home after a long night. Tears stream down my face, and I don¡¯t mind if anyone notices. Hot food! How long has it been since I¡¯ve had this? It¡¯s delicious too, even better than I expected.

    When I¡¯m halfway through the bowl, I look up to find the old man looking at me with that thoughtful expression still on his face. I suppose I might as well chance it if they¡¯re happy to feed me, and say "Baile-m¨°r?¡± ¡°City" That word I remember, because Ronain was enthusiastic about it, and because it took us so long to figure out. Small town boy, it¡¯s no surprise he¡¯d want to go to the city. Then he told me to go there, so that¡¯s what I¡¯ll do.

    The man seems surprised by my words at first, but then he slowly nods. "Tha, dh¡¯fhaodadh sin a bhith freagairt.¡± At least he seems to agree with me. He mimes walking with his fingers, and I nod enthusiastically. That faint, slightly wistful smile appears on his face again, as he stands up. Then he says ¡°Fuirich an seo.¡± motioning to the rest of my bowl, and he totters out of the inn. Guess I¡¯ll wait.

    I¡¯ve finished my bowl, and the girl has checked up on me once, when the man comes back in with a piece of bark in his hand. It seems I¡¯m not the only one that thinks that¡¯s convenient writing material. In the absence of paper anyway. He sits down at the table again, and takes some sort of stylus out of a pocket, which he begins scratching away with. A few minutes later, he motions me over, and shows me the results. It¡¯s a crude map of the surroundings. Really nothing more than the town, and presumably major roads leading from it. The town is on one end of the bark, and he¡¯s dragged a long line all the way to the other, where a much larger circle is, and a long wavy line right next to it.

    Presumably he¡¯s not quite sure about how much I know, because he¡¯s drawn little icons for sun up, and sun down, to indicate which way is north. Or rather, the orientation of the map, since I have no idea if this world even has a north. That¡¯s quite ingenuous, and my respect for this man increases once again.

    He may not be a magus, but he¡¯s certainly learned. I wonder what he does in this village? Either way, he¡¯s very insistent that I follow the path he¡¯s drawn. He replays the route I need to go a few times, then has me going off the path a few times, then very emphatically says "Chan eil!¡± Not something he thinks is wise, that¡¯s for certain. Another part of his bark is a sun with five lines right next to it, which he explains with words and motions, but the idea is clear. Five days, that¡¯s how long it will take me if I walk straight to this city.

    It¡¯s a surprisingly short distance, but many terrible things happened on my way here, and that journey took just a little more than a day.

    There is one more talk between the man and the girl, in which the girl seems to try to convince the man of something, but he shakes his head emphatically, glancing at me from the corner of his eyes, a knowing smile on his face. I¡¯m not sure what he thinks he knows, but somehow, it doesn¡¯t make me uneasy. I should be more careful, more suspicious, but I just can¡¯t imagine this man bears me any ill will. Eventually the girl gives up whatever she was attempting, and just looks at me ruefully, before winking. I¡¯m not sure what to think of a 15 year old winking at me, but, whatever I suppose?

    As thankful as I am, for both the porridge, and the map. I¡¯m eager to leave now. I have a goal, and a full belly, and I worry that not everyone in the inn will be as friendly and helpful as these two. Looking like a helpless woman, nay being a helpless woman, has benefits and drawbacks.

    Just before I step out of the doorway, the man speaks up "Tilg air ais uaireannan, nuair a th¨¨id thu a-mach air na tha thu a'' sireadh.¡± I don¡¯t know what it means at all, but I nod to him, and it seems to satisfy him. Then I¡¯m out the door.

    I didn¡¯t find a caravan, but I found something much more valuable. I clasp the strip of bark in my hands, and I can¡¯t help but feel hopeful for the future. A city might not solve all my problems, but just maybe, it may solve some of them. Ronain seemed to think so anyway, so I¡¯ll just have to trust him on that. Though I suppose, it might make them worse. I don¡¯t believe medieval cities were known for being especially pleasant places.

 City

    I spend the next five days slowly making my way overland to the city indicated on the crude map the old man has given me.

    After a day, the surroundings slowly change, going from incessant farmland to a rougher wilderness. Still populated, but less densely, the next house often being invisible until I reach the next hill over. I pass through three villages, and one more small town. None further than half a days travel from another, which I guess makes sense since people walk everywhere. I wouldn¡¯t want to sleep out in the open after visiting town either.

    The sparse habitation I find also seems to be mostly within half a days walk of the population centers I pass. There¡¯s a few huts and farms outside the populated areas, but I have to believe those people went to live in the middle of nowhere deliberately.

    I eat my way through several days worth of provisions, and my sack becomes noticeably lighter every day. I don¡¯t lack for water though, passing by two streams and a small river. Between those and the water-skin I took from the bandit, I¡¯m never thirsty.

    On the way, I¡¯ve mostly tried to avoid people, especially after the incident. Any time I saw any large group coming towards me, I¡¯d quickly hide off road. It was actually surprisingly easy to see those coming due to the dust they kicked up on the road. I¡¯m happy to say that I have no idea who or what any of those dust clouds were. There was also the occasional lone traveler, but we mostly just left each other alone, though some gave me wary glances, and others said hello.

    What there was more of was caravans, though those often traveled in the same direction as me, and it was sometimes hard to notice them until they were nearly overtaking me. They gave me some hope that I was going the right direction though. After the first day of this, I¡¯d quickly figured out the appropriate thing to do in that scenario by virtue of observing other travelers do it, and any passing caravan thereafter could be politely greeted and sent on their way.

    There was a minor event when I took my scarf off after not seeing anyone for half a day or so on a smaller road in the middle of my journey, and forgot I had done so. I know, stupid, but walking and seeing nothing but trees for hours on end deadens the mind. I¡¯d strapped on the sword right after leaving the town, and kept it there every day, because, lone woman traveling makes a tempting target. Can¡¯t be too paranoid in that regard.

    Unfortunately it bit me in the ass when I came across a man traveling in the opposite direction from me. I didn¡¯t pay much attention to him, and he to me. But right as he was passing by he apparently finally noticed me, and let out this bloodcurdling scream, then dashed away from me at the highest speed possible. I tried to stop him of course, but that only made it worse, and he started dropping random possessions. To keep me busy I suppose, but what the hell. So I just let him run off. From that moment on I kept the scarf firmly on my head regardless of the fact nobody might be watching.

    I¡¯m not particularly worried he might call the guards on me. By the time he made it anywhere relevant and back, I¡¯d be long gone.

    As if to make my earlier discovery worse, one thing he dropped was another pouch full of coins. I should probably consider it sort of stolen, and the man didn¡¯t actually do anything to me, so maybe I shouldn¡¯t use it. But then I look at it next to the other pouch that I intentionally took from the village, and I can¡¯t quite tell if my reasoning is logical or just driven by feelings. Either way, there¡¯s no way I can return it to him, so I might as well keep it.

    The coins in the travelers¡¯ pouch are more interesting than what I found earlier. There¡¯s 3 large silvers, 5 small silvers, and a whole bunch of those square copper ones with a hole in. Maybe they used to put them on a string or something?

    I¡¯m now the proud owner of three hefty silver coins, each about 3 centimeters wide. I also have five smaller silver coins that measure 2 centimeters across, and when you add the 23 new tiny copper coins to the seven I already had, which are just 1.5 centimeters on each side and as flat as can be without slicing your fingers on the edges, it adds up to quite a collection. All of these coins look just like you¡¯d imagine old coins would: they have that rough, worn appearance, as if someone bashed them with a hammer, leaving their edges cracked and uneven.

    I instead securely lodge this all in one of my belt pouches, instead of the two loose pouches that these people apparently love. One that I can keep closed with a little strap. I¡¯m not sure how the man could untie his pouch so quickly. It¡¯s almost like he had it ready to throw at me. Maybe he was prepared for bandits?

    I¡¯m left wondering how much money it actually is though, as I have no idea about the exchange rate. The size of the large silvers seems to say they¡¯re at least twice as valuable as the small ones just by virtue of the material, but I have no idea if it¡¯s actually silver, pure, or something like that. Same for the copper, which I just call copper by virtue of it having vaguely that color.

    I made shelters, if I had the chance, or slept outside, if I didn¡¯t. I¡¯m not sure if I should have insisted on a shelter every day, but I haven¡¯t been mauled by any animals, so it¡¯s probably fine. Anyway, sleeping out in the open was fine, until that one night it wasn¡¯t, and I was soaked from top to bottom in what seemed like a second. It¡¯s pretty disturbing to wake up in the middle of the night and find yourself a soggy mess. Luckily the rain was over soon, but afterwards I had great difficulties going back to sleep as it reminded me of that one day when I spent the night sleeping in animal pi¡­ I just don¡¯t want to think about that any more.

    I¡¯m not all that high above the plain, but my perspective gives me a good view of the city.

    It lies on the edge of the ocean, where a smallish river runs into the sea. I suppose they built it there so they¡¯d have access to both freshwater as well as the sea. The city sits right on top of the river, and it sort of equally splits it in half.

    There¡¯s an inner city with massive crenelated walls constructed of rough stone that must be like five meters high and at least two meters thick, allowing plenty of space for any defenders to maneuver. Every hundred to two hundred meters a ten meter high round tower sits on the wall, topped with a tiled roof and an overhang that allows anyone inside to attack those below.

    Then there is an outer city, that expands out of the inner city on one side, and covers a few hundred meters to the left of the inner city. I imagine that was added later, when the city grew too big for the inner walls. There is a smaller wall brick wall surrounding it that looks a mere 3 meters high, and much less thick, probably mostly aimed at preventing easy access? Guess they ran out of money after constructing the main wall. It¡¯d still be hard for anyone to casually scale, as the top leans over a bit. Nor can I imagine anyone without a siege engine¡ªor magic¡ªbreaking through it. It¡¯s weird how something that would be a temporary obstacle if you had explosives, is nearly impassable in this era.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    There¡¯s a gate on every major side of the inner city, though the outer wall to the left merely has an opening where the wall just ceases for a few meters and then continues.

    On the whole, the inner city looks unassailable from all landwards directions. Though I wonder if magic would have any effect on it. That thought I had earlier about pebbles comes back to me, and I wonder what a pebble launched at railgun velocities would do to those walls. Anyone could walk right into the outer city if that gate were undefended though. There¡¯s nothing like a moat either, which I¡¯d sort of expected. Maybe digging it around the entire city would be too much? But then they did build that wall.

    On the seaward side, the city sports a port that spans nearly the entire length of the city, filled with ships. There¡¯s too many to count, but there are two main types. Fat ones that are used for trading. Cogs? And a whole fleet of galleys, like from Age of Empires. I don¡¯t quite recall their name. Triremes?

    All the land around the city is cultivated, but not a tree is in sight anywhere on the plain surrounding it. I suppose everything that was there has been cannibalized to create either ships or buildings.

    The city is a lot larger than I expected. It must be like ten times the size of that town I passed through. Which, when I consider it, is just barely bigger than the town I grew up in, but an order of magnitude smaller than the city I used to live. Even so, it doesn¡¯t feel that way.

    I¡¯ve seen remnants of old cities before. But it¡¯s always a little part of the city wall here, a gate that is still standing there. There¡¯s even some old castles, but they never seemed quite as imposing as castles were supposed to look in my imagination.

    This is different, and hella impressive. I¡¯m almost glad I was transported here just because I get to see this. It¡¯s like I imagine people felt when seeing to the Theodosian walls of Constantinople for the first time.

    I can¡¯t help but be excited as I make my way down to the main entrance of the inner city.

    When I get closer to the city, I note that there is a long line of wagons waiting their turn to enter the city. I peek around the end of the line, wondering if there¡¯s a separate line for individuals trying to enter. After all, I¡¯m not exactly equal to a wagon.

    It worries me what I might have to go through to enter the city, my mind is filled with examples of corruption, bribes and thorough inspections before the guards let you through. I wonder if the line is this long because of that?

    As dusk approaches, I can picture everyone here eager to get into the city before it¡¯s completely dark.

    Feeling a bit shameless, I walk past the line. I wonder if I¡¯m really just supposed to stand at the end of it, waiting like a chump. I guess there¡¯s no harm in going to the front to first see what is actually happening. As I walk to the front, I note some dirty looks being thrown my way by the people waiting, more or less confirming my suspicion that I¡¯m supposed to wait my turn. But whatever, I¡¯m just here to look, not cut in line.

    When I get to the front, the situation is not at all as I expected. There¡¯s a few people on foot that pass through the gate with just a casual inspection from the guards. They¡¯re not even required to pay anything. Seeing that speed, I¡¯m baffled at this massive line standing here.

    That''s when the next wagon in line creaks forward, and I startle at just how massive it is. That''s when I see that this wagon isn''t pulled by horses either; instead, it''s being moved by a mage, just like the ones carrying lumber that I was following before. The wagon has eye popping dimensions, that remind me of nothing so much as a lorry. It¡¯s nearly 10 meters long, and almost 3 wide. I have a hard time imagining how the one mage can move this thing.

    I can¡¯t help but note that this man looks a lot more... professional. The mages on the lumber carts looked like they were for lack of a better word, laborers. This man wears a nice clean tunic, and looks entirely more self-assured. Next to him sits what I assume is a merchant, who wears clothes that are probably even more expensive, which I should probably expect as I assume he¡¯s the mages¡¯ employer.

    The wagon they sit on is loaded with all kinds of stuff. Barrels, crates and a heap of sacks. I¡¯m very curious to see how the guards will deal with this one. So I¡¯m again surprised when the merchant flings the guards a single square copper, and they nod at him, after which the wagon lumbers to the gate.

    That¡¯s when the trouble starts. And not any kind of trouble I expected. The damn gate is too small.

    That, or the wagon is too massive. I¡¯m guessing the gate is exactly three meters across, and as I saw earlier, the wagon is just a tad less. Getting it lined up with the gate is a hard thing in and off itself, but this gate through the massive inner walls is also three meters deep, so if the alignment is not exactly right, it¡¯ll get stuck, and they have to back up and try again.

    I don''t think the driver is clueless. He''s actually doing everything right. It''s just that the situation is really tough.

    It honestly kind of reminds me of my job. Here is one gate engineer that thinks that surely 3 meters wide should be enough for anyone. And then there¡¯s a wagon builder, that thinks bigger is better, and surely any gate would be large enough to accommodate such a massive wagon. Assumptions and lack of communication were the bane of my life, and I¡¯m sort of relieved to see that it¡¯s nothing exclusive to our era.

    In a flash of curiosity, I activate my juice sight, wondering if the mage is using that as we speak, to try to make minute adjustments a bit easier.

    To my great surprise, I see little runes flaring up all around on the wagon the mage is sitting on with impressive speed. They¡¯re indistinct, and I¡¯m not sure I could positively say they were runes without having already imagined one in my own mind. I have no idea what these are, as if there¡¯s some haze over them. I involuntarily take a step forward to see better, and that does actually make them a little bit easier to see. I wonder if I¡¯d be able to see it all if I stood right in front of his nose.

    It¡¯s a bit like having terribly blurry vision. I wonder if this is like a kid learning again, where I¡¯ll eventually sharply see exactly what the man is doing. It occurs to me that what he¡¯s doing would be nearly impossible if he didn¡¯t have the same bullet time power I have. While the world moves slower, mental processes (and juice moving) are just as fast as they are in realtime.

    I can only imagine he¡¯s making minute adjustments to the direction the wagon moves. Though it seems excessive. Doesn¡¯t he just want it to go it back or forward? Maybe a little bit sideways?

    I drop the juice sight. If I can see what he¡¯s doing, he might well be able to notice me looking at him too.

    There¡¯s no indication of that though, and I suddenly wonder if mages can detect other mages. I didn¡¯t note anything special about the man until he literally showed me he was a mage.

    Almost fifteen minutes later, the wagon finally lines up just right and rolls through the gate. The guards, clearly fed up, grumble and curse at the merchant with that enormous wagon. Just then, another hefty wagon lumbers up, and they let out a collective groan.

    I resign myself to a long afternoon of waiting, but I¡¯m honestly relieved that the only thing that I¡¯ll have to do to enter the city is wait. Waiting I do though, and when full night has fallen, I finally pass by the guards and into the city. The gatehouse has large, steel banded doors, but I can¡¯t help but admire the massive portcullis that hangs just inside the gate. Its bars nearly as thick around as my forearm. How does a smith even make such a thing?

    Then I am through, and I step inside the city for the first time. Will it be better for me than Ronain¡¯s village? He seemed to think so, but I can¡¯t help but feel anxious about what awaits me here.

 City Exploration

    My first impression of the city is that it smells like shit. Literally. This is one aspect that I¡¯d known about, but couldn¡¯t properly appreciate until I actually set foot in one. I never quite expected to smell it for the first time when I could barely see where I¡¯m going though, and I¡¯m nervously placing my feet, wondering if I¡¯ll suddenly step in something. That''s a thing I hadn¡¯t considered when coming into the city on my bare feet.

    The next thing I notice is that the city is dark. There¡¯s not a lantern in sight, so the only light I have is the light of the moon, and whatever light spills out of windows that are still lighted, of which there aren¡¯t many. There¡¯s a large road that seems to run the entire length of the city, surrounded by dark and locked up buildings.

    The street is almost empty, and of the few folks who do wander through the gate in front of me, half of them quickly head towards a big building illuminated by a lone torch. The torch casts a glow over the entrance and highlights a sign hanging above the door, which brings to mind the inn I entered in the village earlier.

    Choosing between the dark street and the inn is an easy call, so I quickly stick with the crowd. I¡¯ve got absolutely no experience in a city like this, and wandering through it alone at night is just begging for trouble.

    Even though I have a general idea of what¡¯s coming, I¡¯m still taken aback by the overwhelming noise that hits me as soon as I walk in. It¡¯s not just the ruckus of tipsy folks that catches me off guard; it¡¯s the fact that all four tables in this common room are packed. Everyone seems to be listening intently and clapping along with a guy in the corner playing a flute.

    Along one of the long sides of the room is a massive hearth, and in it blazes a merry fire that throws shadows all over the room. The inside smells smoky from the fire.

    Aside from the ones at the tables, there¡¯s a small crowd around the bar, more or less doing the same thing as those sitting, but while consuming more alcohol. I don¡¯t see anyone serving, so I guess this place is self service.

    Since there is no place to sit unless I want to force myself between some others, something I do not nearly have enough confidence for, I make my way to the bar.

    There¡¯s three men behind the bar, all in their late middle age and looking strikingly similar, with round, rosy faces and a tuft of red hair atop their heads. Thankfully, they''ve made an effort to add a bit of variety to their appearance with their clothing. Each is dressed in a linen shirt and pants, but they''ve opted for aprons in different colors.

    As I walk in, one of them gives me a thorough once-over, but I¡¯m too tired to let it bother me. All I want is some sleep, and not even the cheerful buzz of the common room can lift my mood. Try spending an entire day on your feet only to stand in line for hours¡ªit''s enough to crush anyone''s spirit. The idea of figuring out exactly how much the coin from my pouch is worth by trying to pay for a room seems like a fantastic idea at the moment.

    The man seems to pick up on this, and given the way he looks, I¡¯m guessing that¡¯s by virtue of many years of experience. "Leabaidh? Biadh? Deoch?¡± ¡°Bed? Food? Drink?¡± well, nobody can blame the man for not being succinct, and even I can understand it. I glance at what they have behind the bar, and note two large casks. I¡¯m suddenly in dire need of a drink, and glancing down the bar, note that everyone gets theirs served in clay mugs.

    I¡¯m going to look like a moron again, but whatever. I point at one of the drinks that someone else is drinking, and rummage in my bag for those copper squares, then show those and look questioningly at the man behind the bar. He takes it in stride in a way that tells me he¡¯s seen things, and holds up three fingers.

    I gladly slap those down, and follow him with my eyes as he goes to one of the barrels with a new mug, and taps a full one for me. A moment later, there''s a mug of sweet liquid sitting in front of me. Not what I was expecting at all. Wasn¡¯t this supposed to be ale? Oh well. I take a sip and frown in surprise. I don¡¯t think I''ve ever had this before; it''s some sort of honey wine, right? It definitely makes me want to drink more, and before I realize it, my mug is empty.

    Come to think of it, who serves wine in a mug? That¡¯s a lot of wine. I can already feel it going straight to my head. I ate while waiting in line, so I should be fine, but I probably shouldn¡¯t have finished the whole mug in 10 minutes regardless.

    I look over at the man that helped me earlier, and he looks back at me with a smirk. I just wave him over, and say ¡°leabaidh?¡± His grin widens, and he nods: "D¨¤ leagha airson roinnte, deich airson pr¨¬obhaideach.¡± ¡°¡­¡± I have no clue. He very nearly rolls his eyes, but recovers quickly. Instead holding up two, then ten fingers in succession. I guess two is fine? I don¡¯t need more than a bed, and ten is more than a third of what I have.

    I hesitatingly hand him two coins, and he nods in approval. Then he gestures at a doorway beside the bar, and motions at the stairs to the left. "F¨¤g an staidhre, tagh leabaidh sam bith a tha thu ag iarraidh.¡± ¡°Go¡­ somewhere, and pick" I go there, and find another set of stairs going to the right. Wonder what is up there. Maybe different more expensive rooms? I thread my way up to the second floor up the left-hand stairs, and open the single door I find there.

    Oh. I guess I should have expected this. The dim light from a flickering candle barely illuminates the cramped space, casting nearly invisible shadows that dance across the floor. The smell of sweat and unwashed bodies hits me like a wall, and I grimace as I step further inside. Each cot is occupied by a sleeping figure, some wrapped tightly in tattered blankets while others lie sprawled, oblivious to the world around them.

    With no other option, I pick an empty cot near the far wall. I carefully drop my bag next to it, pull out my sword, and tuck it under my cushion, silently wishing that sleep will find me easily despite the cacophony echoing from below.

    Naturally, it doesn''t happen like that, and I lay awake for the next few hours, a few more folks come tripping in to occupy the last few open beds, while the hustle and bustle below slowly dies down.

    At some point the candle went out, and nobody has bothered to replace it. Each breath I take mingles with the stale air of the room, heavy with the mingled scents of sweat and old blankets, and it only serves to remind me how far removed I am from the comforts of home. I turn onto my side, trying to block out the snoring figure next to me, when finally sleep takes me.

    My body is sore all over the next morning. The sack I slept on was lumpy in all the worst spots, and I have a hard time believing people would willingly choose this over sleeping outside. Except maybe when it rains. That sucked.

    I¡¯m honestly surprised by the sheer audacity some folks have when they roll out of bed and start getting dressed. But I guess when you¡¯re sharing a space, there¡¯s only so much you can manage. On the bright side, everyone seems pretty skilled at just pretending they don¡¯t see what¡¯s happening around them.

    Honestly, it doesn¡¯t bother me much since I¡¯ve just thrown myself down in my clothes. I don¡¯t have anything else to change into since this is all I¡¯ve got, and I certainly wasn¡¯t about to take the scarf off. It hits me that maybe crashing here wasn¡¯t the smartest move, but then I remember I¡¯m not the only woman in the room, which gives me a bit of comfort. I must have picked up on that yesterday when I walked in, right? It must have registered without me even realizing it, and somehow made me feel okay about it.

    Not that I¡¯ve never slept in shared accommodations before, but the clientele there was decidedly less rough around the edges. Then I realize what I¡¯m wearing, that it was shortly ago covered in blood, and that I have a sword stashed under my pillow within easy reach, and figure that maybe if it came to a contest I¡¯d be the roughest of them all. Huh.

    I gather my things and head back downstairs. It¡¯s amusing to see everyone tripping down the stairs and plopping down at the tables, looking half-asleep. It takes me back to some conferences I attended where the nights were filled with way too much drinking. I mean, networking, right? All on someone else''s dime. I think I can still recall at least one person I met during those times. I¡¯m fairly certain he was a janitor.

    One of the men from yesterday, a different one than the one I spoke to¡ªunless they switch aprons to mess with people¡ªcomes and doles out a generous slop of gruel to everyone downstairs that doesn¡¯t have it yet. I say gruel, because I think it¡¯s technically supposed to be porridge, but if the one I ate earlier was much better than I expected, then this is the exact opposite. There¡¯s no request for extra payment, so I suppose this is included with the stay? Kinda makes me feel like they¡¯re trying to skimp somewhere.

    I''m not brave enough to take a bite until I see some of the others digging into the hot mess and not immediately gagging or collapsing in a fit. When I finally manage to take a bite, I¡¯m disappointed to find that the food lives up to my expectations. It¡¯s bland and gross, but hey, it¡¯s free, so I polish off the whole bowl. Even if I hadn¡¯t learned to finish my plate before my arrival in this world I surely would have by now.

    Then it¡¯s time to finally see what this city holds for me.

    I step outside and find myself on the inn''s doorstep, bathed in the gentle light of the rising sun. It''s just inside the city gate, the first building on the right. The gates are still shut at this early hour, and I can''t help but wonder when they''ll swing open. But honestly, it doesn''t really concern me at this moment.

    Beyond the gate stretches what seems to be a major thoroughfare of the city, and I can see all the way to the harbor from here. The original main street is made out of roughly cut tiles, and several meters wide. The original road has been extended using two-meter-wide strips of cobblestones on either side, slightly different in color, suggesting that someone figured out that today¡¯s massive wagons wouldn¡¯t fare well on a narrower road.

    I take in the city, and find myself completely blown away. Have you ever been to a renaissance fair where they tried to create a version of what they thought a medieval street looked like? It always falls flat, right? You visit an open-air museum where real experts put things together, and it¡¯s so much better. This¡­ this makes it clear that those folks were just winging it too.

    I¡¯d be hesitant to say that the smell of manure adds something, but the combination of all the smells and activity is just something you¡¯d never see anywhere in a reconstruction. There¡¯s hundreds of people visible to me now, and that adds such a deal of life to the scene that nothing I¡¯ve ever seen before compares.

    From one moment to the next, I¡¯ll be smelling shit, a passing horse, the bucket of offal that someone just dumped out of their window¡ªseriously wtf, the basket of fresh bread on the windowsill of what I presume is an inn catering to people that just entered the city. It¡¯s utter chaos, in both sight and smell, and it¡¯s glorious.

    The only thing that really puts a damper on my excitement is how I can¡¯t move around without stepping in something gross. There are others here walking around barefoot, and they seem to totally ignore the feeling. I guess I¡¯m going to need some footwear if I want to stay here without constantly worrying about where I¡¯m stepping..

    I find myself just walking along the main street for a time, lost to the experience of being, well, an ecstatic medieval tourist. On one hand I know that this is real, that I can¡¯t just leave the theme park and go back to my home, but for a while, I can let go of that knowledge, and just enjoy myself.

    I pass by a blacksmith, and I know I¡¯ve seen much the same before in the large town I passed through, but at the time I was very on edge about potentially being discovered. Now, the scarf has proven itself to be a perfect remedy to all my problems, and I¡¯m not nearly so worried. I end up standing there for almost half an hour, just watching the guy hammer away at his work, trying to puzzle out how everything he does works. Eventually, he shouts at me in exasperation and gestures for me to move along. That''s when I notice a bunch of people nearby chuckling at the sight of a woman staring at the sweaty, bare-chested blacksmith.

    I feel briefly embarrassed, but am much too distracted by everything visible to dwell on it too much. It¡¯s a good thing too because some variant of the same issue happens four more times as I make my way down the entirety of the street to arrive at the harbor. I¡¯m not sure why I¡¯m so fascinated by professions that have no place in our society any more, but something about the simplicity of it attracts me. Sure, carpentry isn¡¯t simple, but there¡¯s only so many ways to join a piece of wood. Seeing someone construct a chair in front of your eyes, well. I suppose it attracts me because my own work was never visible. You¡¯d spend days tearing through some insanely difficult problem, only to find the issue in some deeply hidden sub-dependency, and nobody would ever be the wiser about how much work that took.

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Meanwhile, that carpenter fixes the leg of your broken chair, and you can immediately see what the difference between broken and fixed looks like. Whether the chair is intricately joined or exquisitely detailed and inlaid with gold leaf makes no difference. A broken leg is a broken leg is a broken leg. I long for that simplicity. At the same time, I don¡¯t think I could actually work on something so simple, since I also like solving those complex problems. I just detest that the amount of effort involved isn¡¯t easily visible.

    The harbor is makes it easy to forget about what came before though. There are so. many. ships! I mean, I guess there¡¯s many ships in a marina back home too, but motorboats and sailing ships are incomparable. Then there¡¯s those galleys. It''s tempting to think of the holes as emplacements for cannon, but they¡¯re just way too small for that. I imagine that¡¯s where the oars go, though for obvious reasons there¡¯s no oars now. All the galleys are docked to a specific pier, that connects to a stone fortress on one side of the docks. The harbor itself is surrounded by large blocks of stone that have been very deliberately stacked in a rough semicircle around it.

    This reeks of more magic to me. Even those blocky concrete tetrapods you see next to a modern seawall aren¡¯t as massive as these cubic monstrosities, measuring nearly 4 meters to a side, and I can only imagine how many you need to block off a harbor this size. Most of them must be underwater.

    The ships are distracting, but eventually I focus on the people, and eventually I see what I¡¯m looking for. There¡¯s a man, wearing a rough tunic, carrying some load across the quay, and his hair is black! Nobody seems to be attacking him, or even paying especially much attention, though there¡¯s some people that give him dirty looks behind his back.

    As I follow him with my gaze, he arrives at a ship, and to my embarrassingly great surprise, as I should have kind of expected that, the whole ship is filled with people like him. Not like they all look the same, but between some blonde, brown and red, there¡¯s a majority of black haired guys. The ship doesn¡¯t appear any different from any of the others, so I guess it¡¯s not under quarantine or something.

    It¡¯s interesting to note that it¡¯s such an exception though. After I walk the length of the quay, it seems to be the only ship with black haired people. In that time, I¡¯ve come across several more making their way through the harbor and not apparently attached to the ship though. Which doesn¡¯t do anything for the sometimes dirty looks they¡¯re getting, but they¡¯re not being attacked, and they feel no reason to hide their hair.

    At some point, I happen to overhear a crotchety old man talking to his friend. He¡¯s got a dirty gray beard, and balding head, and I instantly dislike him. He¡¯s pointing at one of the rare black haired females I see walking around "Chan eil mi a¡¯ tuigsinn carson a leigeas sinn leotha coiseachd mun cuairt gu saor?¡± ¡°Why¡­ walking?¡± He seems incredulous. His friend, who seems a bit younger, and has brown hair, just sighs, which gives me the impression he¡¯s heard the same thing many times before.

    "Cha do rinn iad dad ce¨¤rr. D¨¨ tha thu ag iarraidh a dh¨¨anamh, an d¨´in thu iad uile suas?¡± ¡°Something something wrong... What... All...¡± I have too little vocabulary to have any idea of what exactly they¡¯re saying, but the mans friend does not seem to agree with the notion the first man had.

    I¡¯m really curious to learn more since this is the first time I¡¯ve had a chance to figure out what¡¯s actually wrong with black hair. But it would look pretty odd if I just halted in the middle of the street next to them. A quick look around doesn¡¯t give me any good reason to stop. They¡¯re just standing there on the quay, right in front of me. There¡¯s nothing stopping me from pausing, but...

    I decide to just be suspicious, and park my ass in place, while ostensibly being captivated by a ship that¡¯s just decided to leave the harbor the harbor, but really just observing their conversation. For what it¡¯s worth, the men do not seem to notice or care.

    Balding guy shakes his fist in the direction of his friend "Tha! Chan eil ach c¨´is ¨´ine mus t¨¨id iad air a¡¯ bhuaidh an-dr¨¤sta.¡± ¡°Yes! ¡­ time¡­ attack¡­¡± Huh? Something the black haired people attack? I involuntarily glance at the ship that I¡¯d seen before. It doesn¡¯t look particularly battle worthy.

    Unfortunately, the old man is staring at me when I turn back to them. He steps towards me, ranting on "Thusa! A'' freagairt rium, nach eil? Chunnaic mi do fh¨¬n. Tha iad eagallach, nach eil thu a'' smaoineachadh?¡± ¡°You! ¡­do you? ¡­look¡­¡± I back away from him, he¡¯s clearly saying something about me looking at the ship, and the expression in his eyes is feverish, though not hostile towards me I think. It¡¯s just that spittle is flying from his mouth, so I want nothing to do with him.

    A second later, his friend drags him to a halt, and berates the older man "D¨¨ tha thu a'' d¨¨anamh? Nach urrainn dhut fhaicinn gu bheil thu a'' cur an duilgheadas air a'' bhean?¡± ¡°What¡­ doing? ¡­ lady¡± Well, a gallant¡ªI squint my eyes¡ª middle aged gentleman to the rescue. The older man looks kind of sheepish when he realizes what he was doing, and how I¡¯ve backed away from him. That improves my opinion of him a notch. True maniacs wouldn¡¯t notice or care.

    He bows awkwardly "Mo le¨°r, cha robh mi a'' ciallachadh dad le sin. Fhuair mo dh¨´ilean air falbh rium.¡± ¡°Sorry¡­ something¡± then he straightens up and spits in the direction of the ship, completely ruining the effect. I raise an eyebrow, but his friend drags him away before he can say another word, berating him until they disappear into the crowd.

    I guess there¡¯s good people too. Whatever the reason, the middle aged man didn¡¯t seem to agree with whatever the older man was saying, though he might just have been annoyed by the other man¡¯s behavior instead of the message. For whatever reason, and kind of in line with my experiences, people seem to think that black haired people attack for no reason. I guess in that context it¡¯d sort of make sense that people either run away or attack first.

    It¡¯s still not a perfect explanation, but I did learn something.

    Having passed through the whole of main street, and now seen the harbor, I¡¯m wondering what to do. Even though I¡¯ve passed through its entire length, I¡¯ve really only seen a very small part of the city. I resolve to explore it in its entirety, after all I have all the time in the world. But what I¡¯m really curious about is that fortress at the end of the docks.

    The fortress sits on one side of the harbor, attached to the inner city wall, bordering the sea. I¡¯m not sure why it was built there, instead of in the middle of the city, but I presume it has something to do with access to the sea.

    It has walls on every side, including the side facing the sea. Though that¡¯s mostly a fact I remember from when I was looking out over the city, as I can¡¯t see anything but the massive wall facing the harbor right now. I inspect it as I make my way over to it.

    Soon, I¡¯m standing on front of said wall. There¡¯s a gatehouse in the middle of it, but the gate is closed. Even so there¡¯s two heavily armed guards outside. I¡¯m not really sure what I expected. That I could waltz up to it and satisfy my curiosity by taking a stroll through this military installation? Oh well, it¡¯s nice to have seen it from up close. The guards at the gate are giving me strange looks though, so I think it¡¯s time to leave.

    Just as I''m about to turn away, I realize what made me walk here. There¡¯s a very, very faint feeling that I need to be inside this fortress. And I¡¯ve felt something similar before. Now that I realize that¡¯s what it is it¡¯s easy to distinguish, but what a bizarre feeling.

    I somehow have only vague memories of that tree with the shimmering blue fruits, but that¡¯s what it is. The feeling is very faint though, orders of magnitude weaker than the last time I felt it. I wonder what that means.

    Regardless of the faint feeling, I¡¯m nearly a hundred percent certain what I¡¯d find if I were to pass through the gate. There must be more of those fruit trees, and given what I¡¯ve noted about what happened with the fruit last time, I guess eating one would refill my steadily depleting juice reservoir. Which, extrapolating, means that the reason the feeling is now so faint is likely that I¡¯m still pretty full. I can¡¯t exactly break into the fortress to get more juice though.

    I wonder if that means that if I run low the feeling that tells me where the nearest tree is would grow steadily stronger? I haven¡¯t gotten that feeling again after the last time I found the tree, but then maybe that was because I was completely full most of the time.

    Huh. A built in compass that tells me where to refill the bullet-time reservoir. That¡¯s pretty convenient. I¡¯m really starting to wonder if everyone has this. The mages I¡¯ve seen, I can say with near certainty do have it, but how about the rest of the people?

    I stop my walk away from the fortress to glance back at the guards. I can totally imagine that people that can do this would become fighters as well. How easy would it be to fight if you had three times as much time to plan your moves than your opponent? I¡¯m wondering if it would have a lot of effect on archery, but you could certainly take a much longer time to aim.

    If only they had something like library in this era, I could see if there was any information about, well, anything. Even if I can¡¯t read it there must be some pictures right? But, that would be too much to hope for... right?

    It is too much to hope for. I went through nearly the entire city over the course of the day, and found nothing like it.

    On the plus side, I now know the city is essentially divided into five parts. I¡¯m not sure if they¡¯re official or not, but due to their characteristics that¡¯s how I mentally categorize them.

    There¡¯s the docks, which I visited this morning, and basically consists of a whole bunch of warehouses, a few rough taverns, and the fortress. I think some people live there, but I have a hard time understanding why.

    Then there¡¯s the outer city, which is everything contained within, surprise, the outer wall. I get the impression that¡¯s where the common people live. There¡¯s shops there, but they all seem to be aimed at residents, not visitors to the city.

    There¡¯s what I term the inner city, this doesn¡¯t really have a defined boundary, but seems to originate from one specific bridge that crosses the river that cuts through the city. The houses there are fancier, partially made out of stone, and just generally scream ¡®rich people¡¯ to me. Though ¡®rich'' is relative to the surroundings here. My apartment was a lot nicer.

    Then, like any proper medieval city should have, there are the slums. Although they''re not exactly slums, the buildings next to the wall definitely look worse for wear compared to the nicer ones in the city center. These structures haven''t seen any renovations or repairs in ages, and they¡¯re in pretty rough shape. The people living there¡­ well, they resemble beggars, but I can''t believe such a big chunk of the population is actually destitute. Their clothes are of much poorer quality than mine and often in even worse condition. I stole mine from a little village in the woods, and fought a literal battle them¡ªhow long have these folks been stuck in theirs?

    The last part of the city is what I¡¯ll call the shopping street. It¡¯s the main thoroughfare that I walked through when I initially entered the city, it¡¯s mostly just a whole bunch of various shops that cater to any need someone visiting the city could have. Most of them seem to have a warehouse built somewhere off the main street, so you often spot those huge wagons navigating through the street to reach their destination, whether it¡¯s the docks or a warehouse off the main road.

    Anyhow, there¡¯s definitely zero libraries. Then again, that was always kind of a fools dream. It did give me a perfect excuse to explore the city though. I think the only thing I ever heard of containing books in this era is the mansions of nobility, or a monastery, but somehow both of these are suspiciously absent from this city. I have seen zero indications of religion or something like nobility.

    The houses in the heart of the city are spacious, but they¡¯re still just houses¡ªnot the grand mansions I picture when I think of nobility. Perhaps they reside in the fortress by the sea, but honestly, that place looks pretty bleak, more like a military barracks than a cozy home.

    And then there¡¯s a lack of detectable religion. I¡¯m confident I could spot the telltale spires of a church or the domed roof of a mosque if there were one. Maybe a circle of rocks stacked together in impossible ways, given how the countryside vaguely reminds me of the UK. But there¡¯s nothing. It¡¯s like these people have no gods at all. I shrug; being an atheist myself, it doesn¡¯t faze me much. Still, it strikes me as bizarre for this era¡ªlike a piece of history has gone missing.

    Mildly disappointed in my inability to locate any books, but happy with my accomplishments for today, I wonder if I should try to find a different place to sleep today. I try to enter one other inn, that looks in slightly better repair than the one from last night. But the plump woman with stunning brown hair behind the bar tells me it¡¯ll set me back 7 square copper coins. There¡¯s no way I''m spending almost half of what I''ve got left on just one night¡¯s stay!

    I try a few other inns, as it¡¯s slowly getting darker I stick to the center of the city, and that seems to affect the prices significantly.

    One really fancy one that I found actually dared to charge me a silver. This place was purely a sleeping establishment, not an inn with a common room and everything. It had a separate counter like a reception desk. At first they were exceedingly polite, even considering my lacking language skills. It must not be very comfortable to have someone come up to you and ask you ¡°Bed?¡±. I was very skeptical when they indicated I needed only a single coin. Like, that¡¯s definitely one of those things that¡¯s too good to be true, so of course when I got out my copper the man behind the counter lost his composure and started ranting at me until somewhere in there he randomly grabbed one of those small silver coins from somewhere and attempted to beat me over the head with it.

    That wasn¡¯t actually what happened of course, he was just very rude about telling me to take my plebeian ass out the place and not come back until I could pay. I didn¡¯t catch a single word he said, and honestly, I¡¯m not sure I would have understood it even if I spoke the language. The message was crystal clear, though.

    The good part of that is that I can estimate that a single one of those small silver coins represents at least 12 of the small copper ones, as the highest copper rate that I was quoted was 12 coins. That nearly triples the value of the coins I have! It also makes me feel like I should do something about carrying the big silver ones around. I don¡¯t really have a safer place to stash them though.

    My initial idea that that guy I took them off was dropping a ¡®throwaway¡¯ pouch went firmly out the window. If the rate is the same between small and big silver, then every big one is more than 144 square copper ones. Well, I guess I¡¯m getting into ¡®too good to be true¡¯ territory here again, but still.

    Anyway, I just walk back to main street, to spend another night in the inn right next to the gate. I¡¯d be better off sleeping outside, and save the money entirely, but somehow being back in civilization and having the money to pay for a bed makes that feel uncivilized. Sometimes I apparently get stuck between that student frugality that never went away, and some desire to appear proper. Oh well, whatever, another night of lumpy lumps and some tasteless gruel it is. Like IKEA.

 Interlude 2: Reimar

    I''m completely out of breath after sprinting almost the whole way from the docks to the castle gates, and in the largest city in the world, that is quite the distance. One could argue that that was pointless. After all, it took hours for the news to reach us. But I could not justify making our Queen wait even a second longer than necessary. This was too big.

    I impatiently wait as the gate guards confirm my credentials. It¡¯s not like they¡¯ve never seen me pass through this gate before, I¡¯m a flaming lieutenant. Though I understand the need to follow the procedures, ?gisson and Bjarnad¨®ttir should know better than to keep me waiting here when they can clearly see the urgency of the news.

    At long last, ?gisson returns, and indicates to Bjarnad¨®ttir that she can let me through. Before she can lower her spear properly I push my way through, not sparing them a second glance. I leave a bemused gatehouse in my wake, but I have no time to spare explaining anything to those brats. I have four more of such checkpoints to get through before I even get to the castle.

    Nearly half an hour later, I¡¯m finally inside the castle. A massive edifice made of pale white compressed stone, tiny blue veins work their ways through the surface, like marble. It¡¯s not though. I¡¯m not entirely certain how it was made, but it¡¯s impossible to even scratch the outer walls. Some form of magic I suppose.

    The main entrance lies just behind me, and now I¡¯m in the grand hallway leading directly into the castle. There¡¯s a long winding way still to follow to make it to the throne room. If I were to be an attacker I¡¯d have a hard time making it there while constantly being peppered with attacks from murder holes and unreachable walkways. Several inner courts given a chance to rain hell on any invading army, all the while unable to fight back until they make it through the maze. Every wall that matters is constructed from the same blue veined white stone. The long walk is a small price to pay for security.

    In this case, it annoys me though, as it adds another easy 15 minutes to my already long trip. I¡¯ve stopped running, as it would be impossible to truly built up speed anyway. Eventually, I find myself in front of the gates to the throne room where I know my queen will be waiting. I find myself nervous. It¡¯s not often that I find myself reporting directly to the queen. She doesn¡¯t have a reputation for shooting the messenger, but I¡¯m still anxious about bringing bad news.

    The doors to the throne room are made of beautifully decorated heavy oak wood. As my arrival is announced, I find my eyes tracing the relief of the figures displayed there. A battle is displayed, one fought with a massive army. Not something that you¡¯d see very often any more these days. The principality is safer than ever before.

    Or so it seemed, until today.

    Finally there is some a voice saying something front the other side of the door, and the guards at the entrance nod to me, then open the doors.

    As the heavy doors creak open, a wave of cool air washes over me, carrying the scent of polished wood and faintly burning incense. The throne room stretches before me like a grand tapestry woven with history, its high ceilings adorned with intricate murals depicting past glories and victories. My heart races as I step inside, each footfall echoing against the black marble floor, a stark reminder of the gravity of my errand.

    At the far end, Queen Stella sits regally upon her throne, her gaze piercing yet calm, as if she can read the tumult in my mind before I even utter a word. She¡¯s in her fifty-sixth year now, and has been queen for the entire 36 years I¡¯ve been alive. Her once long and flowing golden hair has started to gray and is now styled with elegance. On either side of her, a crowd of nobles and officials has gathered, ready to catch every word from the queen. It looks like a pretty dull way to pass the time. Thank goodness I''m just here to deliver my report.

    I take a deep breath, steeling myself against the weight of her expectations and the burden of what I carry; this is not just news¡ªit is a turning point that could alter the fate of our nation forever.

    I quickly step forward and bend my knee ten paces from the throne, then raise my head to look her in the eyes. ¡°My queen. As we suspected, the Empire is preparing to invade the League. We have just received the news of massive troop movements along their southern border. Several armies of their usual two thousand men have been spotted. One of our catamarans just delivered this news from the observation post at the border. Our scouts in the League reported these movements about twelve hours ago.¡±

    I knew we¡¯d been expecting the empire to make a move for years. It was mostly a question of whether they were going to attack the League or the Tribes. Ever since they annexed Craica just a short fifty years ago, the whole continent had been holding its breath, hoping their hunger for dominion would be satisfied. In fact, there was a large faction of nobles that seemed to think exactly that was the case. Thankfully the Queen was not part of those, and we¡¯ve kept a constant watch.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    It occurs to me that I¡¯ve made a mistake, since what I heard was 12 hours ago, but I took an hour getting here, so it should be 13. I pause for a moment, but hesitation is silly. If I made a mistake I should correct it as soon as possible. ¡°Apologies ma''am, it should be 13 hours, since it was reported to me at the docks when the catamaran arrived an hour ago."

    There is a slight nod from the queen at the correction, acknowledging it without making it an issue. ¡°Thank you lieutenant.¡± She seems unsurprised at the news. ¡°It was always a matter of time, but they moved sooner than I expected.¡± she states for everyone to hear. There¡¯s nods of acknowledgement and whispers from all around.

    ¡°This changes nothing!¡± she says, raising her voice above the tumult. ¡°They¡¯ll find the League a harder nut to crack than they think."

    The room falls silent, a palpable tension hanging in the air as all eyes turn to the queen, waiting for her next move. I can sense the shift in mood; her words resonate like a rallying cry, everyone wishing to believe her words with all their heart. Yet beneath her confident facade, I can see the wheels turning in her mind, strategizing and calculating every possible outcome.

    I feel a swell of pride for our queen¡ªunlike her predecessor, she embodies strength and wisdom, traits that have kept our realm safe for so long. But even as I admire her resolve, a nagging doubt creeps into my thoughts: does she truly understand the depths of the Empire¡¯s ambition?

    Everyone is too certain that the Orodale Highland will stop the Empire from streaming straight into the Principality, and that might be true, but there¡¯s nothing preventing them from going around the Highland through either the League or the Tribes. I do not for one moment think that their true target isn¡¯t Yr. We¡¯re the only ones that could potentially put up a fight against the empire.

    Over the years of peace, our military has been worn down. What used to be a hundred thousand soldiers after that brutal war has gradually shrunk to a pitiful state, where we can hardly muster ten weak legions. Don''t get me wrong; I¡¯d match a legion from Yr against any other in the world and give them a solid 80% chance of coming out on top. But the quality we have is overshadowed by the lack of numbers.

    By the last count, the empire can throw nearly forty legions at anyone without even raising their conscription levels. No country in the world can stand them if they fully mobilize. Certainly not the Leagues. Those guys think you can solve anything by just talking enough. It¡¯s a miracle they get anything done. I wonder if they even have an army, or if that¡¯s just what they call their roaming bands of spear wielding rookies. I shake my head. No, the Leagues will hardly be a speed bump to the Empire.

    As the murmurs of doubt ripple through the assembly, I feel a surge of urgency bubbling within me. I can¡¯t keep these thoughts to myself; they could be crucial in shaping our response. ¡°Your Majesty,¡± I interject, my voice steady despite the weight of the room¡¯s attention pressing down on me, ¡°we must consider not just the League¡¯s military capabilities, but also their alliances. If we are to act decisively, we need to fortify our own defenses and perhaps even forge new pacts while there¡¯s still time.¡±

    The queen¡¯s eyes narrow slightly, her calm demeanor barely changing as she leans forward. I can see her processing my words, weighing them, her eyes marginally flicking around at the nobles all around, considering political maneuvering she has navigated for decades. My heart races; this is my chance to contribute meaningfully to her strategy¡ªa chance for us all to survive the looming storm.

    ¡°Your suggestion is noted lieutenant.¡± she says dryly. I tense, and my cheeks flush. I overstepped my bounds; she''s not actually angry, just subtly reminding me of my position. The strategy planning will be left to her and the three generals. There¡¯s a snicker from one of the nobles.

    ¡°You can return to your duties. Please do let me know immediately if any other news arrives.¡± The dismissal is clear, but at this point I¡¯m nearly happy for it.

    As I turn to leave, the weight of her gaze lingers on my back. The grand hall feels both expansive and suffocating, filled with the murmurs of nobles discussing the implications of what I¡¯ve just shared. Each step away from the throne room feels heavier than the last, as if I¡¯m dragging the burden of our nation¡¯s uncertainty with me.

    Outside, the cool air greets me like a balm, but it does little to soothe my racing thoughts; instead, they spiral into darker corners. What if my warnings fall on deaf ears? What if we wait too long to act? In the end, I have very little control over what unfolds, and that truth stings. I¡¯m just in charge of a detachment of soldiers guarding this city¡ªwhat can I actually do?

    My thoughts turn to my wife, and my young daughter back home. How can I best keep them safe? Should I send them south? But no, even if the Empire breaks through the Leagues in record time the capital is as far from that border as it¡¯s possible to get. There¡¯s no safer place in the world than this city. Even if the Empire encroaches, there will be plenty of time to get on a ship.

    The ornate tapestries lining the walls seem to mock my anxiety, depicting tales of heroism and valor that feel silly with the reality of war looming over us. I can¡¯t shake the image of my daughter¡¯s bright eyes, filled with innocence, as she dances around our modest home¡ªan image I never want to see stained by war. Just thinking about them getting swept up in the chaos makes my heart ache.

    No matter what else happens, I¡¯m determined to make sure they stay safe.

    Just as I step out of the castle once again, I see another messenger racing up the street, his face red, coming right for the gate.

 Work

    I wake up after a surprisingly restful night. The soft murmur of the people streaming into the tavern and waking up in the city around it, filter through the walls. A beam of light falls through the single small window set in the slanted roof. Little motes of dust play in the light.

    Day one of my new life I suppose.

    Today wasn¡¯t nearly as crowded as yesterday, there being only three other people besides me in the room, so we had our pick of the beds. I found one slightly less lumpy than yesterday, which did wonders for my rest.

    I pack up my stuff, removing the sword from below my cushion once more, and stuffing it in my bag.

    "Shluagh, tha thu an seo airson ¨¤rd a-nochd.¡± ¡°Hi¡­. today"

    I jump nearly a foot into the air, when I suddenly hear the voice behind me. When I jerk around, I see another woman standing there. She¡¯s wearing a sort of extra long brown tunic, with a bleached yellow cloth belt. Her hair is long and brown, tied up in a sort of braid behind her neck, which causes a flash of jealousy. She appears to be somewhere in her forties, just a tad older than me.

    ¡°Ha¡­¡± ¡°Yes¡­¡± I mean, what am I supposed to say to that.

    I recognize her from yesterday, she was one of the other few women staying here. Maybe she also likes it because it¡¯s cheap? Not knowing what exactly she¡¯s saying is so incredibly frustrating. Like I¡¯ve gone back to being a little kid. Ronain wasn¡¯t nearly so stressful to communicate with because he expected me to know nothing, so he¡¯d always use the simplest possible terms and mime out every single thing.

    "Tha mi air c¨¨ist chinni¨´ a dh¨¨anamh, ach tha thu a'' dol ¨¤s mar c¨¤irdeasan! Cha bheil mi ri m¨¤, bidh do mhinntir ga faicinn. Ma tha thu ri m¨¤ dhut dheth sguir, no bidh sinne na h-uile a'' coimhead.¡± ¡°Sorry¡­"

    When she starts talking, she doesn¡¯t seem able to stop. She¡¯s staring at me with undisguised curiosity, so even if I had little idea what she said, I imagine she¡¯s asking me what I¡¯m doing here.

    What am I doing here? I pause to consider that question, while the sudden seconds long pause has the woman looking at me like I¡¯m acting weird. Even if I had the answer, I don¡¯t particularly feel like telling the stranger in front of me. No telling if she¡¯s going to sell me a scam or something.

    As I stand there silently, I can see her getting more impatient by the second. It¡¯s amusing in a way, but I guess I¡¯ll have to disappoint her, as politely as I can, and I throw her own words from before back in her face. ¡°Tha mi air¡± ¡°I¡¯m off.¡± Her face falls as I turn to walk downstairs.

    Her voice takes on a more menacing tone, as she says to my back "Tha mi air faicinn a'' bhualaidh an robh thu a'' toirt an l¨¤imh ort.¡± ¡°Saw¡­ in bag¡±

    I freeze in mid-step. Bad move. If she¡¯s any kind of observant she now knows I care she knows. It wasn¡¯t threatening as such, but¡­ I don¡¯t know what it means that I¡¯m lugging as sword around.

    As I glance backwards, the woman steps around and back in front of me, blocking my way to the only exit. A quick look around the room tells me the other two people that were here have already left. We¡¯re alone up here. Did I seriously meet a playground bully on my second night in this city?

    A grin spreads across her face. That curiosity from earlier quickly turned into cruelty "Tha thu an di¨´lachadh mar a tha e, nach eile d¨¨an sibh a'' dol le armas gu linn na bailte. Bidh na gh¨¤rdaichean a'' faighneachd aigead.¡± ¡°You know¡­ in city? ¡­ head."

    Hah, like hell I¡¯ll let her threaten me. I look at her while slowly raising my eyebrow, ¡°Haaa¡­¡± ¡°Yeees¡­¡±, the tone of my voice leaves no doubt that I¡¯m incredulous she¡¯s suggesting something so stupid. I pretend to go and retrieve it from my bag while meaningfully glancing at the deserted room around us. When she notices this, she pales.

    For a moment I¡¯m worried she¡¯ll jump me, but then she backs off, letting me through. It¡¯s a shame I don¡¯t quite know how to threaten her in return. I¡¯m sort of worried she¡¯ll actually run off to fetch some guards, but my experience with figuring out what people actually want in a previous life tells me she was just looking to have some fun at my expense because I snubbed her.

    I¡¯m going to need to find some way to learn this stupid language so I can become an actual member of society and deal with this properly. Implying I¡¯ll cut her down is funny, but kinda makes me feel like a savage. I¡¯ll admit feeling like the world could do without her sort of people, but it¡¯s probably not really her fault she¡¯s a bitch.

    Slinging the bag back on my shoulder, I step out of the bedroom. I guess this is probably going to be my last day sleeping here. If she¡¯s going to be here every day I don¡¯t want to be.

    When I come downstairs, I see the two guys that were also staying here and came down before me give me a quick glance, evidently surprised. I¡¯m really not sure what they expected to happen. Does that woman give a bad introduction to everyone? Does she steal their secrets? Do they just expect me to head down looking exasperated with someone that can¡¯t shut up? It¡¯s hard to guess.

    I sit down, and one of the three men¡ªthis is probably the last one, as he has a different colored apron again¡ªserves me my daily bowl of gruel. Now that I know what to expect it¡¯s not nearly as disappointing. Still not great, it doesn¡¯t really taste like anything but flour and milk, but it¡¯s filling and warm.

    The tavern today is much like the room upstairs I slept in. Nearly deserted. The little windows on the bottom floor do not let in a lot of light, and without a fire it leaves the whole bottom floor in some half shadowy state.

    I didn¡¯t really notice yesterday morning because so many people spent the night, but right now it¡¯s nearly empty. It¡¯s hard to keep track of time without a clock. I can only tell it¡¯s after 5 by the fact it¡¯s already light out. And that¡¯s if seasons work the same here. Is the world tilted like earth? Am I walking on a flat disk, lying on the back of four elephants, standing on a turtle, flying through space? I just don¡¯t know, and for the moment, it probably doesn¡¯t matter.

    While I eat my gruel, I keep an eye on the staircase, and a few minutes after I come down, the lady from before comes down, and unsuccessfully attempts to ignore me. She glances at me several times while she¡¯s served her own food, but I¡¯m eventually satisfied she won¡¯t do anything more, and stop paying as much attention.

    What am I going to do today? As much as the woman was a pain, she¡¯s right in that I need to figure out what exactly my goals should be. I should be able to sort of walk around without my scarf in this city, assuming the people here were upset by my hair somehow. I¡¯ll get nasty looks, but that¡¯s nothing new. Some guys just cannot deal with the fact a girl is better than them, and it makes them behave like children.

    I guess, besides learning magic, my primary goal should be to find a way to quickly learn the language. Ideally I think I¡¯d find some form of work I can do here with my current knowledge, and then pick the rest up by pure immersion. Is there something I can actually do? I mean, I can do many things, but is there something I can do without knowing the language?

    Programming was always easy because everyone spoke English to some extend. Even if I went to the other side of the world in Kuala Lumpur I¡¯d be able to find a job in some company that didn¡¯t require anything other than English. The salary might be shit, and it might be a startup that¡¯d die in half a year, but it¡¯d be possible.

    I did that whole working while traveling thing for just 3 months before giving up on it. I just don¡¯t think I¡¯m made for that. I need to sit in a nice clean home office completely specced out to my wishes, and I¡¯ll do some decent work. Traveling was fun, but I just didn¡¯t get any work done while doing so.

    Anyhow, no programming here, so that one¡¯s out. I could wait tables? I eye the three men standing behind the bar. Something tells me they do not need any extra help here, but I went through a whole bunch of taverns yesterday that did have serving maids. That still requires me to sort of be able to communicate though, so maybe cleaning? Nobody cares if their cleaner talks to them or not. I guess a whole bunch of nobles would prefer if none of their staff ever spoke to them.

    Those are hopefully backup options though. Maybe I can do something that utilizes my the knowledge I have from the modern world? I guess I can try to create something like gunpowder? And a gun? It¡¯s essentially a tube right? And rifling which makes the bullet go straighter. I¡¯m not quite sure how to go from that knowledge to a gun though. I figure I¡¯d need to work with a blacksmith, and then that pesky communication problem comes up again.

    No gunpowder then. I very much doubt I can replicate a microchip. I make computers do stuff, I didn¡¯t make computers. A car? Maybe I¡¯m going too far ahead. Something from the steam era? Steam engines are a lot simpler to fabricate, and while I don¡¯t quite know how they work, it can¡¯t take a lot of experimentation to go from ¡®heat water into steam¡¯ to motion. Well, relatively anyway. From there we can go to turbines, and then to electricity. But what if magic already does all that but better? I guess it can¡¯t be the case, since I don¡¯t see anyone driving around in magic fueled cars. I¡¯m sure those massive wagons wouldn¡¯t use mages to move if they could get away with an engine.

    Maybe even further back. Some kind of method of improving the forging process? Something like folding the metal back on itself, hot forging, cold forging. Making the bellows hot enough to forge steel. I guess I don¡¯t actually know how any of that works. My knowledge of late medieval crafting methods is sorely lacking. I¡¯m probably more likely to successfully design a rocket engine.

    I suddenly wonder if it¡¯d be possible to put a cart with a mage on it upright and turn it into a rocket. It¡¯d have essentially infinite delta V. You could reach any planet in the solar system.

    Ok, Emma, time to come back down to earth. Maybe I better just apprentice to a smith, or something like that. Maybe that man I kept watching yesterday would teach me. I guess maybe I could find that ship with all the black haired people and try to become a sailor?

    A very unpleasant thought suddenly comes to mind. I seem to remember all the people I¡¯ve seen doing actual jobs, aside from the serving maids, have been men. I¡¯m fucked aren¡¯t it? This is going to be one of those societies where women are basically attachments to men.

    My heart hammers in my chest, full of anxiety. I have finished my bowl, and quickly dump it on the bar counter before making my way outside. The woman that was messing with me earlier follows me with her eyes as I walk off, but at the moment I don¡¯t care.

    I step out into the street once more.

    I make my way through the main street, and see it everywhere. The smith is male, the carpenter is male, the sailors are all male, the merchants are all male. There¡¯s a lone woman that seems to have a shop on main street, selling jewelry. The silversmith next door is male though and I¡¯m inclined to believe they¡¯re married.

    It¡¯s all men. I can¡¯t quite believe it. At least on the farms I saw some women working in the fields. Hell, I think there were even some women doing some jobs in Ronain¡¯s village. But even then most of them seemed to do work around the home most of the time.

    I suddenly wonder if all those people were so amused yesterday because they thought I was ogling the smith, or because they thought I had such an unseemly interest in a mans work.

    It doesn¡¯t matter where I go, whether it¡¯s the docks, the outer city, the inner city. The only thing I see women doing is washing, baking, cooking or cleaning. Now, there¡¯s nothing wrong with that of course, but¡­ I had kind of hoped for something better for myself.

    Feeling down, I trudge back to the smithy I had been watching the day before. Now that''s work I think is interesting. I spend another hour observing him at work, unfazed by the suspicious glances from the people around me, including the smith himself. At least he seems to recall me from yesterday, as he doesn''t shoo me away this time, instead appearing to accept my presence and trying to ignore me.

    Fuck, it¡¯s been a long time since I¡¯ve felt this powerless. It took me a long while, but at least I had some hope of success in my old world. Although the odds were stacked against me, I was on relatively even ground with others, and with enough persistence, I could still come out on top. As a woman, it wasn''t impossible to succeed, just significantly more challenging.

    Eventually I¡¯m nearly ready to turn away, when the man suddenly looks right up at me and speaks up "Co d¨¬reach a tha thu a'' s¨´ileachadh airson na m¨°ran, a nighean?" ¡°What¡­?¡± he actually sounds concerned, which I hadn¡¯t expected. Do I really look that depressed? I feel a wet streak trickle down my cheek, and my hand instinctively rises to wipe it away. If he¡¯s asking me why I¡¯m feeling so depressed, I guess I¡¯ll oblige him.

    ¡°Sorry, I¡­¡± I stammer out, before I realize that that¡¯s English. I try again "Tha mi duilich" ¡°I¡¯m sad¡±. When did Ronain teach me those words? Maybe when we went through emotions or something?

    I point at his shop "Tha mi airson obair¡± ¡°I want to work¡±. That must be the most extensive combination of words I¡¯ve ever said, but I¡¯m determined to get through this. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, as if trying to escape into his hairline, as he stares at me in utter incredulity. Yeah, that was about the reaction I expected. He struggles to say something, opening and closing his mouth in a few abortive attempts. "Tha... D¨¨?¡± he finally manages to stammer, his voice laced with genuine bewilderment. "But... why?"

    I shoot him a wry smile and shrug. "Tha e a'' coimhead math.¡± ¡°It looks fun."

    As expected, given his previous reaction, my words seem to leave the man momentarily stunned. He stands there, his gaze darting back and forth between me and his forge, as if struggling to comprehend what I''ve just said. I notice that a small crowd has gathered around us on the street, drawn in by our conversation. Their presence makes me uneasy, and I find myself suddenly regretting my decision to engage with him, rather than simply walking away.

    "Ach... tha thu b¨°idheach!¡± ¡°But¡­. you¡¯re a woman!¡± I''m well aware, thanks for the astute observation. I''m sorely tempted to respond with a witty remark, but unfortunately, that''s not within my capabilities. All these short sentences were just barely understandable because they¡¯ve used basic words. Thankfully, he seems to be a man of few words, which works in my favor.

    I nod at him, my wry expression unchanging. "Ha..." I let out a dry laugh, my gaze unwavering. Being a woman doesn''t change my opinion - that still looks like a blast. I suppose it would be tougher for me to handle physically demanding tasks, but that''s beside the point.

    "Tha mi a'' faighinn a bhith nan robh sibh an l¨¤imh ''s a thugam dhut guth¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­¡± Yeah, lost me there buddy. It sounds like he¡¯s not quite sure what to make of me, his voice trailing off at the end of the sentence. His eyebrows furrowed as he looks at me.

    ¡°Carson nach?¡± ¡°Why not?¡± I say to him.

    He seems to actually think about his response to that a bit. This is a bad sign in my experience. It probably means a massive sentence is incoming. He glances around at the gathered crowd before responding, now a bit apprehensive himself.

    "Chan eil e ce¨¤rr, ach... neo-fhreagarrach?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not wrong, but¡­ something else?¡± some of the people in the crowd around nod their heads, mostly men. A few of both women and men narrow their eyes at the words of the smith. Do they disagree with it not being wrong, or with whatever he does think it is?

    Then a sudden laugh sounds above the muttering, and a bearded man with wild hair steps through the crowd. He¡¯s wearing completely different clothes than everyone else. Some sort of toga that¡¯s wrapped around his body, and pure white. Or it would be pure white if he hadn¡¯t trudged through this city. He looks around at the people in the crowd, whom all edge away from him a bit, as if he¡¯s diseased. Then, when pointing at me, he speaks with a very weird accent ¡°Ciamar a bhaich, tha f¨¤inneachd c¨°mhla ri m¨¨inn¡± ¡°¡­¡± I have no idea what he said, but his tone is challenging.

    The smith looks at the man with distaste. "Falbh an d¨°chas.¡± ¡°Please¡­ something.¡± The way he swings his hand out to point away, it¡¯s fairly clear he¡¯s telling him to go away.

    The bearded weirdo seems able to completely ignore the opinion of the crowd, and just says very patiently "Gu math beag.¡± Then he steps up to me, and I can¡¯t help but back away a bit as well. He doesn¡¯t look crazy up close though. More like one of those elderly men that always seem to want to give kids candy out of the kindness of their hearts. They don¡¯t seem to realize that most parents get extremely uncomfortable when they do that.

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    I tense up as he places his bony hand on my shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. Then he looks at me with an unnerving intensity, his eyes piercing through mine as he says in a kind, but commanding voice "Cha toir na buannachan sin thu bho do ch¨´l, ¨°igridh.¡± ¡°Do not¡­ child."

    I nod at the man warily, and he releases his grip. I guess he¡¯s encouraging me? Then he turns around and walks away just like that. The crowd that was looking on parts around him like water. Who is this guy?

    The smith gives me a pitying look, but not quite the same now that he knows what I wanted. Then he says to me "Na h-e¨°in, chan eil mi a'' cuideachadh ort, ''s toigh leat beannachd.¡± ¡°¡­ can¡¯t help¡­¡±

    Well, that''s no more than I had anticipated. I turn my back, and walk away with my head held high. The murmurs of the crowd follow me all the way back to the tavern, even after the sound has long since faded from my ears.

    Before I know it, I find myself standing in front of the tavern again. Well, whatever. I step inside, and walk up to the bar. One of the three identical innkeepers steps forward, and asks me what I want.

    I guess it¡¯s still early in the morning, but I can¡¯t really be bothered with that. Apparently the universal gesture of ''1 pint'' works just as well here as in the world I come from, and before I know it I have a foaming wooden tankard standing in front of me. It¡¯s surprisingly large, but that¡¯s what I want right now. Drowning your sorrows in a tiny cup doesn¡¯t make sense.

    To my surprise, the beer isn¡¯t actually that strong. I guess they have these larger tankards to make up for it. It does taste surprisingly good though, and I suddenly wonder if they only have ¡®craft beer¡¯ in this era.

    I suddenly realize that the innkeeper is talking to me, looking mildly exasperated. I wonder how many times he¡¯s said this before. With a nearly successful attempt at not rolling his eyes, he repeats himself however "Tha sin a dh¨¤ c¨°ip, c¨¤irdeas¡±. ¡°Two copper¡±, right. I need to pay for this stuff. It¡¯s nearly as expensive as staying here overnight!

    I stand there sipping at my tankard, and realize that at this pace it¡¯s going to be a while before I get through it, so I have a look at the current population of the common room. To my surprise, the annoying lady from this morning is still here, and she¡¯s staring at me with a knowing smirk on her face.

    Flaming fuck. I did not need that, but whatever. I don¡¯t know what she thinks I was doing, but she¡¯s correctly assessed that whatever I did has not gone according to plan.

    There¡¯s two other men still in the common room. Having a conversation on the other side of the room from the bar, so I have no idea what they are saying. I mean, I probably wouldn¡¯t have any idea what they were saying anyway, but they¡¯re making an effort to talk in low tones.

    I look at the half full tankard in my hand, and kind of wonder how this will affect me. It¡¯s been¡­ a while since I¡¯ve last drank anything alcoholic. Can¡¯t say that I dislike the experience now though. Wish I could introduce this one to Willem and Johan. They¡¯re so into new and strange beers, but I¡¯ve always been one to drink whatever is available.

    Thinking about them makes me feel really sad, and I¡¯m suddenly extremely annoyed by the fact that I don¡¯t even have anyone to complain to here, so I march over to the annoying woman from this morning. It¡¯s been what, two, three hours that I¡¯ve been out, and she hasn¡¯t left. What is she doing here? She really looks like she¡¯s just spent hours chilling on the bench without even a drink.

    Anyhow, that doesn¡¯t really matter. She looks at me in surprise as I march over there, and plonk the tankard down on the table, then sit down across from her. ¡°You! Want some?¡± I raise the tankard and wiggle it around. For some reason she looks at me as if I¡¯ve gone looney, but I ignore it. If she doesn¡¯t want any, there¡¯s more for me.

    ¡°So, what are you doing here?¡± I ask her mildly. ¡°I tried finding a job, but it didn¡¯t work. All the fun things are done by guys¡­¡± She stares at me as if she very much desires to walk away, but doesn¡¯t have anywhere to go. I don¡¯t¡­ Oh. Right, I can¡¯t tell her about my troubles in English. I¡¯ll just make a terrible attempt at her own language. "Rinn mi obrach. Chaochail.¡± ¡°Tried finding job. Failed¡± or something of that kind.

    At least walking through the city gives me a lot more exposure to it than in the fields. If nothing else I can stay here practice magic and just do language immersion until my money runs out.

    The earlier smirk comes back to her face now that I¡¯m saying something she can understand. "Tha thu a'' c¨¤nadh leis a bhathais.¡± ¡°¡­baby.¡± she says, with a twinkle in her eyes. Hey! Don¡¯t insult my awesome language skills. I¡¯m trying!

    "Tha e gu math?¡± ¡°It¡¯s good, right?¡±

    She lets out a short laugh. "Bha sin c¨¤nan ¨¨irg. Cha do th'' ann ¨¤ seo?¡± ¡°¡­weird language. ...not here?¡± It¡¯s my turn to smile, and I can¡¯t resist responding in English ¡°You don¡¯t know the half of it!¡± I¡¯ve no clue how to translate that completely though, so I¡¯ll settle for answering her question: "Chan eil an seo.¡± ¡°Not from here.¡±

    She nods knowingly "C¨¤ nan robh thu?¡± It¡¯s interesting how you can know none of the words, and still know exactly what someone has said, just by virtue of similar grammar and tone. ¡°Where do you come from?"

    Dunno how to explain that one. And I take another long swallow of my tankard, only to find it empty. I frown at the empty container. It feels like just a moment ago it was full. I pause to consider whether I should get another one, but it¡¯s really too much effort to think about that, so I should just do it. I attempt the magic ¡®beer¡¯ sign from the comfort of my table, and to my happy surprise, the man behind the bar lets out the short bark of a laugh, and then comes to supply me with another tankard. I fish around in my pouch, and provide him with two more of the copper coins, which he pockets before walking back to his precious bar.

    I eyes the three men behind the bar. It¡¯s like they make a game out of standing there in a line like immovable statues. Of course they¡¯re not really standing still, but I¡¯d still expect them to move about the tavern more. Instead their preferred locations seem to be some place behind the bar, and they always eventually come back there.

    Then I realize I¡¯m rude, and as I take a swallow from my new tankard, I turn back to the woman, who furrows her browse, and looks at the tankard with mild disgust. "Ciamar a th'' thu a'' d¨¨anamh a'' bh¨¤s?¡± ¡°How ¡­ drink that¡­¡±

    How can I drink this? I take another swallow, and swish it around my mouth. It¡¯s not bad is it? Is this another thing where women shouldn¡¯t drink beer or something? Or does she just think beer, or this beer in particular is terrible. I guess I should be happy if it¡¯s the latter, because that means that all the other beer must be amazing. I look around the decrepit tavern, and compare it with the other fancier ones I¡¯ve seen. I guess I should have expected this to be the bottom of the barrel.

    I shrug, taking another sip. "T¨°rr. Tha obair a'' dol?¡± ¡°Anyway. Where is work?"

    She starts a bit, as if remembering I said something about that before. But then she seems to get more confident, apparently this is a topic she¡¯s well versed in. "Tha e air a chur air na bheil thu a'' dol a dh¨¨anamh? Ma bhfuil thu air tighinn don bhaile gu ruige an latha, tha mi ag rinn leis gu bheil obair mar spinnairt no cleachdair a bhiodh a'' dol a dh''fh¨¤s a chr¨¤mh.¡±

    Holy crap lady, lost me there. I sit there blankly looking at her, trying to process what exactly she said, and she seems to realize something. "O, thu eadar-theangachaidh mar bhalach. Tha rud a tha a'' dol a dh''fhaoidte dhan theaghlach a dh¡¯fhalbh.¡± ¡°Oh, you talk¡­ baby. Then¡­"

    He gets up, and walks around the table, then frowns at the nearly empty tankard in my hand. I stare at it in surprise once more. Did I really drink that quickly? Then she says "Ciamar a bha'' a chur a dh''fh¨¤gail a-rithist? Thoir thugam, c¨°mhla leam.¡± ¡°¡­ that? Come¡­ you¡±. She motions me to drink up, and I finish my tankard and set it down on the table. Then the stupid tankard rolls off the table and clatters to the floor.

    I move to pick it up, but she drags me out of my chair, evidently excited at the prospect of whatever she just told me to do. We were talking about work right? Maybe there¡¯s an introduction bonus or something?

    A while later, I¡¯ve been dragged through two districts to a large building in the outer city. By the time we arrive, I¡¯m not quite stumbling any more, the alcohol having somehow worn off faster than I¡¯d expected.

    As we step out of a narrow alleyway and onto a worn cobblestone street, I catch a glimpse of the building we are heading towards. The wooden structure looms before us, its faded sign creaking in the gentle breeze.

    The letters have long since faded, but I can make out the faint outline of a spinning wheel etched into the weathered wood. A dull, grey stone foundation stands at odds with the rest of the building, giving the impression that it has been an afterthought in the construction process. The air around us seems to smell faintly of decay as we approach the entrance, a heavy wooden door with iron hinges that looks as though it hasn''t been oiled in years.

    This place is giving me the creeps, and I momentarily wonder if this woman is not leading me towards an organ harvesting operation.

    The woman leads the way as I step through the creaky entrance. The air inside smells stale and musty, a far cry from the fresh breeze outside. We''re immediately enveloped in a sea of women, their faces bent in concentration as they spin and weave at wooden frames.

    Inside is a single large room, filled with equipment, but there is a small open space around the entrance, with a single bench, presumably to entertain visitors.

    The brown-haired woman whispers something to a different woman behind the counter, a stern-looking figure with a clipboard, and the woman''s eyes flicker to me before returning to my friend. My friend''s voice is hushed, but I catch snippets of the conversation - ¡°work", ¡°baby" - before my friend points at me, her eyes apologetic. The stern woman''s expression remains impassive, but I sense a flicker of interest as her gaze lingers on me, her eyes lingering on my scarf before returning to my friend.

    I watch as the stern woman''s expression remains unchanged, but her body language tells a different story. She nods curtly at the brown-haired woman, her eyes flicking to me once more before returning to the clipboard in her hands. The woman''s face relaxes into a gentle smile as who I presume to be the supervisor hands her a few copper coins, which my friend pockets with a quiet thank you. The supervisors''s gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before she turns back to the clipboard, her expression unreadable. I feel a shiver run down my spine as I realize that my fate, at least for the next little while, seems to be sealed.

    The brown-haired woman comes back to the entrance, a slight smile on her face. "Beannachd mhath, gr¨¤dh." she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Tha thu gu math an seo." She glances at the stern woman, who remains impassive. Her eyes meet mine for a moment, filled with a mix of vague concern and reassurance, before she turns and steps out of the building, presumably returning to the tavern.

    The woman''s departure leaves a strange sense of isolation, and I feel a pang of uncertainty as I turn my attention back to the stern woman, who is now standing before me, her clipboard held tightly in her hands.

    I¡¯m not sure if this is what I want, but I might as well try? I look at the stern woman apprehensively.

    I follow the stern woman, my feet echoing off the cold stone floor as we move through the crowded room. She leads me to a section where a row of spinning wheels stands, each one humming softly as the women spin and weave around them. The woman stops in front of one of the wheels, her eyes flicking to me as she waits for me to catch up.

    She begins to spin the wheel, her hands moving with a practiced ease as the thread flows from the spindle into a neat, tight ball. I watch in fascination as the wheel spins, mesmerized by the rhythmic motion. The woman notices my gaze and nods curtly, her expression still unreadable, but a hint of a smile playing on her lips. She gestures for me to try, her hand extending towards the wheel.

    I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. The woman''s expression doesn''t change, but I sense a hint of impatience behind her eyes. So I take a deep breath and sit down to use the wheel, dropping my sack beside it. I try to imitate her motions, and somehow, it¡¯s not a total disaster. When I do something wrong, the stern woman corrects me gently, and steers my hands in the right direction. After a little while, she nods, and leaves me to it.

    It occurs to me that no words have been spoken at all. This might work for me for now. I¡¯ll just sit here and spin, and then I¡¯ll¡­ I guess I¡¯m not sure yet what I earn with this, but it must be something. Having any job would be an improvement over the nothing from before.

    I continue to spin the wool, my hands moving in a rhythmic motion as the thread flows from the spindle into a growing ball. The room around me fades into the background, and I become lost in the repetition of the task, the remains of the alcohol in my system making it easy. I can feel the soft fibers of the wool flowing through my fingers, and the gentle hum of the wheel is soothing. I feel like I''m starting to get the hang of it, and a small sense of pride swells in my chest. Maybe I can do this?

    The supervisor''s gaze flicks back to me, and I feel a flutter in my chest as she approaches. She stops beside me, her eyes fixed on the scarf I''m wearing. Her expression is unreadable, but there''s a hint of tension in her voice as she speaks. "C¨¬orb, tha mi a'' dol a dhol ¨¤s an fhaighinn anois.¡± ¡°Lass, ¡­ take¡­ off."

    I freeze, my hands still moving in the rhythmic motion of spinning as I lock eyes with the supervisor. Her gaze is piercing, her expression unreadable, but there''s a sense of anticipation in the air that makes my skin prickle. I glance at the scarf, covering my head, and my heart sinks. I should have known better than to try to hide it.

    My eyes dart back to the supervisor, her face a mask of calm, but I sense a storm brewing beneath the surface. I take a deep breath, my hands slowing as I begin to remove the scarf, my fingers hesitating as I slowly unwrap the fabric from around my head. I glance around the room, searching for any sign of what''s to come, but the women nearby are lost in their own tasks, oblivious to the tension. My hands feel like lead as I continue to unwrap the scarf that I¡¯d so tightly bound, never expecting to have to untie it so soon. My eyes are fixed on the supervisor''s face, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

    I peel back the last thread of the scarf, and reveal the messy, uneven cut that¡¯s what has become of my trademark ponytail. I expected some kind of reaction, but based on what I¡¯ve seen in the city so far, I wasn¡¯t prepared for the gasp that escapes the supervisor''s lips. Her eyes widen, and her face goes pale, as if she''s seen a ghost.

    The room around me falls silent, and suddenly, every pair of eyes is fixed on me. The women''s faces, once bent in concentration, now all look at me. One of them whispers something, and it spreads like a virus, with others nodding in agreement. I feel a chill run down my spine as I realize that I''m the center of attention, and it''s not a good kind of attention. Did I truly think that things would be different in the city? The few people outside with black hair seemed fine. Just how deep does this prejudice go...

    The supervisor''s gasp has released a dam, and now the whole room is staring at me, their expressions a mixture of horror and disgust. I try to hold my head high, but it feels like I''m drowning in a sea of hostile gazes. The supervisor''s face is the only one that still looks unreadable, but I sense a deep unease emanating from her, as if she''s trying to process what she''s seeing.

    As the supervisor''s face contorts in a mixture of shock and disgust, I feel a surge of adrenaline course through my veins. Her hand shoots out, grasping for my hair, and I instinctively react, dropping into the familiar time-slowing juice-mode. The room around me slows to a crawl, the women''s faces frozen in horror, their mouths open in unison.

    As the supervisor''s fingers dig into my hair, I realize I''m not sure why I''m doing it. Is it to protect myself, or to simply freeze the moment, give myself a chance to process what''s happening?

    The supervisor''s grip is tight, her fingers twisting into my hair like a vice. I feel a spark of anger ignite within me, and I push back against her, trying to free myself. It''s like moving through quicksand when time is moving so slowly though.

    I focus on the supervisor''s face, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and revulsion. Her grip on my hair is tight, but I try to lever her arm away using every ounce of power I can muster, and slowly but surely, I start to feel her hand slipping.

    The supervisor''s face slowly contorts in a mixture of pain and surprise as I wrench my hair out of her grasp. I imagine she hadn¡¯t even really processed that she grabbed it herself yet. I feel the rush of satisfaction at finally being free, but it''s short-lived, as I realize I''m still surrounded by a group of hostile women.

    I take a deep breath, and then, with a burst of strength, I launch myself forward, using the momentum to propel myself out of the chair and across the room, past the supervisor.

    As much as I¡¯ve trained this, reality is different, and time seems to snap back into place as I crash to the floor, the sound of my own ragged breathing filling my ears. I look up to see the supervisor''s face, her eyes wide with shock as she tries to process everything that happened, and the women around us, their faces frozen, this time in incomprehension. I take a deep breath, and slowly rise to my feet, my eyes locked on the supervisor.

    I stand panting, my eyes locked on the supervisor''s shocked face, my heart still racing from the adrenaline coursing through my veins. But as I glance around the room, I notice something that makes my stomach drop. My sack, the one I''d left next to the spinning wheel, is still there, untouched. I''d forgotten all about it in the chaos. A sense of panic starts to creep in as I realize I need those coins, and the sword!

    Without thinking about it, I push back past the supervisor, pushing the woman out of the way. It looks like she''s still unsure how to deal with the situation, and she doesn¡¯t resist. I quickly grab my sack, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as I tighten my grip on it.

    I can see the anger rising in the eyes of the supervisor. I don¡¯t know what she¡¯s so upset about. The fact that she let me work? I try to move backwards, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to inch my way towards the exit.

    The supervisor''s eyes flash with a sudden fury, and she lunges at me, her hands grasping for my wrists. I try to pull away, but she''s too quick. She manages to snag my arm, her grip like a vice.

    I feel a new surge of adrenaline as I realize I''m not going to make it to the door. The supervisor''s face is inches from mine, her eyes blazing with anger. I try to shake her off like before, but she''s too strong. Panic sets in as I realize I''m going to be pinned down.

    That''s when I remember the sword. I fumble in my sack, my fingers closing around the hilt. I pull it out, the familiar weight of it a reassuring presence in my hand. The supervisor''s eyes widen as she sees the sword, and for a moment, she hesitates. But only for a moment. Her face twists with rage, and she tries to grab the sword from me. I¡¯m kind of baffled at this, since everyone before always seemed to try and run away. Is she trying to protect the workers?

    Somehow I can¡¯t see it.

    The supervisor''s grip on my arm tightens, and I feel a surge of pain as her nails dig into my skin. I try to shake her off, but it''s like trying to move a mountain. In a desperate bid to break free, I lurch to the side, using my momentum to try and shake off the supervisor''s grip. But as I move, my foot catches on the edge of a spinning wheel, and I stumble backwards, losing my balance.

    My hand with the sword flies up, and backwards with me, but intersects the place where the supervisors reaching hand is. It is sliced open, a deep gash running across her palm. She''s screaming, her face contorted in agony as she tries to stem the flow of blood. The room around me is a blur, the women''s faces a distant memory. All I can see is the supervisor''s hand, the blood flowing out of it like a faucet.

    I stumble out of the building, the bright sunlight and cool breeze a jarring contrast to the chaos and tension that''s been building inside me. My heart is still racing, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I try to process everything that just happened. I can feel the weight of the sword still clutched in my hand, the familiar grip a comforting presence in this moment of uncertainty.

    As I emerge into the street, I''m hit with a sense of disorientation. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head and focus on my surroundings. The cobblestone street stretches out before me, empty and deserted in this back alley. I glance around, wondering if anyone has seen me leave, but the streets are eerily quiet. The only sounds the sobbing coming from the building behind.

    I need to get out of here, find a place to hide and regroup. I look at the now blood stained sword in my hands. Quickly push it back into the sack, and run¡­ away. My main motive is putting distance between the event and me.

    Eventually I find myself in an alley in the slums, I don¡¯t think I deliberately went there, but the environment reflects my mood. Hopeless.

 Child

    It truly is a depressing place. If I weren''t already feeling similarly I''d probably want to leave as soon as possible. As it is, I just find myself leaning my back against a rickety old house, surrounded by refuse. The smell is horrible, but honestly, after days here, its become the new normal. So, the slums aren''t much worse than the rest of the city at this point.

    I think back on my actions just now, head resting on my knees. Surely I could have handled that better? Going for the sword was surely too much. It''s just, the moment the lady came at me for my hair again, I just got so angry. I really wanted to hit her with it, even if I''d never actually do so. I feel like I was secretly hoping for the reaction the previous people I met had, to get back some modicum of control, but even that was taken from me.

    Seriously, what kind of idiot comes at someone holding a sword with their bare hands? It''s like bringing a knive to a gunfight. Hell, if it were me, I''d have run the fuck away. At least I had a spear going up against that bandit, and he looked like he was out for me, I just wanted to get away. These people...

    I wonder if the guards will be called? That''s what you''d normally do in a situation like this right? Then they''ll start searching the city for signs of some black haired woman wearing a scarf. I wonder what the punishment is for accidentally cutting someone''s hand in half. Guess it''s better not to find out. Knowing my luck I''d be charged with attempted murder, if they even stop to give me a trial. The men in the village sure didn''t.

    Maybe they could fix it with magic? If magic does things like that in this world. I''ve really only seen it move heavy wagons.

    What now? The thought falls into my head suddenly, and I realize that I have no idea. My plan was to find work, but interesting work seems reserved for men, and the work females do seems to be reserved for those without black hair. What the hell is it that people expect me to do to them? Are we usually witches or something?

    I consider standing up, but then figure there''s little point until I figure out what I actually want to do. I look at the shuttered buildings around me. All old wood, grown dark and moldy with age. One of the sheds looks like it''s about ready to fall over. I wonder if it''d be possible for me to find an abandoned one. It certainly looks like there should be enough around.

    Maybe I can use the few things Ronain taught me and set up a business selling those? It''s all common ingredients, so I shouldn''t have too much trouble actually making the things. But I have no idea if there''s a market for a ''3 days of experience'' herbalist. Is what he taught me common knowledge, or esoteric? Apparently they needed a herbalist for it in his village, but how about the city?

    I chuckle darkly at my own silliness. How would I go about selling those without speaking the language, much less setting up a business.

    Am I doomed to go around acting like a villain until I can make myself understood? Could I even survive long enough that way to get to that point? I don''t think it''s really a question. I''d die or get caught way before I got to that point.

    No, instead of doing anything stupid like that, I should do what I should have done long ago. I should just return to Ronains village. I can survive in the cave, and can now even purchase some supplies to survive there for a while. If he''s still just as willing to teach me as before, then I should go back to find the single friendly face I know.

    I should also do it before someone reports what just happened to the guards, and they lock down the city or something.

    Happy that I''ve finally made a decision that I can feel good about, I move to stand up, and look up for the first time in ages. Right as I''m doing so, a little urchin, covered in dirt and who knows what bursts out from behind a nearby stack of wooden refuse. It''s hard to tell their age or gender at a glance, and I do not have more than a moment to consider it, as they are upon me in an instant. For a moment I think it''s an attack, and I ward up my hands to ward them off.

    Their eyes widen when they see I noticed them, but they don''t break off their sprint. For a second I wonder what they''re going to do, but then they''re past me, and sprinting away again. I shake my head, bemused at what the hell that kid was doing, when I realize that my sack is gone.

    My head whips after the kid, and there, clutched between their scrawny hands, dangles my sack. For a moment I marvel at their ability to grab it and not cut their hands open, before I realize that the sword is back in its scabbard, and I''m scrambling up in pursuit.

    I thought I''d easily catch up, but the stupid kid knows where they''re going, and I have no idea where I am. Ever time I think I can catch them in a dead sprint, they dart back into an alley, squeeze between two buildings that are too close together for me to pass through, or just turn with an agility my adult body cannot hope to match. Pure speed I can do, but it doesn''t help me here.

    I can''t let that sack disappear though. It contains literally everything I''ve accumulated in my short time here. I have zero confidence in being able to make it back without its contents.

    My motivation just seems to encourage the brat though. They surely think they''ve managed to hit the jackpot, and I can''t help but agree. A dirty as the sack itself is, with the way the kid looks its contents must represent a veritable fortune.

    In my previous life I''d probably have given up. I never carried anything that was of more value to me than my life, and the single time that my wallet was stolen from I just shrugged and moved on with my life. But I had a bank account then! And an apartment filled with junk that never seemed to run out.

    This time, I can''t let that happen, and so I push myself. We rush past dilapidated buildings, dirty laundry, a whole set of dogs apparently having a fight to the death, several people that can''t even be bothered to look up at what is going on. Eventually, I cut a lucky break, or the brat an unlucky one, and someone steps out of a door right in front of their face.

    By some miracle, they''re able to adjust and perform some truly epic dodge roll through the blockade presented by the man and the door, but their momentum is gone, and while they scramble back up and away, I grab them by the hem of their dirty shirt.

    I''m just about to launch into a tirade I know they won''t understand, but I''m suddenly just holding a dangling dirty shirt, and the goddamn brat is off again. I look back at the man that just came out of the door, just trying to say ''did you see that?'', but I find that they haven''t even paused in their journey, and are already halfway down the street.

    Time falls away from me, and I carefully plant my legs as the world slows down around me. This brat will not escape. I chase after them, and even though they are very agile, and I''m relatively large, the fact that I can adjust before they even really notice they''re doing something makes up for a large part of the difference.

    They notice something is wrong as they throw a glance back and find me right on their heels. Where I was previously blundering into anything they threw in my path, I can see it coming now, and avoid it. The gaps they squeeze through are observed and noted even before the child moves through them, and suddenly it feels like I''m always one step ahead.

    This time our chase is a lot shorter, and, still holding the stupid shirt I took from them, I don''t take any chances. The next time they''re within reach, I wrap my hand tightly around their wrist, and nearly dislocate their shoulder when they notice and suddenly try to jerk away.

    Seeing the child struggling in slow motion is very interesting in a way, things you don''t usually see come to the forefront. Like how their eyes jerk in the direction they will try to go before they actually make a move in that direction. Never mind that there is no way they''d ever... Oh no you don''t!

    The hand I''m not using to hold their arm swings around and gives them a ringing slap to the face. Hard enough to make them pause, but hopefully not to do any lasting harm. Their eyes slowly widen when they realize they were foiled before they even did what they were attempting to. The little fucker was going to bite me. This kid is nasty!

    It does make me a bit sad when I realize what that probably means about the world they''re living in. I have to fend of a few desperate kicks to my belly, some stomps on my toes, and even a fully fledged attempt at some wrestling hold before the kid realizes it''s pointless. But at that point I''m thanking my lucky stars that I have the juice to slow down time. I might have come out on the wrong end of that exchange if I''d attempted this without.

    I''m not entirely certain how much would have changed if I were willing to knock them out by force.

    They finally stop struggling, their small body sagging in my grasp as they seem to deflate like a punctured balloon. I feel a mix of relief and wariness, as I study their face, taking in the dirt-smudged cheeks, the tangled brown hair, and the wide, disbelieving eyes that stare back at me. For a moment, we just look at each other, the only sound the heavy breathing of the child as they try to process what just happened. Somehow, I find myself feeling a pang of curiosity about this small, scrappy monster that''s been trying to hurt me for what feels like an eternity.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    I tear my gaze away from the child''s disbelieving stare, and my eyes scan the surrounding area, taking in the crumbling buildings, the narrow alleys, and the few passerby''s that seem to be pay us only a modicum of attention. I glance around, my hand instinctively tightening around the child''s wrist as I feel them move, a finger slipping towards my eyes like a snake. I jerk my head away, my teeth gritted in annoyance as I grab the child''s other wrist, holding it firm as they try to wriggle free.

    So much for the impression they had given up. I can''t let my guard down for an instant with this creature.

    My grip is still tight as I try to get a better look at their face. For some reason my mind keeps wandering back to the tiny, delicate hands I''m holding. I''m mildly bothered by the fact I can''t tell if this bundle of joy is a boy or a girl. It doesn''t truly matter, but I somehow feel like I should be able to tell. Some hangup about a girl being this... feral? I glance down at the child''s remaining clothing, but their emaciated, scraped body, and their ripped pants do not give me any clues.

    "A nighean?" Guess I''ll just ask then.

    I''m met with a look of utter confusion as I ask the question, my words hanging in the air like a challenge. The child''s gaze lingers on me, their eyes narrowing as if trying to figure out what''s wrong with me. Their small chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. For a moment, I''m convinced this is a precursor to them launching themselves at me again, but they just stare at me like I''m some kind of lunatic.

    "T¨°isichidh thu leis a'' phr¨¬omh dh¨´il?" she finally says, as the words answer my question without me truly understanding their meaning. The incredulity is abundantly clear though.

    I smirk, surprised at how the answer to that question resolves some bizarre anxiety I was feeling about the fact.

    "M''phaigheadair?" "My bag?" I ask her, as I let go of one of her wrists. She looks down at the sack that''s now protectively stuck between her two feet. She dropped it to get at me, but not anywhere, no. Only where she could get it back easily, and I can''t reach it without bowling her over. The forethought in that action baffles me, though it probably shouldn''t surprise me given everything that happened.

    I narrow my eyes, studying her face for any sign of deception, but she just looks back at me with a mixture of caution and curiosity. "M''phaigheadair," I repeat, trying to not make it sound like a command. For a moment, it looks like she''s going to refuse, her new free hand reaching to grip the sack tightly as if prepared to fight me for it. I tense, ready to react if she decides to make a move, but then her face softens ever so slightly. She looks down at the sack, and I can almost see the calculation in her mind. I hold my breath, my heart beating slightly faster as I wait for her decision. I really do not want to try to force it. But then, to my surprise, she slowly reaches down and hands me the sack, her small hand extending it towards me.

    I know how heavy it is, so I marvel at the strength in that small arm. She may look half starved, but there''s a wiry strength to her body.

    I take back the sack, and release her other wrist as I do so. The moment I do, she immediately scrambles back several meters, eyeing me warily. Wonders if I have anything terrible in there that I''ll now attempt to use on her maybe? Either way, with her at a safe distance, I finally feel secure enough to return to normal time.

    It is immediately apparent to me that this latest use of juice has had a larger effect on my reserves than any before. I wonder if the cost depends on how much you actually try to do?

    I dig through the sack, making sure that everything I had in there is still there. And finally look back up to find her still there, staring at me from what I''m sure she considers a safe location. I figure I might as well, and open the pouch on my belt to retrieve five of the square holed copper coins, which I hold out for her to take.

    As I hold out the copper coins, the girl''s eyes flicker to the pouch on my belt, and for a moment, her gaze lingers on it before snapping back to mine. Her face, which had been etched with a mix of caution and curiosity, suddenly contorts into a look of absolute betrayal. Her eyes widen, and her small chest heaves with a ragged breath as she realizes that she targeted the wrong thing. She takes a step back, her eyes fixed on the pouch, and her hand instinctively reaches for it, as if she''s trying to snatch it from my belt.

    I suddenly feel bad, and say "T¨°ir d¨°chas. Sgiath cudromach." "Not bad. Bag important." or something like it, I hope. And I realize that maybe giving her coin was a bad idea from the start. Anyone would assume an urchin like that approaching them with coin had stolen it, even if she seems perfectly willing to do so regardless.

    I figure I better take a note out of the Ronain playbook, given she looks around the same age, and sit down at the side of the road. She''s seen me do exactly that before, but somehow still seems surprised I''m willing to just plop down there. I''m not entirely sure of the reason. A glance at mine, and the clothes of the people around doesn''t distinguish me as very different. Sure my clothes are marginally cleaner now, but...

    Anyhow, instead of coin, which I put back in the pouch as she tracks them with her gaze, I pull out some of the bread and dried meat in my pack, and hold that out instead. Patting the floor next to me exactly as I did with Ronain.

    To her credit, it takes her nearly a minute to satisfy herself that I''m not suckering her into anything. Even when she does approach, it''s to grab the food quickly, after which she scurries back out of reach. She does sit down to eat though, which I count as a small victory.

    As the girl eats, I keep a watchful eye on her, still wary of any sudden movements. Her hunger seems to have gotten the better of her, and she''s wolfing down the bread and dried meat with an appetite that''s almost comical. I find myself smiling slightly at the sight, which catches me off guard. I''m not sure I''ve smiled in days, and it feels... strange.

    The girl looks up at me, her eyes narrowing as she catches my gaze. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the only sound the crunch of her eating. I can see the wariness in her eyes, but also a glimmer of curiosity. She''s trying to figure me out, just like I''m trying to figure her out.

    It suddenly dawns on me what strikes me about this kid. In a way that''s hard to explain, I feel like I''m looking at a version of myself - not exactly as I used to be, but as I perhaps fantasized about being. Of course, I''ve never had to deal with the kind of hardships this kid has faced, which is likely why they''ve ended up in this situation. But there''s something about their attitude - that defiant ''the world is against me'' spirit and their determination to keep going, no matter what? That''s something I used to have, or at least I thought I did. So, when did I lose it? Is this what being middle aged does to you?

    She swallows her bite, then works up the courage to finally ask, with slightly squinted eyes "Cath a tha thu?" "Who are you?" I guess that''s a fair question. I haven''t introduced myself yet. "Tha mi Emma. Ciamar a tha thu?" "I''m Emma. How about you?"

    "Tha mi... Mairi" she hesitantly replies.

    As Mairi finishes speaking, she looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and caution, her eyes darting back and forth between mine. I nod, trying to appear non-threatening, and she takes another bite of the bread. I watch her, fascinated by the way her eyes light up as she eats, and the way her hair falls in tangled brown locks down her back.

    I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the present moment. "Ciamar a tha thu, Mairi?" I ask, trying to sound friendly and non-threatening. "How do you do, Mairi?" She snorts, and bread flies everywhere. There''s genuine, but bitter amusement in her eyes as she looks up at me. "Ciamar fada tha thu a dhol a dhi¨´in dhomh gum faoiir dhomh an d¨°chas sin?" "How long.. ask.. that?"

    She sweeps her arm out wide, encompassing the sprawling slums and its inhabitants, as well as herself. "''S ann ¨¤rachd ¨¦ a bheatha." "Life.. is fucking hell." she says with a scathing tone that speaks volumes, as a sneer spreads across her face.

    Ok, maybe don''t ask the potentially orphaned street child how life is. That''s an expression I should never see on a childs face.

    Somehow it disarms her though, and the expression of disgust slowly reverts back to curiosity as she looks at me. For the first time she approaches me "Tha thu a'' dol a bhith a'' ch¨¤irdeil." "You... strange" she says, as she sits down next to me and continues munching on the remains of the bread I gave her. The dried meat is already gone.

    I hand her another piece of bread, and smile wryly as I mutter under my breath, "Yeah, that''s what you get for being yoinked out of a literal wonderland when you compare it to here." I can''t say that to her though, not least of all because I don''t know the words. Instead the best I can do is, "Tha eagalach." "Things happen."

    She takes the handed bread, and asks, "C¨¤ nan a tha thu an sin?" "What are you doing here?" I can''t help but celebrate my ability to understand a full sentence, but thinking about the answer quickly turns my mood dour. "Na obair. Tha mi A'' dol." "No work. They hate me." at least I don''t have to be worried I''m dumping my worries on her. Nothing I can add that she''s not already dealing with, and frankly, I don''t care. It pisses me off that the only people willing to listen are children, but I''ll take it.

    She frowns at me, then points at my sack, and the pouch I keep my money, "Ciamar a tha e sin?" "What about that?" I grin, and lean towards her as if telling her some great secret, "Thachair d¨°chas." "Stolen goods." Her eyes widen slightly, but quickly narrow, and she exclaims "Tha thu dol a bhruidhinn!" "That''s a lie!"

    I can only shrug my shoulders. Not like I can make her believe me by any extra words. Instead I just question her. Pointing at my sack, "C¨° tha thu a'' ghabhail e?" "Why take this?"

    It''s her turn to shrug, and I''m fairly certain she''s deliberately exaggerating after my own just now, she looks me over meaningfully, then says "Sgaoth be¨°." "Easy... target?" I''m mildly affronted, but I can''t deny that I probably am. If I hadn''t had my juice to help out she''d have gotten away without a doubt. No way I''ll tell her that though. I wish I knew how to say "What does that make you then?", but those words won''t come. I can''t help but continue to be surprised by how much I''ve picked up just by being immersed though. I''ve been doing nothing but walking around for days just listening, but when you do it all day long...

    "C¨¤ nan l¨¤imh?" "Where do you sleep?" If you count caveman "Where sleep?" as valid language anyway. She looks at me with a conflicted expression, and I immediately wonder whether that was a rude question. I guess she''s a thief, and she might not want to tell random people that. No, scratch that. That''d be a terrible idea. I guess I was just hoping to not keep spending 3 coppers a night.

    Instead of answering, she again looks at my sack, then tentatively asks me "Tha e gu math thogail?" "Really stolen?" I''m not sure how this relates to my question but, "Tha gu math." "Yes." A speculative expression crosses her face, and I''m suddenly struck with the feeling that I''m in an interview, a realization that makes me uncomfortably certain where this is headed.

    "Tha thu cuideachd ga thogail?" "Are you... thief?" I''m not sure what to think of my suspicion that the word I don''t get means ''also''. I mean, I kinda knew she was since she went for my stuff, but... This implies more than being a passing target of opportunity. I''m not sure how to feel about the idea that an 8 year old kid identifies as a thief.

    How to answer that? I have certainly done more of that than anything else since coming to this world, but it''s not by goddamn choice! Something in me rebels at answering that question with anything but a resounding no. On the other hand, my bleeding heart does very much wonder if there''s anything I can do for this kid. It doesn''t make sense, and I should just leave well enough alone. I just decided to return to Ronain too.

    But then I think about returning to Ronain and telling him all this, and I''m sure he''d be disappointed. A tiny, but insidious voice whispers in the back of my head that if they''re thieves, and already outside the law, there''s no possible way they''d be upset about my hair either, right?

    "Tha gu math." "Yes."

    She nods to herself, and sits there pondering for a while. After she finishes the last piece of bread, she stands up and starts walking away, before looking back to me.

    "Tha mi a'' dol." "Follow me."

 Meeting the family

    I follow Mairi through the winding streets of the slums. The signs of life that I failed to notice on my casual inspection earlier are everywhere. It¡¯s not quite the life I am familiar with, but life nonetheless. Dirty, thin children play in the streets, woman and men barter ¡ªor fight¡ª over meagre scraps of food. Dirty laundry is washed, hung, and dried. Laughter and crying can be heard in equal measure. It¡¯s far from glamorous, but it¡¯s life.

    At the same time, there¡¯s things here that I don¡¯t think you¡¯d see elsewhere in the city. A man is in the process of being beat up in an alley we pass by, but Mairi doesn¡¯t spare him a glance, and her pace is fast enough I don¡¯t either. A bit later we pass by some emaciated man lying on the side of the road we pass through, he¡¯s not moving, and I¡¯m not certain if it means he¡¯s asleep or dead. Even if it¡¯s the former, he¡¯s not far from death¡¯s door. It works here though.

    To some extend it baffles me that people live here, as life appears objectively better out in the fields. There¡¯s more than enough space for many more farms out there. Why do they choose to live here? Even I didn¡¯t have a particularly hard time traveling overland for 5 days. But I guess it¡¯s hard to imagine how you¡¯d set up a farm if you¡¯re like that man. You¡¯d need some help from people around you, and at least a year''s supply of grain before you could support yourself from your own land. Come to think of it, would you even be able to use the land? It looks like no-mans-land to me, but it¡¯s probably owned by someone?

    The road Mairi takes is long and winding, and at several points I wonder if she¡¯s leading me in circles. Is she trying to hide where she¡¯s going? At several points she pauses for a bit, seeming to look around for something, and then continues.

    At long last however, we seem to arrive at the location she has in mind. At the end of a narrow alley between two large buildings, we enter some sort of courtyard that¡¯s formed by the blind back walls of three two story buildings all facing outwards. No doors appear to open on this courtyard, and it¡¯s not all that big, but it¡¯s larger than I¡¯d expect, measuring near 10 meters on a side. What¡¯s more attention grabbing though, is that the space is full of children of various ages.

    In one corner, a group of teens seems to have a heated argument, in another, an older girl seems to be teaching a younger one how to mend clothes. There¡¯s a kind of ball game going on in the center between a horde of smaller kids. One boy seems to be sifting through a heap of knick-knacks, picking out stuff by some unknown measure. Further back, another teenage girl with blonde hair seems to be in the process of cooking something in a pot over an open fire.

    Before I can take in more though, one of the teens that was having the argument earlier notices us and immediately makes a beeline towards the entrance we are standing. The rest of the kids in the clearing stop what they¡¯re doing and gaze warily at us, at me really. Mairi receives a few exasperated glances, but not much more. Then I notice that some of the older children have surreptitiously pulled out what I imagine is some form of weaponry, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

    Mairi waves at the boy coming towards us, but he doesn¡¯t return it, and actually doesn¡¯t look pleased at all. She loses some of the confidence she''s displayed while leading me through the city.

    The boy that comes up to us has a shock of hair that¡¯s somewhere between brown and dirty blonde. He looks around 15 years old, but it¡¯s hard to tell due to the grime that clings to him. Something tells me he doesn¡¯t usually smile, his face seems set in a permanent scowl. He¡¯s wearing some sort of brown tunic, but it¡¯s seen so much use that it¡¯s falling apart at the seams. There¡¯s hardly any fabric that hasn¡¯t been patched, and even so there¡¯s places where a cut was never fixed. He might be 13 or 18 for all I can tell. The frown on his face isn¡¯t quite hostile, but it¡¯s not far off either.

    "C¨° tha seo, mata?¡± ¡°Who is this?¡± he directs the question at Mairi, his tone carrying a hint of criticism, causing her to shrink slightly under his gaze. Her confidence quickly rebounds, however, as she straightens up and says, "Lorg mi i a'' spaidsearachd mun cuairt. ''S e m¨¨irleach a th'' innte.¡± ¡°Found¡­ ¡° I''m unsure how to interpret this.

    The boy looks at me, and his eyes narrow. I hold up my hands, palms toward him. No danger from me, I¡¯m trying to say. He looks back and forth between me and Mairi, looking for something I can¡¯t imagine. Eventually he shakes his head, as if trying to shake loose a silly idea.

    "Carson a tha thu an seo?¡± ¡°Why are you here?¡± I''m at a loss for how to respond. The simple answer is that Mairi brought me, so here I am. But why did I actually follow her? How can I possibly explain that I''m so desperate and worn down that I trailed after an 8-year-old who I feel just conducted a sly interrogation on me?

    "Chan eil roghainnean ann¡± ¡°No other options¡±, I eventually say.

    I watch as the boy''s eyebrows furrow, his skepticism evident in the way he studies me. He turns to Mairi, his voice low and questioning.

    "A bheil i dha-r¨¬ribh na m¨¨irleach?" "Is she... a thief?"

    Before I can even process the question, let alone formulate a response, Mairi jumps in. Her small frame seems to vibrate with excitement as she rushes to answer, her words tumbling out in a torrent.

    "Tha, tha! Dh''innis i dhomh gu bheil a h-uile c¨¤il aice air a ghoid!" "Yes, yes! She told me¡­ stolen!"

    I blink in surprise, caught off guard by Mairi''s enthusiastic endorsement of my supposed criminal activities. I mean, I''d been sort of expecting it, but it still comes as some sort of surprise. It¡¯s not perfect confirmation, but at this point I¡¯m fairly certain that what looks like a band of ragged children, is also a band of thieves. I glance between Mairi''s bright, expectant face and the boy''s narrowed, assessing gaze. What to do here?

    I take a deep breath, my mind racing as I weigh my options. There''s a part of me that wants to protest, to explain the nuances of my situation. But as I consider everything I¡¯ve done since coming to this world, I realize there''s really only one answer I can give that won''t be a lie.

    "Tha e f¨¬or," I say softly, the words feeling heavy on my tongue. "It''s true."

    I can''t help but wince slightly as I admit it. Every item I possess, from the clothes on my back to the food in my pack, was either stolen or taken from the dead. The sword, the belt, the money - all of it acquired through means I would have once found inconceivable. It¡¯s one thing to know it, but it feels quite different saying it to someone else. All the nuances of my situation suddenly lost.

    As the boy''s eyebrows raise slightly, my heart skips a beat, and I feel the need to add that nuance, even if my mastery of the language is woefully inadequate. "Cha robh... roghainn agam," I try, my voice barely above a whisper. "I had no... choice."

    The boy''s sudden bark of laughter catches me off guard, echoing off the alley walls and startling a nearby cat. His face, which had been filled with suspicion just moments ago, now breaks into a crooked grin.

    "Sin mar a tha e dhan a h-uile duine," he says, his voice tinged with a mix of amusement and resignation. "That''s how it is for everyone."

    Mairi, standing beside me, nods her head so vigorously that her tangled hair bounces wildly. Her eyes are alight with a strange mix of pride and understanding, I¡¯m not sure if she¡¯s just agreeing with the boy, or somehow found some truth in what I said. I find come comfort in their recognition, even as I''m unsettled by the implications.

    The boy takes a step forward, his posture relaxing slightly. He extends a hand towards me, a gesture that seems almost comically formal given our surroundings and the nature of our conversation.

    "Is mise Calum," he says, his voice carrying a hint of authority that belies his young age. "I''m Calum."

    I reach out to shake his hand, noticing the calluses on his palm and the dirt under his fingernails. His grip is firm, almost challenging, and I meet his gaze steadily. To my astonishment, Calum appears perfectly content to break our eye contact after a moment, apparently feeling no need to posture. He shakes his head as he turns to look at Mairi. "T¨¨ eile?" he utters, "Another one?"

    I furrow my brow, puzzled by Calum''s last statement. Another one? What does he mean? Before I can ask for clarification, Calum motions for Mairi and me to follow him. He turns towards the rest of the kids in the clearing, raising his hand in a casual wave. The tension in the air dissipates almost immediately, and the children return to their previous activities as if nothing had happened.

    I watch as the teenagers who had drawn their knives earlier now slip them back into hidden pockets or sheaths. It''s a practiced motion, one that speaks of long experience. The sight sends a chill down my spine. While I academically know there¡¯s probably kids like that in my own world, I¡¯ve never had occasion to interact with any, and it makes me nervous. I can¡¯t help but eye Mairi and wonder whether there¡¯s a hidden knife somewhere on her body too.

    Calum sets off at a brisk pace, heading towards the group of teenagers. I hesitate for a moment, glancing at Mairi. She gives me an encouraging nod, her small hand reaching up to drag me along by my sleeve. Taking a deep breath, I fall into step behind her, my eyes darting around the clearing as we walk.

    The sounds of chattering, work and play fill the air, but there''s an undercurrent of wariness that I can''t quite shake. Every now and then, I catch one of the kids eyeing me surreptitiously, their gazes a mix of curiosity and caution. I try to keep my face neutral, not entirely certain what anything else will be interpreted as.

    As we approach the group of teenagers, the girl with blonde hair that was cooking makes her way towards us as well. Despite the dirt and grime that covers her, there''s an unmistakable air of authority about her, and I can¡¯t shake the feeling that she¡¯d be absolutely stunning if she weren¡¯t covered in grime like the rest of them. She moves with purpose, her eyes scanning our little group with a mix of curiosity and caution.

    Calum nods to her as she joins us, and I can feel the shift in dynamics. The other kids seem to defer to her presence, even Calum, whom seemed the leader to me so far. He clears his throat and begins to introduce the others, gesturing to each person in turn.

    "Seo Eilidh," he says, pointing to a small, mousy girl with nearly white hair tied back in a ponytail. She doesn''t meet my gaze, instead focusing intently on her feet. I can¡¯t help but remember that just a moment ago she had a weapon somewhere on her body that, no matter how I look, I cannot detect now. Her tunic is nearly as bedraggled as Calum¡¯s, but seems to be in a better state of repair.

    "Iain," Calum continues, indicating a lanky boy with a mop of unruly brown hair. Iain gives me a quick once-over, his expression unreadable. I can¡¯t help but note that of all the children there, he seems to have the cleanest clothes, wearing a natural off-white. Or maybe he just washes them, and they should all be this color.

    Finally, Calum turns to the blonde girl who''s just joined us. "Agus seo Rhona," he says, a note of respect in his voice. She''s wearing the same dull brown as everyone except Iain, but her tunic is more dress-like, similar to mine. Somehow, she carries herself with a self-assurance that gives the impression of a queen holding court.

    Rhona steps forward, her piercing green eyes locked on mine. Despite Calum''s apparent acceptance of me, I can feel the wariness radiating from her and the others. The air feels thick with tension, and I resist the urge to fidget under their scrutiny.

    "C¨° th'' innte?¡± ¡°Who is she?" Rhona asks Calum, her voice low and measured. The question carries more weight than its simple words suggest, implying: Who is this woman, and is she trustworthy?

    I stand my ground, trying to appear both non-threatening and confident as I wait for Calum''s response. For the moment, I reckon I''ll try to demonstrate that I pose no danger to them, which seems to be their primary concern. They''re merely a group of youngsters, and I can hardly fault them for striving to survive. After all, who am I to judge?

    Calum shrugs, his casual gesture in sharp contract with the palpable tension. "Thug Mairi a-steach i,¡± "Mairi brought her in," he states matter-of-factly. "Chan urrainn dhi a bhith na droch neach.¡± "She can''t be¡­ bad person." His voice remains almost nonchalant as he speaks.

    I furrow my brow, trying hard to understand what he said. I gather the meaning, but why would Mairi bringing me mean I¡¯m safe? I watch in bewilderment as the others suddenly nod in agreement, the tension in the air disappearing almost as fast as it came. As if Calum''s declaration has settled the matter entirely.

    Calum sees the confusion on my face, and tries to clarify for me. "Bheir M¨¤iri a-steach clann eile gu tric." ¡°Mairi brings¡­ children.¡± Sure? But why would they place so much trust in Mairi? I eye at the girl standing next to me as Calum continues "Tha deagh fhiosrachadh aice.¡± ¡°Good¡­ something.¡± I curse my lacking vocabulary. What is Mairi good at?

    I glance over at her, and am shocked at the transformation in her demeanor. Gone is the wary, street-smart child from earlier. In her place stands a girl practically glowing with pride. Her chest is puffed out slightly, and her chin is tilted upward in a gesture of unmistakable self-satisfaction. The corners of her mouth twitch, fighting against a full-blown grin that threatens to split her face.

    I can''t help but smile at her reaction. It''s clear that Calum''s words have struck a chord, validating her decision to bring me here. Her eyes dart around the group, soaking in their acceptance, before finally landing on me. There''s a sparkle there that wasn''t there before, a mixture of triumph and excitement.

    For a moment, I¡¯m shocked to see how young she truly is. Despite her street-hardened exterior, Mairi is still very much a child at heart, one who craves approval and recognition. There''s something both heartwarming and heartbreaking about seeing such genuine joy on the face of someone who''s clearly had to grow up far too quickly.

    Calum''s attention shifts back to me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies my appearance. "Ged a tha," he begins, his tone thoughtful, "chan eil thu coltach ri m¨¨irleach." I catch the word "m¨¨irleach" - thief - and piece together his meaning. "That said, you don''t look much like a thief."

    Sure man, as if you look the part. I nearly retort with a jibe, but it doesn¡¯t feel like the tone of the conversation is quite ready for me to start joking around yet. I¡¯m not quite sure what he expects a thief to look like though. Wouldn¡¯t it be better for them to appear entirely unremarkable?

    Suddenly Mairi''s eyes lock onto mine, her brow furrowing in confusion. The pride that had been radiating from her just moments ago is replaced by a sharp, questioning look.

    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    "Seadh, bha gu le¨°r airgid agad airson c¨°ig bonn copair a thoirt dhomh!" she exclaims, her voice rising with a mixture of disbelief and accusation. I catch enough to understand her meaning: "You had enough money to give me five coppers!"

    The others look startled at that, and I wonder what the average amount of money these kids steal is. Her words hang in the air for a moment, and I can feel the weight of the others'' gazes upon me. Mairi''s eyes narrow as she continues, her voice lowering to a near whisper, "Chan fhaighear sin le tubaist." The message is clear: "You don''t get that by chance."

    I take a deep breath, realizing I need to be honest if I want to gain their trust. "Okay, look," I begin, then realize I need to swich languages, my hands fidgeting with the hem of my dress. "''S e an fh¨¬rinn, th¨¤inig¡­¡± I pause, as I consider how to continue, "a'' mh¨°r-chuid den airgead sin bho fhear a... uill,¡± saying this scraping the very bottom of the barrel of my linguistic knowledge, but I consider it a miracle I can figure out how to say it at all ¡°...ruith e air falbh agus leig e ¨¤s a sporan.¡± The truth is, most of that money came from a guy who just ran away and dropped his pouch. I pause, gauging their reactions.

    Both Mairi and Calum give me incredulous looks. Mairi is the first to speak, still caught up in her disbelief "Agus theich e, d¨¬reach mar sin?¡± ¡°He¡­ just¡­ ran?¡± I realize I''ve omitted a crucial detail, but I''m unsure whether to share it. I look into the children''s eyes, which moments ago were filled with trust, but now reflect suspicion. What kind of life have they led for their trust to evaporate so quickly? Something tells me it would be unwise to withhold information. If they catch me in a lie even once, I might lose all their trust, or¡ªremembering the shivs¡ªface worse consequences.

    "Cha do, chunnaic e m'' fhalt.¡± ¡°No, he saw my hair."

    Mairi''s brow furrows, her head tilting to the side in confusion. "Do ghruag?¡± "Your hair?¡± she asks, her voice laced with skepticism. "Carson a ruitheas duine air falbh bho ghruag?" I can tell she''s asking why someone would run away from hair.

    I hesitate, my hand instinctively moving towards my scarf. In for a penny, in for a pound I suppose. I''ve already come this far.

    "Alright," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Seallaidh mi dhut" With trembling fingers, I reach up and slowly pull back my scarf, revealing what remains of my chopped up black hair.

    The reaction is immediate. Mairi''s eyes widen in surprise, but it''s the older kids who truly react immediately. Calum and the others let out audible gasps, stumbling back a step or two, their weapons appearing in their hands near instantly. Their faces are a mix of fear and awe.

    I take a step back myself, but suddenly I freeze, as I feel something sharp being pressed into my back. A glance behind reveals Eilidh, whom I haven¡¯t even seen move, pressing a knifelike object into the area where I guess my kidney is.

    Mairi, as skeptical as she was before, is looking panicked, glancing between me and the others. "D¨¨ tha ce¨¤rr?" she asks, clearly not understanding the gravity of the situation. "What''s wrong?"

    I stand there, my heart pounding in my chest, not daring to make a single move. I¡¯ve sunk deep into the time slowing effect of the juice, but I can¡¯t find a way out. Anything I do will result in a knife in the back before anything else. How did the freaking girl even get there? The tension in the air is palpable, and I wonder if I''ve just made a terrible mistake.

    There''s an eternity where we all stare at each other, the expression on the kids¡¯s faces when nothing happens turning more incredulous by the second. Calum is the first to recover, his initial shock melting into an unexpected burst of laughter. It''s a sharp, almost hysterical sound that cuts through the tense silence. "Seadh, dh¨¨anadh sin an gnothach,¡± "Yeah, that''d do it," he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

    His laughter seems to break the spell that had fallen over the group. Iain and Rhona visibly ¡ªalmost forcibly¡ª relax, though their eyes still dart nervously between my revealed hair and each other. Their hands slowly lower their weapons, but I can see they''re still on edge. Eilidh hasn¡¯t moved a muscle though, her knife still pressed into the same position it was before. Looking to Rhona for guidance, who seems entirely content to let her stay there for the moment.

    Mairi, however, is having none of it. She stomps her foot hard on the ground, kicking up a small cloud of dust. Her face is scrunched up in frustration and confusion. "D¨¨ tha dol an seo?" she demands, her small hands balled into fists at her sides. I don''t need to understand the words to know she''s asking what the hell is going on.

    I nod emphatically at Mairi, feeling a surge of kinship with the young girl''s confusion. "Seadh, na thuirt i,¡± "Yeah, what she said," I mutter, my eyes darting between the faces of the older kids. "D¨¨ tha ce¨¤rr air m'' fhalt?¡± "What''s wrong with my hair?¡± after I can''t help but mutter, in English, "It''s just hair, for crying out loud."

    Calum''s hysterical laughter dies down, and he exchanges a meaningful glance with the others. His eyes linger on Rhona, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod. He takes a deep breath, his expression becoming more serious.

    "Nach eil fios agad?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know?" Calum begins, his voice low and measured. There¡¯s a hint of disbelief to his voice that indicates he cannot quite conceive of someone¡ªmaybe especially an adult¡ªnot knowing what the problem is.

    The utter bafflement in my expression seems to convince him though, as he almost whispers to himself "Chan eil fhios agad.¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t know." He can¡¯t seem to trust his own words, because he repeats the same question again "Nach eil fios agad gu f¨¬or?"

    "Chan eil¡± ¡°No¡±, I can¡¯t really do more than refute. As I have zero clue what they¡¯re on about. I knew there was something about black hair, but¡­ I guess a few weeks of nobody remarking on it and leading a sort of normal life caused me to forget how violently people can react to it. Even the Supervisor lady that chased after me in the weavers was tame by comparison, and I nearly cut her hand off for her trouble.

    Calum looks back at Rhona, Iain and Eilidth, none of whom seem to have anything to give him. Rhona gives an almost imperceptible shrug. And Calum turns back to me. "Nach eil thu mar ph¨¤irt den ¨¤rd-impireachd?¡± ¡°Not part of¡­ something?¡±. Considering I have no idea what he¡¯s on about, I can safely say "Chan eil.¡± ¡°No.¡±

    He seems to consider his next question "A bheil fios agad mun ¨¤rd-impireachd?¡± ¡°Do you know¡­ ard-impireachd?¡± Whatever this ard-impireachd thing is, it seems to be the source of all my worries. Something, something empire? Are they talking about a country?

    "Thig mi bho ch¨¨in.¡± ¡°I come from far.¡± I guess I¡¯ll have to make clear that I have no idea about their political situation or something. Are they at war? Is the black hair somehow representative of this ard-impireachd? "Chan eil fhios agam ard-impireachd.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know ard-impireachd.¡±

    Calum seems lost for words at this revelation. He makes a hand signal to Eilidth, and I feel her tense behind me, which drives the point of her weapon a little further into my back. A sharp pain pierces my skin, and I feel a trickle of blood seeping down my back. I nearly pull forward, but she doesn¡¯t appear to go any further than that, and I suspect moving would be a very, very bad idea at the moment.

    The reason for Calum¡¯s hand signal is soon clear as he, Rhona and Iain huddle together, and have a quick whispered discussion, none of which I catch. Mairi, meanwhile, is glancing rapidly between me and Eilidth, as if not sure whom to support. After a moment, the group of breaks up again, and Rhona steps forward instead of Calum. She nods towards Eilidth, and the point that had seemed to be driven in my back for an eternity finally disappears. So does the girl that was holding it, and a moment later she¡¯s back to flanking Rhona.

    She still doesn¡¯t meet my eyes, and I can¡¯t suppress a shiver of fear. What the hell kind of assassin creature is this? It was disturbing to imagine these kids doing this, but it¡¯s a whole different level of uncanny to see it happen. At least we seem to be through this part, and as close as they came, unlike Ronain''s villagers, they haven¡¯t quite tried killing me yet.

    Rhona waves her hand in front my face, and I realize that I¡¯ve been staring at Eilidth like she is a ghost, trying to determine where that knife went. I fumble my hand behind my back, and it comes away wet with blood. Not a lot, but...

    "Tha mi duilich mu dheidhinn sin. Ach bha againn ri bhith cinnteach.¡± ¡°Sorry¡­ But... to be sure¡± Rhona speaks, seemingly genuinely apologetic when she sees the blood on my hand. She tries to catch my attention again. "Leig leam m¨¬neachadh.¡± ¡°Let me¡­ explain.¡±

    What follows, is a very intense ten minutes of Rhona¡ªand Mairi, after she gets what Rhona is trying to say¡ªtrying to explain why black hair is bad, dumbed down to the point a toddler can understand it. What it comes down to seems to be, that the only people in this country with black hair are part of the High Empire, and the only females with black hair are almost certainly scouts or spies for this empire.

    My stomach drops at this impartment. High Empire? Spies? My mind races, trying to process this information. I open my mouth to speak, but Rhona continues before I can form a coherent thought.

    "''S e sin as coireach gu bheil daoine a'' freagairt mar a tha iad,¡± "That''s why... people react¡­ like that," she explains, her eyes never leaving mine. "Tha falt dubh air boireannach an seo a'' ciallachadh cunnart. Tha e a'' ciallachadh cuideigin a tha coltach a bhith an seo gus fiosrachadh a chruinneachadh, gus ullachadh airson ionnsaigh, no nas miosa.¡± ¡°Black hair¡­ woman¡­ danger..."

    I appreciate her willingness to be verbose, even if she knows that most of what she says will go right over my head.

    I stand there, stunned, as the implications of her words wash over me. My hand unconsciously reaches up to touch my short, choppy black locks. What was always a mundane feature of my appearance has suddenly become something far more significant. Even having said I come from elsewhere, and that my black hair has nothing to do with this empire, I can feel the weight of their stares, a mix of wariness and curiosity, and I realize that my life here just got a whole lot more complicated.

    My hands clench at my sides, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself before I speak. Even if we¡¯ve gone through this before, with my now improved vocabulary, I feel the need to state it clearly. ¡°Seall,¡± ¡°Look," I start, my voice coming out more forcefully than I intended, ¡°Chan eil mi nam bhrath-fhoillsichear.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not a spy."

    For a moment, I consider telling them the whole truth - that I''m from another world entirely. But the words catch in my throat. It sounds insane even to me, and I lived it.

    I look at each of them in turn, willing them to believe me. Unexpectedly, I notice a supportive look in Mairi''s eyes, as if she''s attempting to transmit bravery to me through sheer force of will. My voice softens, tinged with a hint of desperation. "Tha mi d¨¬reach... air chall.¡± "I''m just... lost."

    Rhona''s piercing green eyes bore into mine for what feels like an eternity, weighing the truth of my words. Even if they¡¯re already satisfied themselves that I¡¯m not a danger, that doesn¡¯t necessarily mean they believe me, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her verdict. Finally, her shoulders slump ever so slightly, and she nods, though the wariness doesn''t leave her face.

    "Seadh," she says ¡°Aye," her voice carrying a bitter undertone that makes me wince. "Tha mi a'' smaoineachadh gum feum e bhith mar sin. Nam biodh tu dha-r¨¬ribh nad aon dhiubh, bhiodh sinn uile marbh a-nis, tha mi a'' creidsinn.¡± ¡°It must be¡­¡± She spits on the ground, her expression darkening. "Chan eil na daoine sin a'' gabhail gu coibhneil ri bhith air am faighinn a-mach. Bhiodh iad air ar sg¨°rnain a ghearradh mus biodh cothrom againn fi¨´ ''s ar s¨´ilean a chaogadh.¡± ¡°Those people don¡¯t¡­ discovered. They¡¯d¡­ slit our throats...

    I feel a chill run down my spine at her words, realizing what she¡¯s implying. Even as quick as they were, they didn¡¯t expect to survive when I revealed my hair. In this world, my appearance alone could be a death sentence, for others, and for myself, and I never knew. What would have happened if I didn¡¯t make this scarf and walked into the city? I swallow hard, trying to find my voice.

    "Tha mi... taing dhut airson creidsinn annam,¡± "I... thank you for believing me," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Cha bhrath mi an earbsa sin." "I won''t betray that trust."

    Rhona''s eyes narrow, and I can see the conflict within her. She wants to believe me, but years of survival on the streets have taught her caution. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head as she weighs the risks against the potential benefits of trusting me.

    As the heavy silence threatens to suffocate us all, Mairi suddenly pipes up, her voice a mixture of disappointment and childish petulance. "Och, nach eil e na spaidh, ma-th¨¤?" she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes. "Is that all? She''s not even a spy?"

    I can''t help but chuckle at her reaction, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders. Leave it to a child to be more excited by the prospect of danger than relieved by its absence. Mairi''s disappointment seems to lighten the mood slightly, and I notice Rhona''s lips twitch in what might almost be a smile.

    Iain, however, remains serious. He turns to me, his dark eyes intense as they lock onto mine. "Feumaidh tu an fhalt sin a chumail am falach," he says firmly, gesturing to my hair. "Cha bhi a h-uile duine cho tuigseach rinn." I don''t catch all the words, but his meaning is clear enough: ¡°For gods sake, keep the hair hidden!"

    I nod solemnly, reaching up to touch the scarf still wrapped around my head. "Tha mi a'' tuigsinn," I reply softly. "I understand." And truly, I do. I had already decided to conceal my hair, and unsurprisingly, learning that it could be an even larger matter of life and death hasn''t altered my resolve. As I adjust the scarf, ensuring not a single black strand is visible, I can''t help but wonder what other things pass me by that could kill me if left as is. As much as this world appears to be the same, there¡¯s clearly a whole layer aside from the magic that I¡¯m missing here.

    As the weight of Iain''s warning settles over me, Mairi, apparently considering the matter settled, bounces up to Rhona, "Uill?¡± ¡°Sooo?¡± Her attempt at puppy dog eyes looks oddly out of place on her tough little frame, leaving me puzzled.

    Rhona''s brow furrows as she ruffles Mairi hair, and studies me intently, her green eyes seemingly trying to peer into my very soul. I resist the urge to fidget under her scrutiny, forcing myself to meet her gaze steadily. The seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity, the only sound the distant chirping of birds and the occasional shuffle of feet.

    Finally, Rhona lets out a long, weary sigh. Her shoulders slump slightly, and for a moment, that air of self-confidence disappears, and I catch a glimpse of the enormous responsibility she carries. When she speaks, her voice is firm but not unkind.

    "Faodaidh tu fuireach an-dr¨¤sta," she says, her words slow and deliberate "You can stay for now". The others nod in agreement. Relief washes over me, but before I can fully relax, Rhona continues, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Ach bidh d¨´il agad ri obair mar duine sam bith eile. Chan eil ¨¤ite againn airson leisgean.¡± ¡°Must work¡­ No place¡­ idlers"

    I nod eagerly, a mix of gratitude and determination flooding through me. "Tha mi deiseil airson obair," I say, hoping my pronunciation is correct. "I''m ready to work.¡± then I whisper to myself "Thank you, Rhona. Thank you all."

    As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the alleyway, I find myself caught up in a whirlwind of activity. True to Rhona''s words, there''s no shortage of work to be done. Throughout the afternoon, I''ve been shuttled from one task to another, my hands constantly occupied with something new.

    For such a small space there¡¯s a great many things to do. It¡¯s not helped by there being so many little ones for every older child. They may all act older than their age, but there¡¯s only so much a four year old can do. It very much seems as if they¡¯re perpetually short on hands.

    As the day winds down, I stand beside Rhona in what passes for a kitchen area - really just a small fire pit with a few battered pots and utensils. She guides me through the process of preparing a simple stew, her instructions so rapid that I struggle to follow. Despite my clumsy attempts, she remains patient, demonstrating each step with practiced ease.

    I can¡¯t help but remark on this. "Ciamar a th¨¤inig sibh uile an seo?¡± ¡°How did you all get here?¡± She glances over at me, a wry smile on her face. "Tha adhbharan againn uile.¡± ¡°We all have our reasons.¡± I guess I should rephrase my question. "Ceart gu le¨°r. Tha mi a'' ciallachadh, carson a tha uimhir de chlann ¨°g ann.¡± ¡°Sure. But why so many small childen?"

    She turns to me with a fiery expression on her face, hands on hips. There is a deep seated anger in her voice as she spits out "Air sg¨¤th ''s gu bheil uimhir gan tr¨¨igsinn!¡± ¡°Because so many have been abandoned!¡± The look she gives me suggests she''s incredulous that I would ask something so utterly senseless. My next words stick in my throat, as I re-evaluate why Rhona does what she does. I can''t deny that I had initially pegged her mostly as the leader of a gang of thieves, but... the way she says it now makes it sound more like a rescue mission.

    I drop the subject, as I reconsider what I thought I knew, and she goes back to her cooking with a huff.

    The aroma of the cooking food fills the air, and I can''t help but feel a small sense of pride as I watch the younger children gather around, their eyes wide with hunger and anticipation. As we ladle out portions, I catch Rhona watching me, now with a hint of approval in her green eyes.

    With bellies full, our attention turns to preparing for the night. Calum takes up a position near the entrance, a small fire behind him lighting up the narrow alley that is the entrance to their sanctuary. Eilidth puts down a mat near the fire, out of line of sight of the entrance, presumably taking second watch. Rhona directs me to help lay out straw mats for the younger children. As I spread them out, careful to make them as comfortable as possible, Rhona approaches me.

    "Thu," she says, pointing at me and then to the edge of the group of mats. "An seo." She mimes lying down, then makes a rolling motion with her hand before pointing to the little ones.

    I nod in understanding, a lump forming in my throat at this small gesture of trust. "Tha mi a'' tuigsinn," I reply softly. "I''ll keep them safe.¡± She snorts, and rolls her eyes a little bit, but the smile on her face takes any sting out of the action.

    As I settle onto my designated mat, the cool night air nipping at my exposed skin, I watch Rhona move among the children, tucking them in and murmuring soft words of comfort. I can¡¯t be anything but impressed with what she and the others seem to have accomplished here. Despite the hardness of the ground beneath me and the unfamiliarity of my surroundings, I feel a strange sense of belonging wash over me. I¡¯m still an outsider, sure, but it¡¯s the closest I¡¯ve been to anyone since coming to this world¡ªwhich, on reflection, is a bit sad.

    It''s been a long, exhausting day, but as I close my eyes, listening to the gentle breathing of the children around me, I can''t help but feel that there are worse places I could have ended up. I¡¯m still not entirely certain what I was looking for when I went after Mairi, but this isn¡¯t bad.

 A New Family

    I wake up to a bunch of excited jabbering in my ear, which is an entirely new and decidedly unwelcome experience. I jolt up from the mat, for a moment having a hard time trying to remember where I am. I wrench my head to the side, only to find the source to be a little boy about half Mairi¡¯s age, who¡¯s excitedly chattering at me. Two similarly aged kids, a boy and a girl, are hiding behind him, shuffling their feet, but following what he says with great interest.

    I can¡¯t follow a thing of what he¡¯s saying. It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t recognize the words, it¡¯s that the end result is nonsense. What are a ¡°Great big bear¡°, a ¡°spiky ball¡±, and a ¡°nasty carrot¡± doing in what is ostensibly the same sentence? It¡¯s even more baffling that the two kids behind him seem to know what he¡¯s talking about perfectly well. At least they don¡¯t show any of the incomprehension that must be visible on my face, and instead nod at all the appropriate moments.

    Eventually his stream of thought runs dry or is interrupted by something, and he just turns on the spot and runs off. I can¡¯t help but stare after the kid in bewilderment. The other boy immediately takes off after him, but the girl throws me the barest apologetic glance, says "Mar sin leat, a Mhaighstir Emma¡± and is off after them too. ¡°Bye Miss Emma?¡± How do they even know my name?

    Well, I¡¯m certainly awake now, that¡¯s for sure.

    It looks like all the younger kids have awoken like some sort of human wave. A kid will start getting restless on their mat, clearly starting to wake up, and this triggers the same in the others that were previously peacefully sleeping next to them.

    I find Calum still sleeping somewhere on the opposite side of me, but Rhona, Iain and Eilidth are already awake. The former is, again, cooking, and I wonder if that¡¯s one of her main tasks. Iain and Eilidth seem to be somehow trying to contain the horde of smaller kids, and for the first time it occurs to me to count exactly how many there are.

    Getting an exact count of the milling horde proves more challenging than anticipated, but after arriving at the same figures thrice, I feel reasonably confident in my tally. There¡¯s ten kids that seem like that boy from before, no exact ages, but definitely around five or below. The youngest of them is still all chubby and stuff, and I guess they¡¯re barely more than a baby. All the kids, especially the younger ones, take care of them very carefully. A cluster of four children falls within Mairi¡¯s age bracket, over 6 but under 10, and there¡¯s a solitary older girl, whom I estimate to be around 10 or 11 years old, who was instructing one of the younger girls in stitching yesterday. Lastly, there¡¯s the four ¡®teenagers¡¯ whom I already know the names of.

    All in all, that¡¯s 19 children living on a space barely twice as large as my living room back home. I guess it must be especially hard for the teenagers who get zero privacy, and are constantly in high demand. They¡¯re the closest thing these kids have to role-models or authority figures.

    I make my way over to Rhona, who¡¯s crouched by the fire pit, stirring something in a large pot. The aroma wafting from it makes my stomach growl, reminding me how little I¡¯ve eaten yesterday. As I approach, Rhona glances up at me, her green eyes questioning.

    ¡°An urrainn dhomh cuideachadh?¡± I ask in her language, gesturing towards the pot. Can I help? I¡¯m still somewhat amazed that simple phrases like this now come to me with relative ease. Rhona¡¯s expression softens slightly, and she nods, scooting over to make room for me.

    I kneel beside her, taking in the makeshift kitchen area. It¡¯s rudimentary at best - just a fire pit surrounded by a few worn pots, pans, and utensils. Yet, it¡¯s clearly set up for exactly the purpose they¡¯re using it for. As she showed me yesterday, she¡¯s got preparing food for a large group down to a perfected art.

    Rhona hands me the long wooden spoon, motioning for me to stir the contents of the pot. As I do so, I observe her methodically chopping what looks like some kind of root vegetable. Her movements are quick and practiced, like she¡¯s been doing this for years. She already has a variety of different vegetables floating in the soup, stew, or whatever it is. I wonder where all these vegetables come from. Rhona pulled these from a large chest to the side of this kitchen area, and it seemed pretty well filled.

    I guess it needs to be if you want it to last with 19 growing mouths to feed.

    The stew bubbles gently, and I catch whiffs of some unfamiliar vegetables together with the more recognizable scents of onion and something meat-like. There¡¯s something oddly comforting about preparing food for others. I guess that¡¯s because it implies there are others you care enough about to cook for.

    As the stew finishes cooking, Rhona and I begin ladling it into an assortment of mismatched bowls and cups, adding equally mismatched spoons. The children, sensing that food is ready, start to gather around us. There¡¯s a level of anxiety in their eyes that bothers me, and I wonder what it is they are worried about. Whether there will be a similar meal tomorrow?

    I find myself seated on the floor, cross-legged, with a warm bowl cradled in my hands. There¡¯s no chairs or anything, and everyone seems entirely used to just sitting down on the packed dirt that constitutes the floor here. The younger kids crowd around, some practically pressed against me, their own bowls balanced precariously on their laps. The older ones hang back a bit, but their attention is just as focused on the food.

    As I take my first spoonful, I¡¯m surprised by how good it tastes. The vegetables are tender, the broth is rich, and there¡¯s a depth of flavor I wasn¡¯t expecting from something prepared in this hodgepodge of a kitchen. I glance around and see the children eating with gusto, some of the younger ones abandoning their spoons altogether in favor of drinking directly from their bowls. I nearly shout at them to keep hold of their damn spoons, but then remember that I¡¯m a guest here, and that they¡¯re barely five years old.

    Mairi actually jumps up when she sees it happen, and gathers both the spoons from the kids that just dropped them on the floor, as well as the ones that aren¡¯t using them any more, and brings them back to the kitchen to dump them in a bucket with water.

    Eilidh¡¯s eyes lock with mine from across the group, and I notice a subtle smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She seems briefly caught off balance at my notice, and quickly schools her face back to a neutral expression.

    It¡¯s nice to eat like this. I might not really know these kids yet, but they¡¯ve accepted me in a way nobody else has. Sure, they clearly aren¡¯t entirely comfortable yet, but that¡¯s to be expected. I¡¯d say it¡¯s because I tower over them, but Calum and Rhona are nearly my height, and I suspect their substandard diet is the only thing that allows me to win.

    It comes as somewhat of a surprise to me, but the rest of the day is equally nice. Without a specific job to do, I get to spend it learning about what everyone else is doing. Rhona, Calum and oddly enough, Mairi, all leave at some point during the day to go do whatever it is they do, while I get to know the younger kids.

    They all have their own work to do, but they¡¯re all equally happy to show off what they¡¯re doing to me. The youngest are just happy to have anyone older around to pay attention to them. While Eilidh and Iain are there, they are busy with their own jobs. Well, jobs, Eilidh is practicing with a bunch of throwing knives with a focus that scares me, and Iain is immersed in writing on a small slate, referring to a stack of wooden plates with different characters on them every so often. I¡¯m curious what he¡¯s doing, but not quite confident I¡¯d understand the explanation even if I did.

    My first day in their company goes by quickly. We have dinner again in the evening, which Rhona and I prepare, and then it¡¯s back to sleep again for everyone. The fact there¡¯s no light aside from the fire means nobody stays awake long past sundown. Except the few children chosen for guard duty that night. I¡¯m surprised the younger ones seem part of the rotation, but it must be working for them.

    The days blend together, marked by the steady rhythm of children¡¯s chatter and the gradual improvement in my comprehension. What started as incomprehensible noise has slowly transformed into distinct words, then simple phrases. The younger ones, particularly, have become my favourite teachers. Their simple vocabulary and repetitive speech makes it easier to grasp the fundamentals. I never have to feel like they don¡¯t understand me either. Half the time they don¡¯t understand themselves, and it¡¯s blessedly free from stress.

    I spend most of my time at the hideout, taking care of the children while everyone else moves about. Initially, I suspected they kept me here due to lingering mistrust, but that couldn¡¯t be the case, given how protective Rhona is of these kids. These days, I suspect Rhona saw what I couldn¡¯t: that the children¡¯s endless questions would teach me more effectively than anything else could.

    Rhona, Calum, and Mairi maintain their daily excursions, returning with bags of bread, dried meat, or occasionally something more substantial. I¡¯ve stopped pretending I don¡¯t know where it comes from, though the thought still makes me uncomfortable. Hunger has this funny way of silencing moral objections though, and I accept the food without question.

    The coins that are still in my bag feel like they must be burning a hole through it, but I don¡¯t want these children to start relying on money that can¡¯t possibly last. Or maybe I¡¯m just worried about what¡¯ll happen if they throw me out again, but I don¡¯t want to think about that possibility.

    The one thing that stands out of me in these past few weeks was Eilidh¡¯s lone venture. She departed one morning alongside Rhona, appearing outwardly normal, though I noticed an unusual stiffness in her movements. Then when she returned that evening, something had changed. She was always quiet, but she would always have a few words for the other kids¡ªperhaps a playful observation about their sand drawings resembling grumpy Iain¡ªbut that night she withdrew to her corner of the hideout without a word. Even now, weeks later, she hasn¡¯t spoken of what happened, though I sometimes catch her staring into space, absently running her fingers along the edge of her shiv. As curious as I am, I don¡¯t think she¡¯s ready to tell me, or anyone else for that matter.

    One day, as we¡¯re all finishing up our morning bowl, Iain stands up, and signals for attention. It amuses me how he doesn¡¯t even really do anything. He just stands, and then waits. Not a minute later, all the kids are looking at him expectantly. He didn¡¯t say a single word.

    When he has the attention, Iain glances at Rhona, as if asking for confirmation, and she gives him a small nod, at which he starts to speak. He¡¯s trying to keep it all simple for the younger kids, so I¡¯m mostly able to follow everything too, and I silently rejoice at my improved understanding.

    They¡¯re going to the east market. With everyone. His hands move as he talks, sketching out what must be the layout of the streets. As he speaks, a restless energy takes hold of everyone, a current of excitement running through the other children as they lean forward, hanging on his every word. Mairi, usually so fidgety, sits perfectly still, her eyes wide and focused. I notice Calum nodding slowly, his usual stern expression expressing a hint of approval, while Eilidh nervously twists the end of her pale ponytail around her finger. Whatever this plan is, it¡¯s clearly bigger than their usual operations, bigger than any I¡¯ve been around for, and it¡¯s clear that everyone recognizes the importance.

    I shift my weight, studying the faces around me with a growing sense of disquiet. My initial surprise at the methodical planning gives way to a creeping sense something being wrong. The older children¡¯s expressions are intent, focused, but the little ones react differently. While some bounce with barely contained excitement, others, most, seem to shrink into themselves, their small shoulders hunched and faces falling. One particularly young boy, probably no more than six, stares at his worn shoes, occasionally stealing glances at Iain before quickly looking away again.

    I¡¯ve become familiar enough with their expressions to recognize when something¡¯s wrong, but the exact emotions in the room elude my understanding. Is it fear of what might happen if things go wrong? Or perhaps it¡¯s something deeper - some aspect of this plan that my basic grasp of their language hasn¡¯t allowed me to comprehend. I try to catch Mairi¡¯s eye, hoping for some clue, but she¡¯s too caught up in Iain¡¯s words to notice my questioning gaze.

    A shadow falls across my lap, and I look up to find Rhona standing beside me. Her eyes, usually sharp and commanding, have softened slightly as she takes in my befuddled expression. She settles down next to me with a grace that belies her surroundings, and I suddenly wonder where this girl comes from, what her history is. Before I can give it any thought though, she begins to speak in carefully measured words she knows I¡¯ll understand.

    Her fingers absently trace patterns in the dust on the floor as she explains the younger children¡¯s reluctance. There¡¯s something haunting in the way her voice drops, becoming almost hollow. ¡°Na p¨¤istean ¨´ra,¡± she murmurs, nodding toward the small boy with his downcast eyes, ¡°they still think¡­¡± she struggles to find the words in my limited vocabulary, ¡°¡­that stealing is wrong.¡±

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    A harsh, bitter laugh bursts from her throat, jarring me with its abruptness. The sound carries no mirth, only disbelief mixed with anguish. Her eyes grow distant even as she looks me in the eyes, as if gazing through my eyes into some darker place. ¡°After everything¡­¡± she whispers, her words heavy with meaning that crosses any language divide. There¡¯s more, but I can¡¯t grasp every word. The raw pain in her voice needs no translation though. ¡°Tha e iongantach gu bheil iad fhathast a¡¯ cumail ri riaghailtean agus moraltachd nach tug d¨¬on dhaibh¡­¡±

    I watch as Rhona¡¯s fingers still their restless tracing in the dust, her hand curling into a loose fist. The hollow look in her eyes deepens, and I can tell she¡¯s looking even further beyond the cramped confines of our hideout. Her voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper, each word seeming to cost her something.

    I¡¯m not sure why she¡¯s decided to tell me this, but I¡¯m starting to feel like this is always on her mind, and it needs just the barest hint of a reason to come out.

    ¡°They were¡­¡± she starts, then pauses, searching for simple words I might understand. ¡°In the alleys. Behind the fishmonger¡¯s stalls.¡± Her jaw tightens, and I can see her struggling to maintain her composure. I don¡¯t know who she¡¯s talking about, but I can guess. ¡°Like broken dolls, some of them. No food. No warmth.¡± She gestures toward the boy with the downcast eyes, then to two other children huddled in the corner. ¡°D¨°mhnall there¡­ he was holding his sister¡¯s hand. She was¡­¡± Rhona swallows hard, leaving the sentence unfinished. The pain etched across her face tells me enough about what she found that day.

    Her hand uncurls slowly, fingers splaying against her knee as if reaching for something - or someone - long gone. ¡°They talk about right and wrong,¡± she continues, her voice taking on an edge of bitterness sharp enough to cut diamond, ¡°but where was ¡®right¡¯ when their parents couldn¡¯t feed them? Where was ¡®wrong¡¯ when the guards turned them away?¡± She blinks rapidly, but her gaze remains fixed on something distant, something I can¡¯t see. ¡°Sometimes I think¡­ I think the real wrong was teaching them these rules at all. Rules that only protect the ones who already have everything they need.¡±

    I sit in stunned silence, my throat tight as I process Rhona¡¯s words. I can¡¯t but agree with her words, but¡­ My eyes drift to D¨°mhnall, really seeing him now - he was always more quiet than the others, but no more so than I¡¯d expect. He¡¯s lived through something unimaginable. He¡¯s hunched over his knees, small fingers picking at a loose thread in his worn trousers, and I wonder how I missed the weight he carries.

    Before I can form any response - not that I know what to say to that - a choked sob cuts through the heavy atmosphere.

    The sound draws my attention to a tiny figure I hadn¡¯t properly noticed before - a small girl with wild red hair, probably no more than five or six, who had been partially hidden behind some crates. Her crumpled as tears start streaming down her dirt-streaked cheeks, her small shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. Without thinking, I find myself moving toward her, only to realize Rhona has done the same. We both reach her at the same time, cradling her from either side of her trembling form. Our eyes meet over her head, and I see my own surprise mirrored in Rhona¡¯s expression - this instinctive, simultaneous impulse to comfort the crying girl seems to have caught not just myself, but her off guard too.

    It¡¯s a strangely intimate moment somehow, and I think something shifts in the way Rhona looks at me. A slight loosening of a tension that I could see until it disappeared. The sight stirs something in my chest - a mix of protectiveness and mild indignation.

    Did Rhona really think I could spend weeks here, learning their names, wiping their noses, sharing their meals, and remain untouched? That I could listen to their nighttime terrors and morning laughter without letting that affect me? These children, with their dirty faces and far-too-old eyes, have become more to me than just¡­ just a bunch of orphans living on the street?

    A ghost of a smile appears on my face as I watch the little girl¡¯s hesitate, her small body swaying slightly between us as she tries to decide who she wants to lean into more, before eventually settling on Rhona.

    I lift my gaze to meet Rhona¡¯s, my jaw set with determination. It takes me a while to formulate what I want to say, but the conviction behind them needs no translation. ¡°Cha leig mi dad tachairt dhaibh. Chan e fhad ''s a tha mi an seo.¡± I gesture to encompass all the children, including the little redhead who¡¯s finally settled between us, her sobs reduced to quiet sniffles, but I¡¯m really thinking of D¨°mhnall. The idea just turns my stomach. The promise feels almost reckless given my circumstances in this world¡ªI¡¯m not really in a position to make good on such a thing¡ªbut I know with absolute certainty that I mean every single word.

    Rhona¡¯s response is characteristically guarded - a noncommittal ¡°Chi sinn¡± - but I catch a slight upturn at the corner of her mouth, the way her shoulders tense, then relax just a fraction. Her fingers absently stroke the red-headed girl¡¯s wild curls as she studies my face, perhaps searching for any hint of insincerity. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, at least for now.

    I don¡¯t think it¡¯s trust, not completely, but it feels different from the time we first met. It¡¯s been growing over the past weeks too, as we¡¯ve worked together in our shared task of taking care of these children. But, I¡¯m struck by the notion that she didn¡¯t quite believe that I actually cared. That I was maybe just around because it benefitted me?

    I gaze around at the kids around me, Rhona, absently stroking the little girls¡¯ hair, Calum, who is trying to calm down some of the children while being told by some of the older boys how amazing they¡¯ll do their job, Eilidh, whom is quietly watching everything going on with the gaze of a hawk, Mairi, whom somehow manages to get kids laughing instead of crying by sheer force of will, Iain, whom has paused the explanation of his grand plan to let everyone get used to the idea. All of them, at some point over the past week, have become my family.

    It¡¯s bizarre that I¡¯d say that considering how long I¡¯ve known them, but¡­ they¡¯re -without question- the closest thing I¡¯ve found in this world. I look at little D¨°mhnall, and imagine him sitting silently in the alley behind the fishmonger, holding the cold, waxy hand of a girl that shares his features, and it fills me with fury. Pure, burning rage. This child, that comes to me every morning and gives me one of the few small smiles of his day as I fill his bowl once again, had to go through that.

    I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯m supposed to be angry at some person that did it to him, or at the world itself, but I find that it doesn¡¯t make much of a difference. There¡¯s a deep wrongness to the idea that it could ever happen, and I desire to excise it from reality. The sheer thought should be anathema.

    A small voice tells me that it must have happened in my world too. By the thousands, by the hundreds of thousands, did children die of hunger, in camps, all over the world. But never near me. Never in a place where I felt I had any power to affect the outcome, or was directly impacted by the result. It shames me, but in the end they truly were just statistics to me.

    Rhona must catch that my gaze lingers on D¨°mhnall, because she leans closer and murmurs, ¡°Aon sgeulachd.¡± One story. Her eyes sweep across the room, touching briefly on each child before returning to meet mine. ¡°Tha aon aig a h-uile duine.¡± Everyone has one.

    I feel the blood drain from my face as understanding dawns. Every single child here - from towering Calum to upbeat Mairi, from silent Eilidh to grumpy Iain - has suffered through their own version of such horror. Each one has their own alley, their own moment when the world revealed its utter indifference to their fate.

    The revelation leaves me feeling hollow, as if someone has scooped out my insides with a rusty spoon. I look around the room again, seeing their faces in a new light, and I find my mind rebels against the implications. How many now empty hands were once clasped around smaller, colder ones? How many last breaths were witnessed by these young eyes? The magnitude of it threatens to overwhelm me, and I have to close my eyes for a moment, fighting back the surge of nausea that rises in my throat.

    I think back to the fancy houses in the center of the city, at the bustling market stalls and elegant clothing. The blacksmith¡¯s strong, rounded arms as he worked his hammer, crafting what might have been a tool or perhaps jewelry. It was all like a dream come true, to see a whole medieval world, a whole city like that for real. But- I take in the tiny space these kids live in. That wasn¡¯t the only thing that was real, was it?

    I know this, it interested me to hell and back, but just trying to survive, and later my excitement, meant I didn¡¯t actually think about it. The middle ages sucked massive balls. It was a time when most kids didn¡¯t make it past their fifth birthday. Between malnutrition, infectious diseases, poor sanitation, limited medical knowledge and complications during childbirth, it¡¯s a miracle any survived at all.

    Not for the first time, I wonder if I can¡¯t make a larger difference. Surely, surely there must be something I can do with the knowledge I bring from the future. Just getting these kids clean would do much for their chances of survival. My inability to express myself, and my experiences since coming here, have made me too damn passive.

    In a way, I¡¯ve been luxuriating here. Just enjoying the experience of being with people, with children, that don¡¯t hate me. And¡­ I haven¡¯t done shit for them. No, fuck that thought. I did plenty, and I¡¯m still here, but let¡¯s be real - I¡¯m sitting on a goldmine of future knowledge and I¡¯ve barely tapped it. Not nearly as much as I could have. I tell Rhona that I¡¯ll protect these kids, yet I haven¡¯t taken the most straightforward path available to do so. I may not be able to heal their trauma, but I can damn well make sure they survive long enough to work through it themselves.

    Rhona¡¯s quiet voice breaks into my thoughts. ¡°Carson¡­¡± she begins hesitantly, then pauses, choosing her words carefully. ¡°Why are you so¡­¡± she gestures vaguely with one hand, searching for the right expression. ¡°Different? Others, they see, they¡­¡± she shrugs dismissively, mimicking the indifference she¡¯s encountered. Her eyes lock onto mine, and there¡¯s an intensity there that makes me shift uncomfortably. ¡°But you¡­ you look like you could kill someone.¡± It¡¯s not really a question, more of an observation, but I find myself trying to answer anyway.

    I let out a slow breath, trying to organize the storm of thoughts and emotions that explodes into being as that statement into something coherent. ¡°Yeah,¡± I finally manage, my voice rough. ¡°Because I do.¡± I gesture at the cramped space, at the worn clothes, at the haunted looks in the kids¡¯s eyes. ¡°This¡­ this shouldn¡¯t be. None of this should be.¡± The words come out in a mix of broken mix of her language and frustrated English where words fail me, but I can¡¯t seem to stop them now that they¡¯ve started.

    My hands clench into fists in my lap, and I have to consciously relax them. ¡°There¡¯s enough. Enough food, enough¡­ everything. I know, because I¡¯ve seen it. I¡¯ve walked the streets, and there¡¯s plenty. But some have so much they throw it away, while others¡­¡± I glance at D¨°mhnall again, my throat tightening. ¡°While others hold their sister¡¯s hand as she¡­¡± I can¡¯t finish the sentence, but Rhona¡¯s sharp intake of breath tells me she understands.

    The feeling of wrongness simmering beneath my surface threatens to boil over, and I force myself to take another deep breath to keep my voice steady. ¡°It¡¯s all so¡­ pointless. So needless. Where I come from, in my¡­¡± I search for the right words in her language before settling on, ¡°In my place, we¡¯d solved these problems, we had more, more than enough to feed everyone¡­¡±

    I can¡¯t meet Rhona¡¯s eyes anymore. ¡°I had a¡­ warm home, good food, clean water. I complained when the internet was slow, when my coffee wasn¡¯t perfect, when¡­¡± I shake my head, realizing I¡¯ve switched to English, but I can¡¯t bring myself to care, ¡°But then here, there¡¯s all¡­ this! I knew this happened, but it was just history, just statistics to me.¡± The last words come out as barely more than a whisper.

    On some level there¡¯s still that voice telling me that my world wasn¡¯t as perfect as I make it out to be. Even in my country, children were still abused, driven from their homes, and hurt in a thousand other different ways. But it never felt as systemic as this. I know it wasn¡¯t as systemic as this since we¡¯ve had roughly a thousand years to grow out of it, and it still felt bad!

    Then of course there¡¯s the ones that were left behind, the third world, war-torn countries where things were a hundred times worse, but that never felt like my world. Besides, this country doesn¡¯t have any such excuse, I¡¯m fairly certain I¡¯d have heard of war if it was on my fucking doorstep.

    The little redhead in Rhona¡¯s lap begins to squirm, no longer content to be still during my heavy monologue.

    I force myself to unclench my hands, notice tiny crescents of blood well up where my nails broke the skin. Getting worked up like this isn¡¯t helping anyone. These kids don¡¯t need my guilt or my rage - they need help, practical help that keeps them from getting killed. I take a deep breath, trying to ground myself in the present moment: the musty smell of our hideout, the distant sound of cart wheels on cobblestones, the way the afternoon light reflects off the cracked wooden walls of the surrounding buildings.

    Suddenly the storm of energy that is Mairi bounces into our little group, grabbing the little red haired girl out of Rhona¡¯s lap and launching her up into the sky, eliciting a surprised squeal of laughter from her, and a choked noise from Rhona. As she catches the girl she notices the serious expression on mine and Rhona¡¯s face, and scowls.

    ¡°Nobody died yet, so get going already!¡±, she turns away, bringing the girl with her. ¡°You made little Aileen miss all of Iain¡¯s explanation!¡±

    I whirl to face the other children, and indeed, Iain must have continued explaining the plan while I was ranting at Rhona. Mairi has been here for a grand total of three seconds but is already back next to the other kids, putting Aileen down, and gently placing Aileens hand in the one of the girl beside her, telling them both to be brave.

    I glance at Rhona with some embarrassment, and she returns with a bemused expression, but there¡¯s relief there too. ¡°That¡¯s Mairi,¡± she half shrugs. She extends her hand to me - something she¡¯s never done before. I take it, feeling slightly odd about it, but also thankful.

    She guides me back to the other children with no further word about our earlier conversation.

 Adopted Trust

    When we return to Iain, we get a very summarized overview of what is going to happen. There¡¯s be five groups, each led by one of the older kids, and one by me.

    We¡¯ll travel to the market together, but once there, we¡¯ll split up to avoid too much attention. Honestly, I struggle to imagine how a group of 5 children without any adults nearby will not attract attention, but maybe things are different here? I suppose the old ones give it some kind of elder brother/sister effect?

    I¡¯m in a group with Mairi, two younger children, and the red haired girl that I and Rhona rushed to comfort earlier. She¡¯s calmed down somewhat by now, even if she does still looks quite unhappy about what we¡¯re going to do. She furtively checks around her, as if hoping to see all preparations suddenly broken off because someone thought better of the whole idea.

    No situation like that materializes though, and eventually everyone seems ready to depart.

    Before we leave, Rhona calls Iain, Eilidh, Calum and me over to have one more conversation. ¡°You bring them back you hear me?¡± she says as she narrows her eyes at all of us in turn. I, and three other heads around me bob in unison. None of us have plans for anything less, but Rhona clearly isn¡¯t satisfied. She pulls Calum and Eilidh towards herself, then nearly whispers so that nobody but us can hear it ¡°At any cost. Am I clear?¡±

    Iain looks like he wants to say something to that, but Rhona apparently knows what to expect, as she cuts him off with a glance. ¡°We are not losing anyone else!¡± she practically spits. I see Iain barely stop himself from rolling his eyes, but he drops whatever was on his mind.

    Eilidh looks down for a moment, seemingly staring at her shoes, but shooting glances at where I know she has a pair of daggers hidden beneath her ragged clothes. She clenches her fists, but then looks back into Rhona¡¯s eyes and nods sharply. Calum just smiles nonchalantly and waves a sloppy salute. Unlike Iain, Rhona does absolutely nothing to suppress her immediate eye roll, but is apparently satisfied.

    She looks at me with a more gentle expression, ¡°If there is trouble, call out for Calum or Eilidh.¡± I nod again. I have zero confidence in my own ability to handle anything more than basic issues at this point in time.

    Rhona dismisses us and we all quickly walk back to our respective groups.

    The implications of this conversation were a lot larger than I expected. What exactly are they planning to do if one of these kids gets caught? What has happened to caught kids in the past that provokes such extreme measures? I¡¯m fairly certain that was Rhona saying something to the tune of ¡°Kill the fuckers if you have to, but make sure my kids are safe.¡±

    When I get back, Mairi seems excited to get going, bouncing on the balls of her feet. She¡¯s regaling the two boys and girl with her grand plans for today. ¡°You see, there¡¯s this store, and I¡¯m sure, if we just¡­ it¡¯s simple! It¡¯s all shiny, and probably worth a lot!¡­ The back door¡­ There¡¯s barely any guards there!¡± there¡¯s a lot said in her rapid speech, but I think she¡¯s proposing they liberate a bunch of jewelry? From what little I can grasp, it isn¡¯t even a bad plan. Certainly better than I¡¯d expect from an 8 year old. It still sounds like an absolutely terrible idea, especially after what Rhona just told us.

    Mairi doing it herself? Bad idea. Her trying to do it with a bunch of younger kids with zero experience? If I didn¡¯t know better I¡¯d say she were trying to get them killed.

    I raise my hand, to try and interrupt Mairi, but before I can do so, an angry voice interjects sharply, ¡°Mairi, no! No shiny stuff!¡± I realize that Rhona has followed me, and has been listening to Mairi too. Mairi jerks her gaze to Rhona guiltily, and her face drops. Apparently Rhona knows the little girl well enough to expect this kind of thing? She expands on her previous statement ¡°You will stick with food!¡±

    Mairi is clearly unwilling, ¡°But¡­¡± Apparently she sees something in Rhona¡¯s gaze, because her eyes widen momentarily and she doesn¡¯t continue whatever she was about to say. ¡°Okay¡± she instead agrees immediately.

    Rhona taps me on the shoulder, and motions at Mairi ¡°That¡¯s your task.¡± Somehow I do not feel it¡¯s an easy one. The moment Rhona¡¯s attention left her, Mairi has jumped back into convincing the others that watermelons, though clearly too big for any of the children to carry with any confidence, would make a very tempting target.

    I¡¯m not sure if I should be happy that the girl turns her attention to petty thievery with this group instead of more¡­ well, lucrative, opportunities, because this city would be in for a great deal of pain if she were to combine that talent and enthusiasm she has for her occupation with that natural presence, and grew up into something far worse.

    I¡¯m momentarily reminded of Locke, and wonder if that¡¯s what the future holds for Mairi.

    Rhona probably realizes this too, and if I understand her thinking correctly, that¡¯s why she limits what Mairi is allowed to do. It could be really good for them, but if she got caught? I imagine people care a great deal less about the relatively abundant food being stolen than the expensive jewelry Mairi intended to take. And how would they get rid of it? Maybe the older kids or Mairi herself have connections that would let them do that?

    Anyway, my task is to stop her from doing it, and that¡¯s one I actually feel confident in accomplishing. She may be impulsive, but Mairi is definitely not stupid.

    We leave together, and while we¡¯re moving as one group, it¡¯s not as bad as I expected. The one group is mostly a reference to us all having one of the others in our sight at any other time, but it¡¯s more of a careful weaving through the city than a whole throng of kids marching to the market.

    It¡¯s actually impressive how well this crowd of children blends in. When one of them looks a bit conspicuously alone, someone else steps in front to take the attention. When one of the little ones falls behind, there¡¯s always one of the older children there to help. They move through the city like a well oiled machine, and I wonder if they don¡¯t practice for this kind of thing despite Rhona¡¯s claims that she doesn¡¯t involve the younger kids.

    Of course, it¡¯s always possible they¡¯re just used to this because they¡¯ve been doing it since way before they came to be part of Rhona¡¯s bunch. That¡¯s not a happy thought, and I don¡¯t dwell on it further.

    Having spent several weeks in their little hideout makes me happy to be back out in the city. It¡¯s not like that time was miserable, it was quite nice, but there¡¯s something to be said for being amongst the people. Unlike the kids, I don¡¯t really have to be worried that I¡¯ll be accosted. As long as the stupid scarf stays in place anyway. Who knows whether people will decide to run or fight if I suddenly appear in the market out of nowhere.

    Knowing what I know now, I guess it would be flight? Or maybe they¡¯d fight if it was the middle of the market and they suspect a massive slaughter or something? Some day I really need to find out why these ¡®scouts¡¯ are so feared. It¡¯s never been a term that I associated with someone terribly competent at fighting.

    I¡¯m especially impressed by Mairi. She¡¯s everywhere at the same time, guiding a child one moment. Eyeing the goods laid out in a stall the next. Some of the people she passes by on the street actually seem to know her, and their reactions range from nervous, to apprehensive, to jovial greetings.

    Calum appears from somewhere, and taps me on the shoulder, a smirk on his face as he nods at Mairi. ¡°As you can see, there¡¯s another reason we paired you with her.¡± I¡¯m not sure what exactly he means, but I can guess. ¡°You just watch, and learn,¡± he adds. Jup, there it is. I¡¯m forced to concur. Mairi does things that I¡¯m absolutely incapable of doing.

    It¡¯s a bit bizarre really. I¡¯ve had this feeling before when watching children contort themselves in the weirdest ways to climb some playground tower or something, backwards, with a single hand, for reasons only known to them. Looking at Mairi feels something like that. I can¡¯t imagine myself ever doing something like it, but I¡¯m impressed by the ability to do so.

    At long last, we finally reach the market. It¡¯s actually been only like 10 minutes walk, but it felt like a long time. Surprisingly enough, we¡¯re in the outer city. I¡¯d kind of expected the market they were talking about to be in the rich area, but maybe that¡¯s too hot of a location to try stealing?

    The market itself consists of a fairly large square filled with several rows of stalls. I¡¯d sort of imagined it as a mishmash of all kinds of stands crammed together every which way, but it¡¯s actually fairly well-organized. That¡¯s not counting the large crowd of people dispersed through the market, making it hard to navigate without constantly bumping into people.

    The five groups have now fully dispersed, and we¡¯ve banded together in our little group. It¡¯s just me, Mairi, the red-haired girl, and two energetic boys aged six and seven. ¡°Just let me distract them,¡± Mairy whispers to us all, "then when you have a chance, you grab the stuff and disappear!¡± She motions somewhere at the edge of the market, ¡°After you deliver it to grumpy Iain¡±¡ªthis elicits a small laugh from the two boys, at which I can¡¯t help but smile¡ª¡°come straight back!¡±

    I guess Iain is somewhere back there gathering everything up? It feels like it might be a bit dangerous gathering it all in one location, but I guess it works for them. Not really the time to run off and ask clarification now, though I should ask about that later.

    Both of the boys nod seriously, clearly anticipating their heroic exploits. The red-haired girl is still hesitant though. Mairi bends down in front of her, so that their eyes are at the same level, then she turns the girl to look at a nearby stall with cheeses. ¡°See that small round one in the red cloth right at the edge?¡±, the girl hesitantly raises her hand to point, but Mairi stops it and softly says ¡°No pointing, they¡¯d notice us in a second.¡± I¡¯m surprised she¡¯s even seen the cheese she¡¯s talking about, as she has had her back to the stall the whole time we¡¯ve been here.

    The girl glances between Mairi¡¯s eyes, and the round cheese on the stall, and hesitantly nods. Mairi¡¯s voice is surprisingly gentle when she tells the girl ¡°That¡¯s your target for today. It doesn¡¯t matter how long it takes, just take it when you are ready.¡± It¡¯s clear she¡¯s not entirely convinced yet, but Mairi ruffles her hair as she stands up ¡°Just do your best, it¡¯ll be fine.¡± For a moment, I¡¯m worried she¡¯ll reject it, but then I see the girl glance at the two boys, Mairi, and finally me for reassurance. Before I know it, I¡¯ve given her the small nod that she¡¯s clearly seeking. Thus reassured, she visibly firms her small frame, and locks her eyes on her target.

    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    My mind is a bit of a conflicted mess though. I might have happily eaten the stolen goods before, and stolen myself, but those are apparently different to telling a 6 year old girl that it¡¯s fine to steal. Part of me thinks I¡¯m being ridiculous. You only need one look at the girl, then the fat merchant behind the stall to see who needs the cheese more¡ªthe act could nearly be considered noble, since she¡¯s stealing it to feed others. The other part feels that I¡¯m sliding deeper and deeper into a hole that I¡¯m not sure I can ever dig myself out of. In a pattern that is becoming familiar, I¡¯m not so much disturbed by the act itself, as the easy with which I take to it.

    What causes that? Steal, check. Loot the bodies, check. Killed a man, check. Take a sword to an angry woman, check. I blame computer games, but was this always who I was? Am I just a victim of circumstance and is this something anyone would do in my situation?

    Seeing the children around me preparing to do as much would lead me to conclude the latter, but it still feels off.

    Mairi doesn¡¯t wait for me to finish my ruminations, and instead darts off to do her thing. The way she weaves between the stalls, variously making the vendors nervous, or getting enthusiastically greeted, makes me feel like this is not her first time visiting this market. It does makes me question what it is those nervous vendors are afraid of. It hardly seems like she can have a reputation for stealing and still walk around like this.

    Her circuitous route takes her past a variety of stalls on her way to the cheese seller, making it seem as if she¡¯s just browsing, which looks kind of odd to me for an 8 year old, but somehow she makes it seem natural. When I consider it, I notice there¡¯s more children out on the market, and some of them seem to be on some variety of chores, lugging bags or sacks around. I suppose children didn¡¯t get to spend their whole childhood just playing in this era.

    Then the moment comes when she reaches the stall of her target, I realize I haven¡¯t moved from my location at all, and that the other kids have slipped away while I was following Mairi with my gaze. From the corner of my vision, knowing what I need to look for, I see them sneaking sideways through the crowd. The boys going the opposite side from the girl, and with a lot more confidence, pretending to be chasing each other, or actually chasing each other. Either way it looks natural. The girl in contrast looks extremely timid, but in the market with so many kids going about their chores, she still stands out as very young, so I suppose that might look natural too. If she were supposed to buy something from the man instead of steal it anyway.

    When Mairi reaches the stall, she is immediately greeted enthusiastically. Apparently this is one of the merchants that know and like Mairi. She launches into an dramatic spiel about having run out of cheese midway through the week, and having to make do with the scraps from last week until she could manage to visit him again.

    I can¡¯t imagine he buys that for a second considering the clothes she¡¯s wearing. There is no way that Mairi is able to buy cheese when she doesn¡¯t even have the money to buy clean clothes. But¡­ is that true here? There¡¯s an awful lot of farms out there with animals producing dairy, and mountains of space to store ripening cheese in. So maybe it¡¯s not nearly as expensive as it was in my era? Relative to clothes anyway. Of course if Mairi doesn¡¯t buy fancy designer clothes, a clean t-shirt was about as expensive as a pound of cheese.

    The thought of the girl in the ratty tunic with outfitted in jeans and t-shirt brings a smile to my face. And then I notice that the cheese in the red cloth at the side of the stall is gone! I momentarily swing my gaze about trying to locate the little girl, before realizing that is probably a terrible idea. Hopefully she¡¯s making her way to Iain now.

    I keep my out for any disturbances, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, and the merchant seems none the wiser. Mairi is making a huge show out of finding a new cheese to buy, and I wonder whether she actually bought a cheese last week. It would certainly make the story more believable. But where would she¡­ and then I remember her talking about stealing shinies, and I wonder if she truly sticks with just food. Maybe Rhona doesn¡¯t care, or pretends not to notice when there¡¯s no other children involved?

    This time I¡¯m paying attention, and when Mairi reaches the side of the stall opposite where the boys are still waiting, apparently having a fight in the dirt, she appears to finally select a block of cheese, and starts haggling with the merchant about it. He grins, and¡ªas all good merchants do¡ªlaunches into a spiel about having to feed all of his seven children. The moment he does, the fight stops, and two smaller pieces of cheese disappear, after which the boys are off again, chasing each other into the crowd. I¡¯m amazed at all the people around not having noticed anything. Apparently completely oblivious to the existence of the children.

    Eventually, after what seems like much longer than I thought they would go on for, Mairi sighs, and pulls out two of the square copper coins. My eyes boggle at the absurdly low price of the cheese. That¡¯s a pound! More even. I realize I stayed at an inn and paid just three for the privilege of staying and eating breakfast, but¡­ is there actually a smaller denomination of coin? It seems to me bread should be cheaper than cheese, and you can hardly pay less than a single coin. Do they just increase the portion sizes to make it work?

    I shake my head, and find the merchant looking at Mairi with a knowing smirk, while Mairi is staring at me with wide eyes, clearly completely thrown off her game for a moment. I have no idea what¡¯s going on until she seems to recover, turns back to the merchant, and says ¡°Oh, yeah, that¡¯s my mother.¡±

    It¡¯s my turn to stare. I suppose that would work age wise, and that I haven¡¯t been all that inconspicuously following everything she was doing for a while now. Mairi whispers something to the merchant that I can¡¯t catch, which causes a short burst of mirth on his part, and she motions me over.

    Not knowing what else to do, I comply. Better follow her lead for now. This isn¡¯t my strong suit, I was always the one making things happen, not the one that talked to the suits.

    When I reach Mairi¡¯s side, the merchant looks me up and down, ¡°It¡¯s nice to finally meet little Mairi¡¯s mother, I was beginning to think she didn¡¯t have one.¡± I smile a bit awkwardly, that¡¯s closer to the truth than he probably expects. I haltingly reply ¡°Tha M¨¤iri gl¨¨ neo-eisimeileach.¡±

    Mairi scoffs, ¡°Ha! You just don¡¯t want to go to the market yourself.¡± I¡¯m momentarily speechless again, and the merchant barks out a laugh. ¡°Quite a mouth on this one eh?¡± I shrug helplessly, beginning to enjoy this game, as long as it¡¯s going to follow this standard introductory stuff, I might as well. ¡°I don¡¯t know what do do.¡±

    ¡°Well, she selected a most fine cheese if I say so myself. Not many have¡­ something for cheese.¡± That last bit escaped me, never having heard a similar term from the children. Mairi has the decency to look embarrassed at the praise, or maybe she¡¯s just pretending, it¡¯s impossible to tell. She mutters half under her breath, but loud enough for both me and the merchant to hear it ¡°I just like cheese is all¡­¡±

    I chuckle, I haven¡¯t seen any sign of that in the past few weeks, but who knows what¡¯s true. It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve been paying careful attention to her eating habits.

    Some other person comes up to the stall, and the merchant excuses himself to go tend to a new customer. Mairi, not falling out of her role, presents the cheese to me with a beaming smile, ¡°Look what I got!¡±

    I smile back at her, and tell her to keep hold of that for now. Mostly because I don¡¯t want to lug a half pound cheese around, but partially because she seems to want to.

    As we start making our way away from the stall, we suddenly find ourselves surrounded by a host of other men and women, some of them apparently having left their stalls to confront us. No, not us. Nobody is sparing Mairi a glance, they¡¯re all looking at me. What have I done wrong? I check my scarf, but it¡¯s still firmly in place. There is no way they can see my hair. Then what¡­?

    An answer is not long in presenting itself though ¡°So. You are the mother of this little menace?¡± an old woman with a pinched face speaks to me through gritted teeth. Oh. I guess that came back to bit us in the ass? It¡¯s odd to realize that I¡¯m actually feeling relieved. It just feels like a situation that¡¯s within my ability to deal with.

    I look down at Mairi questioningly, whom seems to shrink into herself, and for some reason the sight makes my blood boil. Where is the confident little girl that just bought a cheese for me? I have no doubt she¡¯d have handled this perfectly fine if I weren¡¯t here. The merchants didn¡¯t even approach until we pulled out little stunt. Is this one of those dark things that I don¡¯t know about in Mairi¡¯s past?

    I glare at the woman facing us, and practically spit ¡°Yes, and what of it?!¡± The woman is momentarily taken aback at my reaction, clearly not having expected that. She quickly recovers and launches into a long tirade about all of Mairi¡¯s wrongdoings over the years. Some of the others around occasionally interject or agree, but I¡¯m frankly just not really listening to it.

    Instead my attention is purely on Mairi, whom clearly expected something entirely different to happen. When I tore into the woman instead, she pressed herself against me, trembling, and clutching my dress with white-knuckled hands.

    I just, I¡¯ve never had children, can¡¯t rightly say whether this feeling is normal, but¡­ Whatever this woman is saying, it¡¯s clear to me that it¡¯s way out of proportion to anything Mairi could have done to her. I could¡­ reprimand Mairi, and the lady would probably just go away. But that feels¡­ disgusting in a way that I could never forgive myself for. Like it¡¯s so fundamentally wrong that anything I¡¯ve done so far pales in comparison.

    So I do the only thing one can do in such a situation, I channel my inner Karen, and¡­ well, I¡¯m not sure exactly what I say, but it would make any suburban soccer mom proud. I¡¯m not proud to say¡­ well, fuck that, I enjoy the hell out of it. The way the lady is just getting steadily more uncertain, and the way that Mairi is giving me this incredulous look that tells me she never expected anyone¡ªbesides Rhona maybe¡ªto get so viciously angry on her behalf. It feels good. It¡¯s one of the few times since I came to this world, when I know, just know, that I¡¯m doing something unequivocally right.

    All the complainants eventually give up and leave, deciding it¡¯s not worth their time. Mairi is still clutching me, no longer trembling but still sobbing a little. I embrace her, and just hold her for a bit, not knowing what else to do. Maybe if I were an actual parent I¡¯d have some idea of what to do now? Or maybe if I were Mairi wouldn¡¯t have to go through this in the first place. I find myself detesting whoever Mairi¡¯s actual parents were. I don¡¯t know what they did, but¡­

    Finally, Mairi pulls back a bit, looks at me, wipes the snot off her face, then seems to consider what to say, ¡°That was¡­¡± but she doesn¡¯t finish the sentence, instead shaking the remaining tears out of her eyes. ¡°Lets just go, mom?¡± There¡¯s the hint of a question in that last word, one that carries a lot more weight than the words would imply. She¡¯s not just continuing her charade her.

    I could correct her, and tell her it was just pretend, that I¡¯m not really her mother, and that the pretend is now over. But after all that just happened? I can¡¯t deny her this. It¡¯s just not possible. I smile at her, and pat her head. She might be a masterful thief, but in these situation it¡¯s clear that she¡¯s also very much an 8 year old child that misses her mother. I¡¯m not sure if just the fact that an adult is around brings it out, or that I just pretended to be, or maybe specifically that I defended her just now. The reasons don¡¯t really matter. I peel her hand of my skirt, grasp it in mine and say ¡°Lets go home.¡±

    As we make our way out of the market, Mairi is walking confidently again, occasionally waving at the merchants she seems to know, whom wave back, but are obviously confused by my presence. It¡¯s hard not to notice that she hasn¡¯t let go her death grip on my hand.

    Eventually, Mairi takes the lead, and drags me to where Iain is waiting. I realize that I had no idea where he actually was, and am happy that Mairi recovered enough to do so.

    There¡¯s actually a fairly large haul there, and I¡¯m happy that the place they decided to gather is nearly as sheltered as their actual hideout.

    Eilidh is keeping watch, and gives Mairi a quizzical look when she sees her hand in mine, but Mairi just look confidently back. When Rhona notices, there¡¯s a slight narrowing of her eyes, but it disappears almost as quickly as it appeared, and I find myself wondering if I imagined it. Regardless, it¡¯s clear Mairi is proclaiming something here, but I¡¯m not sure what.

    Whatever, it won¡¯t change my implicit promise to her, or my explicit one to Rhona. I¡¯m not just going to disappear on either of them.

 A Mothers Touch

    After everyone returns¡ªwhich doesn¡¯t take all that long, as we¡¯re nearly the last to arrive¡ªthe group departs back to the hideout. This time we¡¯re much more spread out than before, as this group of kids lugging their haul would be extremely hard to make inconspicuous.

    It¡¯s easier for the older kids, who can just pretend they are where they¡¯re supposed to be. Even if they look a bit ratty, that¡¯s hardly exceptional in this era. Cleanliness is the domain of true nobility. Or whatever it is here, I still haven¡¯t found anything like the castle for the city lord I expect.

    Mairi did eventually let go of my hand, point apparently made. But has refused to leave my side, which works out well enough, as together we do look quite like a poor family returning from the market. I¡¯m fairly certain the way Mairi proudly holds her cheese¡ªlike it¡¯s the best treat she¡¯s had in weeks¡ªsells that impression pretty well too. I still can¡¯t make out if she truly likes cheese that much, or if she¡¯s just making a joke at my expense.

    When we return to the hideout, there¡¯s a bunch of people already there. Mairi goes off to drop off her cheese wherever they keep these things, then runs off to enthusiastically talk to one of the boys that were with us. This honestly kind of relieves me, since I was starting to wonder how long she¡¯d keep the pretend mother thing up.

    However, the moment Mairi is gone, Rhona appears out of nowhere. If looks could kill, I¡¯d combust on the spot. As it is, I feel decidedly like a mouse staring into the maw of a grizzly. ¡°We have to talk,¡± she practically hisses at me. Then grabs me by the arm, and drags me out of the entrance and into some side alley, where we are alone.

    As soon as we are, Rhona whirls on me ¡°What the hell do you think you are doing?!¡± I raise my hands in defense, as if they could somehow ward off her killing glare, I fumble my words in the face of her animosity. It¡¯s not hard to deduce what she¡¯s so upset about, ¡°Someone saw us. We had to pretend. Or well, at first.¡± Thankfully, with those words, her million degree expression softens by a few degrees. There¡¯s a chance of talking this through.

    ¡°That is no excuse,¡± she clenches and unclenches her hands, as if not sure what to do with them. As if she very much wants to hit something, someone, me. ¡°That¡¯s, you can¡¯t do that,¡± she chokes out, her voice lowers to a hiss ¡°Do you¡­ do you know what that child went through?!¡± The frustrated helplessness in her voice is clear, but so is the anger. I can¡¯t do anything but shake my head. I have no idea what Mairi went through. ¡°Rhona, she was so happy. What was I supposed to do?¡±

    Rhona¡¯s eyes narrow at my words, then she deflates like a punctured balloon. ¡°Yeah, yeah, she would be.¡± Her voice drops down to a whisper ¡°Her mother, she¡­¡± then she inhales, and glances at me, apparently debating whether she should tell me this.

    Eventually, she continues, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the crumbling walls. ¡°Mairi¡­¡± she starts, then stops, swallowing hard. ¡°Her mother would¡­¡± the final words register, but my mind has issues retaining the knowledge of them. Her fingers clench into fists in her lap, knuckles white with rage. ¡°The father just watched, sometimes even helped arrange it.¡± She pauses for a moment, breathing heavily, ¡°She was six when I found her. Sitting alone, wrapped in a bloody sheet,¡± her voice is almost inaudible now, as if she¡¯s trying force the words out.

    For a moment, my mind goes completely blank. Static fills my ears. I taste blood in my mouth, and see Rhona¡¯s mouth move very, very slowly, whatever she is saying inaudible to my ears. Mairi¡­ I see nothing but the shining eyes of the giddy girl as she proudly holds up her prize cheese. The triumph in her eyes as she shows everyone her hand in mine takes on an entirely new meaning. Why me?

    I try to stop myself from imagining anything else, but it¡¯s pointless. I was never good at that. The bad, the weird, and the disturbing ideas come whether I want them to or not. This is no different. I try to focus on anything else, on counting sheep, on reciting all the square roots up to a hundred, on¡­ but the images come, and as they do rage like I¡¯ve never known before comes bubbling out of my core.

    To some extend it¡¯s surprising to find how much I want to just¡­ end the people in my imagination. They¡¯re not even real, but¡­ similar people exist, even if the details are wrong.

    The juice that was resting throughout my body is agitated, flashing, jumping every which way, as if looking for a way out. The mental body that I thought was perfectly overlayed on my real one is¡­ vague, the boundaries shivering, as if under some great strain. It¡¯s hard to focus. My mind is hazy, but I¡¯m certain that if something isn¡¯t done, those boundaries will fail. Something tells me that that would be a very bad thing for my meatsack, and everything in the vicinity.

    Even so, I feel tempted to just let it go. It would finally be over, this nightmare that I¡¯ve landed in. I wouldn¡¯t have to, deal with this, this madness, any more. How long is this world going to fuck with me, with the people around me¡­? I can¡¯t shake the feeling that all this is happening because of me. If I were just gone, maybe everything would be alright?

    The realization of what I¡¯m thinking hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I forcibly quell the bizarre impulse. Or maybe it¡¯s more that the realization jerks me out of that strange trance. What the hell was that? Rhona is still moving as through molasses, but at least I seem to have my mind back. This is nothing like my normal juice mode. The rest of the world might as well be frozen. I try to move my own head, but it¡¯s similarly frozen.

    Part of me wonders at the magnitude of the effect. How much has time slowed down? Ten times, a hundred? Hundreds? Then I remember what caused it, and the memory of Mairi somehow makes the world come crashing back at full speed.

    ¡°We¡­ when we found her she was unresponsive. Didn¡¯t say a word for months.¡± Rhona grabs me by the shoulders, which makes me realize she¡¯s nearly my height already. ¡°We had to ask around to find out what happened.¡± she glances quickly in the direction of the camp, at where I imagine Mairi regaling the boys with her cheese nabbing story. ¡°Of course, now she speaks enough for ten, but¡­¡±

    She pins me with her gaze ¡°She doesn¡¯t let anyone except the little ones touch her, not even me.¡± her voice conveys how incredulous she is. ¡°But you¡­¡± her gaze rest meaningfully on my hand. She shakes her head jerkily, as if to shake loose a thought trapped within. Her voice is not quite hostile any more, but has an undertone of personal sadness ¡°What¡­ did¡­ you¡­ do?¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

    So I tell her. How the merchant took me for her mother, how we played that game. How all those people came up to us, and how I tore them a new asshole. How Mairi wouldn¡¯t let go afterwards. At the end of it all Rhona is leaning against one side of the alley, while I rest against the wall opposite. All her anger is gone, and in it¡¯s place is a kind of wonder.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe it,¡± she says, ¡°All that time, and¡­¡± I shrug helplessly. Not like I chose for this to happen. I didn¡¯t know anything about what I was doing, or Mairi¡¯s history. I can¡¯t say it would have changed anything though.

    ¡°We¡¯ll just have to make the best of it.¡± Rhona says as she lets out a weary sigh. Then she slowly looks at me again, and something in her gaze freezes me in place, abandoning my attempt to rise. Her expression is completely flat, emotionless, her voice is filled with a sorrow beyond words, ¡°But if you hurt her with this, after everything that already happened to her,¡± she pauses for a breath, ¡°I swear to you, there won¡¯t be a place in this world where I won¡¯t find you. And I will tear your spirit from your body and feed it to the fomor!¡±

    I feel a shiver down my spine, and I have zero doubt that she can make good on that promise. Well, the intent, if not the literal meaning. Something in the way she delivers it tells me she¡¯s speaking from experience. I¡¯m suddenly aware that she never told me what happened to Mairi¡¯s parents, and¡ªlooking into those frozen eyes¡ªI¡¯m somehow relieved. I don¡¯t feel like I have to wonder whether justice was served.

    This whole thing has been surreal, but feeling happy that some people died a painful death is more so. There¡¯s zero regret either. No matter how fucked your life is, there¡¯s things you just don¡¯t do. As a human being you intrinsically know them to be wrong, so people that do them anyway? Well, fuck them.

    The dark murderous Rhona is gone nearly as soon as she appeared, and she seamlessly reverts into her usual persona as the caretaker of these children. I wonder which one is the real one? Maybe they both are? She stands up, and offers me her hand as her face splits in a wry smile. The juxtaposition in the way she seems to switch between these personalities scares me a bit, but¡­ I look at Rhona. I think of her as this mother figure, but they¡¯re all damaged, including her.

    As much as is wrong with her though, there is also so much right. I can¡¯t help but admire her when I compare us. What have I ever really done in life? Made a bunch of rich guys even richer? What kind of pointless impact has that had on the world? Meanwhile Rhona¡­ well, she¡¯s kinda like Batman. She saves the children and punishes the evildoers. She¡¯s like a fucking hero, and she¡¯s only 16 years old.

    ¡°Honestly, thanks.¡± she says, at the same time I say ¡°You know you¡­¡± I trail off, as I realize what she just said, and I can¡¯t help but feel a slight flush creep up my cheeks. I know she has a good reason for that, and I don¡¯t exactly need her validation, but it still makes me happy. I finish my own words, feeling a need to rapidly reciprocate the gesture. ¡°You know you are amazing right.¡±

    I¡¯m unable to contain a smile when this causes her to look down and shuffle her feet. Maybe she doesn¡¯t get all that many compliments as the leader of a band of little brats? I finally grasp her outstretched hand, and she pulls me me up, after which we walk back to the camp.

    When we turn the corner, and see the now completed band all together, listening to Iain relate to them the full extent of the haul. I look around for Mairi, but at the same time, can¡¯t help but expand on my earlier statement ¡°I can¡¯t¡­ I can¡¯t do this.¡± I motion at the whole thing, everyone together around the fire, the hideout. ¡°But you,¡± I look her in the eyes, not sure what I¡¯m looking for, "you just did.¡± It¡¯s been just a single morning, but it feels like a whole month has passed.

    She clearly schools her features to contain the reaction this time. Clearly unused to this. Well, not like I¡¯m a master at receiving compliments. Just need to say ¡°thank you¡± and move on.

    Calum is facing the entrance, and suppresses a snicker. I look at him, wondering what that could be about, when Rhona suddenly snatches her hand out of mine. Oh. I smirk, and glance over at Rhona, who is unsuccessfully attempting to hide how her face is turning into a tomato.

    God, they really are still kids. Calum looks like he¡¯s never going to let her hear the end of this. A glance around shows me that while most of the younger kids and Iain are still distracted, Eilidh, who is standing guard at the entrance, has an extremely self-satisfied look on her face when she looks at Rhona. I can only guess what¡¯s going on there. Mairi is¡­ I take an involuntary step back as Mairi¡¯s small body collides with mine. She tries to wrap her arms around my waist, while she sticks her tongue out at Rhona ¡°Mine!¡±

    Mairi. I¡¯m momentarily unsure what to do, now burdened with the uncomfortable knowledge of what happened to her. Mairi picks up on the change immediately, there is a slight stiffening of her limbs before I turn my brain off and just sink down on my knees to hug her. I can¡¯t contain the tears, and in my peripheral vision I see the others put two and two together. At least the older ones know what Rhona does. Mairi seems surprised by my sudden vehemence, but not unhappy. ¡°Yours,¡± I murmur into her neck. I want to say something more, but I can¡¯t think of anything that would convey enough of my feelings.

    Mairi doesn¡¯t care, and just leans into me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I¡¯m not sure how long we¡¯re like that. I find myself unwilling to let go, but eventually my legs start to cramp, and I lift her up. She¡¯s¡­ well, certainly not light, but not as heavy as I¡¯d expected.

    Eventually we both start paying attention to what Iain is actually saying. Or well, maybe Mairi already was, but me? Anyhow, from the little I can pick up before Iain finishes listing everything taken, it seems to have been a shocking success.

    Right as his oration ends, I notice Rhona looking at us. I feel like there is a profound regret, and not a little bit of envy in her gaze, but also a large dose of relief. I wonder if I¡¯m just making things up. How could I possibly pick that up just from the way someone is looking at me?

    With the stress over food released, we¡¯re all in the mood to enjoy ourselves, so we do, and the rest of the day is some kind of party. Mairi grew fidgety long before I became tired of holding her, apparently having had her fill of lounging around in my arms. I¡¯m starting to believe there was more than a hint of truth to her appreciation of cheese, as she keeps lugging the thing around to show to everyone, though after repeatedly taking and sharing slices only half of it is left by the end of the day.

    Exhausted, but eminently satisfied, we all settle down to sleep. A moment after I lie down in my usual spot, a small weight settles against my side, and I glance down to find Mairi has pressed herself against me, her wild hair tickling my arm. She¡¯s warm, almost feverishly so, and I can feel the slight tremor in her body that speaks of exhaustion finally catching up to her boundless energy.

    My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I have to blink back a sudden wetness in my eyes. I fear wells up from deep within me. I¡¯m going to fuck this up aren¡¯t I? How can I possibly live up to the expectations? A small voice in the back of my mind tells me that I can¡¯t possibly do any worse than the last wretch that called herself her mother, but comparing myself with that creature feels like I¡¯m diminishing myself somehow.

    Fuck, I¡¯m so not ready for children. Sure, I was taking care of them, but I guess somewhere I still felt like they were Rhona¡¯s responsibility. How sad is that? I said I was going to help them, and it should be my responsibility to make it happen.

    I look down at Mairi¡¯s tangled mess of hair, and absently stroke it, the girl having fallen asleep while all that went through my mind. Not a minute later, I join her in a deep slumber.

 Learning with Consequences

    I wake up several times during the night, Mairi having apparently decided that lying sideways on the mat is a great idea. It¡¯s a miracle that her head manages to always be on the mat, but her arms and legs drag through the dirt on either side. After correcting her position twice, I give up, and just let her lie however she pleases, opting to just lie down wherever she leaves space. There¡¯s not an awful lot of that, but my legs will survive a day in the dirt.

    This doesn¡¯t seem to help much though, as she keeps wriggling her way towards me to clamp onto me again. It¡¯s adorable, but it¡¯s also the worst night of sleep I¡¯ve had in a long while. It¡¯s a good thing that I¡¯m not doing those all nighters any more.

    I wake up to Mairi¡¯s excited voice asking me something. I blink, and try to force myself awake. Waking up to her smiling face isn¡¯t such a bad way to start the day, I suppose. I¡¯m not sure what she said, though. ¡°Come again?¡± I ask.

    Her excitement is shining clear through her words ¡°Can I help you cook?¡± I just look at her for a moment, processing what she just said. I¡¯ve been here for most of a month, and never has Mairi shown any interest in preparing food. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s the cheese, because we had cheese before. Is it related to what happened yesterday?

    I honestly can¡¯t be bothered to figure it out now. It¡¯s early. ¡°Sure,¡± I say, as I start to get up. One benefit of sleeping in your clothes is that it¡¯s easy to get up, but I think I¡¯ve stopped feeling clean somewhere around three weeks ago. The city doesn¡¯t have any decent places to wash. Not for these kids anyway. Apparently leaving the city is a bit hit or miss. Sometimes everything is fine, and sometimes the children that do just don¡¯t come back, so everyone is reluctant to do it, especially for something as banal as washing. I¡¯ve felt too guilty to do something they couldn¡¯t, so¡­

    We¡¯re going to need to change something about that though. Right after we prepare breakfast, I think it¡¯s high time I put all my cards on the table.

    Rhona is already up, and starting the preparations, so I quickly rise and move to help her, motioning Mairi to come along too. She happily complies, and for a moment I can¡¯t help but marvel again at the contrast with the skilled thief from yesterday.

    Rhona looks questioningly at me when Mairi comes along. ¡°She wants to help,¡± I say as I give a small shrug. Rhona¡¯s eyes widen nearly imperceptibly, and there¡¯s a flash of an accusation directed at me. Her words bely her actions, though, ¡°Thank you Mairi, we can certainly use the help.¡±

    It¡¯s not far into the preparations that I can see her interest waning. Apparently cutting up carrots wasn¡¯t what she was hoping for when she asked to help. I pause my own task of cleaning vegetables, and step over to her. ¡°Is there anything you wanted to do Mairi?¡±

    Mairi scuffs her feet against the bare floor. Glancing between the carrots, me, and where Rhona is adding another load of chopped vegetables to the soup simmering over the fire.

    I didn¡¯t understand why they made everything in the form of stew or soup at first, but after days of doing the same, it made sense. One big pot, over a single fire, and you feed everyone. It¡¯d be hard to cook anything else with the limited equipment available, and it fills you up pretty well. There¡¯s also the ease of handing everyone a single bowl. If they had any rice here, we could boil that I suppose, and add the vegetables for something different, but the closest we come is wheat.

    After a moment of fidgeting, she mumbles something so quietly I can barely hear it. ¡°I want to learn,¡± she finally says more clearly, gesturing at where Rhona is shoving the last bit of the beans she just cleaned into the pot.

    I smile. I can¡¯t help it. ¡°Putting things in the soup is only a small part of the work, first it needs to be chopped,¡± she looks a bit obstinate at that "But it¡¯s boring¡­¡± she protests. I suppose I can¡¯t disagree with her there. Cooking was never my strong suit either, but there¡¯s something to having all these kids depend on you. I touch Mairi on the shoulder, and gently steer her attention to the now mostly awake children. ¡°See?¡± And she does. A dozen pairs of eyes are watching the three of us in anticipation.

    Her chest puffs out adorably as her eyes grow wide. She glances between me, Rhona, and the children, suddenly aware of where she¡¯s standing and that some of the excitement is focused on her. A look of determination crosses her face as she turns back to the carrots.

    It¡¯s nice. Whenever I see Mairi¡¯s determination flagging, she glances at the assembled young ones, and you can practically see her motivation being restored to her. Between the three of us we manage to finish a bit earlier than usual, and as the children dig in, Mairi goes around proudly telling them of all the vegetables she chopped, and how hard it was. I figure I could have chosen a worse person to play mother figure to.

    Meanwhile, I turn to Rhona, Calum, Eilidh and Iain, whom are sitting together as usual. ¡°I have some things we need to talk about. Can we do it after breakfast?¡± I say with some trepidation. I don¡¯t particularly like the idea of having this discussion, but it is necessary. Even if I¡¯ve been pretty forthright with them about things, I¡¯ve kept some things back. Both material and immaterial. My thoughts drift to the bizarre experience yesterday, the crazy way time nearly stopped, and the distress as the energy went berserk. Definitely high time.

    None of them are bothered, and all of them nod. Getting together to make plans after breakfast isn¡¯t foreign to them, though this time I guess it won¡¯t go quite as they expect.

    I sit, looking at the four faces looking back at me with something akin to anticipation. Though I¡¯ve been part of their planning before, It¡¯s the first time I have asked to talk. The warm form of Mairi pressed against me on the side gives me some reassurance. Though I¡¯m not certain how wise it is for her to hear all this, I just figure she can handle it.

    I drag my sack from behind me. ¡°Ok, so first the easy things.¡± I say, as I pull out the pouch full of coins. ¡°I have absolutely no idea how much money this is, but lets use it well.¡± there¡¯s a tinge of shock, but they¡¯re all fairly unsurprised. That is, until Iain takes the pouch. It amuses me that it¡¯s Iain doing this, and not Rhona, but she seems content to leave the finances and logistics entirely to him.

    When he takes it, he frowns, then quickly drops it in his lap and opens it. His face goes though several expressions as he counts up the coins within, eventually settling on exasperation. ¡°You got this from that guy that ran when he saw you?¡± his voice carries more than a tinge of scepticism. At this point, I¡¯m sure he trusts me, so this is just him asking if I¡¯m fucking with him.

    It occurs to me that in our last conversation about this we didn¡¯t really get into how much money it was as the focus shifted to my hair. Not much I can do except confirm it though. ¡°Jup, nearly all of it.¡± I nod at him. ¡°Dear lord¡­¡± he breathes, then looks at Rhona and says ¡°Well, consider any money problems solved.¡±

    Rhona tilts her head slightly and asks ¡°How much is it?¡± Iain seems to count up the amount in his head, before saying ¡°Threehundred and seventy-two coppers.¡± there¡¯s a tone of awe in his voice. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever seen this much money at once.¡±

    Well, that was unexpected. I had guessed the larger silvers were worth a lot, but not at a 1 to 10 ratio with the smaller ones. How does that even work? The volume of the things is only like 3 times the smaller version. Wouldn¡¯t people just take the small ones and melt them down into their bigger counterpart? Maybe something about silver content? I really don¡¯t know how these things work.

    They must be growing familiar with my facial expressions, because Eilidh breaks into giggles and says ¡°You had no clue how much money you had, did you?¡± I can¡¯t help myself, and me, 32 old woman, pouts because of a comment by a 13 year old girl. I sigh and can do naught but agree ¡°No, I did not.¡±

    Rhona looks at me skeptically. Not angry or suspicous, just mildly bemused. ¡°And you are giving this to us why?¡± I shrug. ¡°It¡¯s just been there in my bag for weeks and it¡¯s not doing anything. No point having it and not using it.¡±

    ¡°Well, we certainly have a use for it,¡± she agrees. Iain stashes the pouch in the chest of valuables, and comes back.

    Right. Next up. I draw the sword from the sack. And Calum nearly jumps up out of his seat in his haste to get over to me. I don¡¯t really say anything, and just hand it over to him. Probably faster if we get the curiosity out of the way first.

    He draws the sword from the sheath in a single movement, a sharp sound ringing through the air as the metal clears the scabbard. The boy knows how to make it sound good. I don¡¯t think it ever does when I draw it. He inspects it from all sides, and eventually satisfied, goes to test the sharpness. ¡°Stop!¡± I shout. He freezes, his finger halfway to the edge. ¡°It¡¯s very sharp. Trust me, you don¡¯t want to test with your finger.¡± there¡¯s a mild expression of surprise on his face, but he nods, and goes to grab something from the kitchen instead.

    A moment later, he returns, excited. ¡°Look!¡± he nearly shouts at everyone with an expression of childlike glee on his face. Then he touches a carrot to the blade of the sword. And with no apparent resistance, the carrot is sliced clean in half. It¡¯s like he¡¯s holding a lightsaber. Eilidh seems impressed, looking at the blade with sort of professional curiosity. But Rhona and Iain don¡¯t appear to have much interest in it, which I guess makes sense. I¡¯ve never seen Iain fight, and I get the impression Rhona is more¡­ indirect.

    Rhona may not be interested in what it is, but she¡¯s certainly interested in where it came from. ¡°So¡­¡± she drawls, as she looks at Calum questioningly, ¡°What is that?¡± Calum doesn¡¯t seem to notice she¡¯s saying anything at first, and jumps when she raises her voice halfway through the second word. ¡°Right,¡± he says, as he turns to me.

    ¡°Where did you get this?¡±, he seems almost reverent. ¡°Looted it off a dead bandit,¡± I reply with a straight face. He¡¯s so serious about this ¡ª sure, it¡¯s a fancy sword, but it can¡¯t possibly be that special right? Oh god, I¡¯m jinxing myself, aren¡¯t I?

    His outraged reply confirms my worst suspicions ¡°What the fuck Emma, you have black hair, and you carry an Empire made sword with you. Are you sure you¡¯re no spy?¡±, he heaves a breath, ¡°There is no way you got this off a random bandit.¡± I don¡¯t know what to say to him, at least that part was true. ¡°Look, he was stupid enough to pretty nearly walk into a makeshift spear. If that¡¯s not ¡®random bandit¡¯ then I don¡¯t know what is.¡± then I mutter under my breath ¡°Bha mi¡­ Uh, sure I was absurdly lucky, but that only makes it more true.¡± Dammit, I¡¯m now muttering to myself in their damn language. How am I picking this up so fast? Not that I¡¯m complaining, but it¡¯s weird.

    Then it hits me what he actually said. Empire-made? Good grief, these people are determined to make my life miserable, aren¡¯t they? And I haven¡¯t even met one yet. I might end up hating anyone with black hair just for what they¡¯ve put me through.

    Rhona speaks up ¡°If you really took it off a bandit, then they certainly weren¡¯t its original owner. Look,¡± she says, as she gingerly takes the sword from Calum, then points at the bottom of the hilt. ¡°That there is their order mark. It indicates the channeler that forged it.¡±

    Well, I thought that was just a random decoration. One of the few on the otherwise austere sword. Guess you need some worldly knowledge to figure such things out. Come to think of it. I look at Rhona with a raised eyebrow ¡°And how do you know of such things?¡±

    To my surprise, she doesn¡¯t casually give me a one sentence explanation, but instead turns slightly red. A reluctant expression on her face. Mairi, silent until now, jumps up into jeers immediately. ¡°Rhona is embaaaa-rrassed! Rhona is embaaa-rrased!¡± Rhona puts her face in her hands at this. Mairi bumps into me conspiritiatorally, and whispers at me "She really doesn¡¯t like to talk about her life before.¡±

    This honestly makes me more curious. What does Rhona have to hide? I figured she¡¯d grew up on the street like most of these kids, but¡­ At that moment Rhona looks back at me, sighs, and says ¡°My parents were merchants.¡± There¡¯s a flash of distaste on the face of everyone in the circle, none of it directed at Rhona, but nonetheless. What is it with this world and hating weird things. Why are they bothered by merchants?

    ¡°And that is bad how?¡± I can¡¯t help myself from asking. I¡¯m sure they have reasons, but¡­ Rhona looks at me like I¡¯ve been dropped on the head one too many times as a child. She squints her eyes at Mairi ¡°You sure this one is ok?¡± she questions. Mairi gets a mischievous look in her eyes, and flings her arms around me, then she grins at Rhona and says ¡°Yeah duh, she¡¯s my new mama.¡±

    Rhona rolls her eyes, as Calum, Iain and Eilidh chuckle. She addresses me again, she doesn¡¯t explain, but asks the question that I¡¯ve been dreading instead ¡°Emma, where are you from?¡± I guess I seemed to much like a country bumpkin asking that question?

    I debate again, telling them where I¡¯m actually from. But I¡¯m sure they won¡¯t believe me. I wouldn¡¯t. It¡¯s not that I mind telling them, I just don¡¯t think it¡¯ll help the conversation now. For now I¡¯ll settle for a half truth, until we get the next topic out of the way anyway.

    ¡°I entered the country from somewhere to the east. And I¡¯ve traveled quite a distance to get here. I¡¯m not originally from here, and haven¡¯t seen much besides this city, so you¡¯ll have to forgive my ignorance.¡±, I sigh, ¡°Where I come from merchants are¡­ often annoying, but not something to be ashamed of.¡±

    Everyone gets a speculative look in their eyes at the notion that I¡¯m from outside the country, though it does seem to answer their question. Certainly Rhona is satisfied, though she seems a bit too excited about getting to explain. In the background, I see Iain put his face into his hands, as he rolls his eyes. ¡°Oh boy¡­¡± he sighs and looks at me with pity, right before Rhona launches into an impassioned spiel ¡°Ok, well, the merchants, or rather, the council, is why everything is going to shit.¡±

    It doesn¡¯t seem that bad, but when Mairi suddenly unclamps from me, and hurriedly rushes off, I¡¯m suddenly anxious about where this is going. Rhona doesn¡¯t seem oblivous to this though, and it halts her in her tracks. She frowns at Mairi and Iain, but then looks back at me, and with great difficulty, seems to swallow a whole lectures worth of dialogue. ¡°So yeah, my parents are part of that. They¡¯re indirectly why everyone is here.¡± She seems more resigned than angry about that. But then she continues, ¡°Including me.¡± Ah, there is the bitterness.

    Mairi has run off, so Calum takes it upon himself to play her role, and says ¡°Rhona is high nobility. If this were the high empire anyway.¡± then he grins, and looks at Rhona ¡°Or she would be, if she hadn¡¯t run off.¡± There¡¯s a tinge of amusement in his voice, but a far greater deal of respect. I can¡¯t say I disagree, if she truly is, was, a noble, then why the hell is she here? I mean, sure, she seems to hate the system, if not her parents, but¡­ How do you get from there to here?

    Rhona glares at Calum, but there¡¯s no fire behind it, more like pleading ¡°We¡¯re not talking about me now.¡± She returns to me, having apparently lost track of what she was going with this. ¡°Ok, anyway, I studied a bunch, before, and that¡¯s why I know things.¡± then she glares at everyone around her, and pointedly says ¡°And that¡¯s why they know things.¡±

    I decide that this is not the moment to be contrary. And just go with the flow. ¡°Anyway, if that¡¯s of more use to me than to you. Please use it.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    Calum squints at me. ¡°Come to think of it, you¡¯re pretty tall.¡± Is he really saying that to a lady? I¡¯m joking, I¡¯m well aware of my height. I don¡¯t think 5¡¯10¡± is so large, but¡­ certainly many are smaller. Calum¡¯s taller than me though, standing about two inches above me - well, maybe ¡°standing above¡± is an exaggeration.

    ¡°Lets do something different,¡± he says, ¡°Let me teach you how to use this instead?¡± the last is clearly a question, but also not. He¡¯s not asking me if I like it, he¡¯s asking me if I hate it enough to sabotage any attempt to learn. Calum clearly thinks I should. I unconciously glance at Eilidh, and see a complex expression on her face, directed at Calum, not me.

    Why did I look at Eilidh? Is it because she seems like the only other girl that fights? Oh well. I consider it carefully, or I think I do, but really I just think of the bandit that was staring me down that I killed purely through luck. ¡°Sure, that sounds like a great idea.¡±

    Calum seems happy enough, so that¡¯s one subject deal with, which only leaves the elephant in the room.

    I start hesitantly, ¡°So, there is one more thing.¡± Everyone immediately focuses on the bag, but I shake my head, chuckling lightly ¡°No, no more stuff. This is different.¡±

    I¡¯m not sure how to start, how to describe this. I begin haltingly ¡°So, there¡¯s these moments that, I can sort of slow down time.¡±

    They were all listening attentively, then when I said that, they¡­ relaxed? Somehow, the reaction is not what I expected.

    The confusion must be evident on my face, because Iain starts laughing. ¡°Sorry, sorry, we were just expecting another bombshell,¡± he explains. My face quickly transitions through all the four, or was it five, stages of grief, as I realize that what I thought was amazing is not. And I kept this for last specifically because I thought it was going to be the most disturbing.

    ¡°That¡¯s normal?¡± I hesitatingly ask him. ¡°Well, it¡¯s not exactly normal,¡± he replies, ¡°But it¡¯s not exactly unheard of either. Not that any of us have had any opportunity to.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡± I inquire. Iain shifts, leaning forwards, ¡°Well, how did you end up obtaining the fruit? Stole it?¡± he inquires. There is¡ªof course¡ªzero judgement when he mentions stealing as a reasonable way to obtain one.

    It¡¯s interesting that the knowledge that these fruits give you this power is apparently common knowledge, but I better confirm ¡°Just to be certain, you are talking about the glowing blue ones right?¡± He nods, and agrees ¡°They¡¯re kind of hard to mistake right?¡±

    I can¡¯t help but agree. Even after weeks, the image of the fruits in the tree is still burned in my mind. The intense hunger that my body felt for the sustenance it never knew it needed. Or maybe it wasn¡¯t my body, but my soul?

    Anyhow, ¡°No, this one I didn¡¯t steal, I got them from a tree.¡±

    I see the four pairs of eyes that are looking at me widen. Iain is the first to respond, ¡°And where did you find this tree? Did you sneak into the fortress somehow?¡± His voice is dripping with disbelief.

    ¡°Uh, no. I found it in the forest I came through to get here. Is that unusual? I kinda figured that if one grew there they must grow elsewhere.¡± The slack jawed gaze they look at me with tells me that yes, it is unusual. ¡°Emma, where is this tree?¡± Rhona asks me with some anticipation. I respond but haltingly, ¡°Uh, about 5 days west of here, by my reckoning. At least, it was there a month ago. They don¡¯t suddenly disappear do they?¡± It¡¯s a magic tree after all, they might very well randomly disappear and appear somewhere else.

    Iain chuckles, ¡°No, they do not. But I¡¯ve never heard of a tree not owned by the council and kept behind lock and key.¡±, then his eyes grow wide. ¡°Wait, a whole tree? How many fruits did you eat?¡± there¡¯s some excitement in his voice. I think back to that time. I think I ate three? And then brought one along? I was not in a great state to be making long term memories at the time. ¡°Probably three or four¡­?¡± I respond.

    The kids share a look. ¡°Damn, Emma,¡± Calum finally says. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard of anyone but soldiers in time of war eating that many.¡± Then he looks down apparently indecisive, before fixing with me a gaze. ¡°So, how does it feel? We all hear stories, but¡­¡±, around him, Rhona, Eilidh and Iain are all nodding. They might not think the effect by itself is amazing, but the way I obtained it? And apparently four fruits is a lot? I think it just barely filled me up at the time, and that was why I didn¡¯t eat any more? After all, the whole tree was full of them.

    The anticipation in their gaze doesn¡¯t let me ruminate any longer, I have to answer their query. ¡°Well, it was kind of weird at first. I mean, you can feel your body now, right?¡± They all nod. ¡°After I ate the fruit it felt like I realized that I have a second body, one that¡¯s in the exact same position as my real body.¡± I don¡¯t tell them about the bizarre effect earlier when I heard about Mairi, when that unreal body grew fuzzy. It¡¯s not something I want to dwell on.

    ¡°After I realized that, it felt kind of like I¡¯d discovered a whole new organ to use?¡± They¡¯re listening with rapt attention. Rhona is nodding along, as if this is in line with what she¡¯s heard before. ¡°Anyway, when I tweak it in the right way, time slows down around me.¡± Or maybe my mind speeds up, I suddenly realize. My body moves at the same speed as before, but I can suddenly think about everything several times longer. ¡°It took me quite a while to get used to it.¡± I can¡¯t help but awkwardly recall the time I spent practicing and constantly falling on my face. They don¡¯t need to know that.

    I shrug, ¡°I haven¡¯t been able to make it do anything but slow down time though.¡± I grimace, and mutter half under my breath ¡°Not for lack of trying though.¡± I look at Rhona, since she seems to know something about how this works. Maybe her education covered this topic? ¡°I can¡¯t figure out how to use the runes. I¡¯ve seen the mages at the entrance to the city use them, but¡­¡± I sigh, ¡°I had a hard time just getting the juice to flow through mine.¡±

    Rhona remains silent, staring at me. Hello? Earth to Rhona? Suddenly, chaos erupts as they all practically dive at me, bombarding me with versions of the same question: ¡°You know runes?! How? Where? What? Are you a channeler? Are you crazy?¡± Well, I suppose those are actually several different questions, but they all essentially amount to ¡°What the hell?!¡± in various forms.

    ¡°Ah¡­ I guess¡­ I found some of them?¡± I wanted to get closer to the mages at the gate too, but I¡¯d practically need to be right in their face to see their runes.

    The stream of what the hells only seems to increase with that acknowledgement, so I just pull the piece of bark with my runes out in the hope that it¡¯ll satisfy whatever it is they want from me. In their fervor, it takes them a moment to notice that I¡¯m holding something out.

    Eventually Rhona takes the bark out of my hand, eyes wide as she scans the badly engraved copies of the runes I took from the cave. ¡°Holy spirits¡­¡± she breathes out reverently. Iain is less impressed. Or maybe he focuses on something else ¡°Emma, forget about your black hair.¡± he points at the piece of bark. ¡°If those are true runes,¡± he starts, when Rhona interjects. ¡°They¡¯re true, they look exactly like the examples in my lessons.¡± Iain glances at her, but turns back to me and says with meaning ¡°If they are, then that there is a death warrant.¡±

    Calum and Eilidh seem divided between wanting to look at what¡¯s on the bark, and not. Iain is very deliberately looking anywhere but the bark. Rhona however, is engrossed. ¡°There are 9¡­¡± she breathes. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen any real ones¡­¡± I look at her and ask, confused ¡°Didn¡¯t you just say they were in your lessons?¡±

    She barks out a short laugh, ¡°Hah, did you think they¡¯d show me real runes? Even my instructor had no idea what a real one looked like, he wouldn¡¯t have been a teacher otherwise.¡± her gaze returns to the bark ¡°No, the only people that know true runes are channelers. And they¡­¡±

    Iain breaks in again ¡°They¡¯re very, very protective of them.¡± That there, he points at the bark. ¡°If what Rhona claims is true¡­ Whole villages have been burned for less.¡±, he rests his head in his hands.

    ¡°That¡¯s not even counting our beloved council,¡± he continues. ¡°Independent channelers are bad, but the council, the military? They¡¯d just disappear you. The only reason they don¡¯t do the same to all independents is that some of them are too strong.¡±

    ¡°Lets hope that all the runes you have there are common ones.¡± he says. Rhona is silent for a moment, then slowly shakes her head. ¡°I don¡¯t think so Iain. Some of these¡­¡± she looks at me, ¡°Where did you say you found these?¡± I shrug, ¡°I copied them from the wall of a cave near where the tree is. I¡¯m fairly certain some are incorrect. The simple ones were easy to copy, but the bark is too hard to write on for the complex ones.¡±

    Rhona returns her gaze to the bark ¡°I¡¯ll say. I can recognize the simple ones as runes, but¡­ I¡¯m not sure if anyone has seen these before.¡±

    Well, I¡¯m happy to know that they¡¯re supposed to do something. The last time I really tried, nothing of interest happened, aside from the feeling I did something very badly wrong. It¡¯s kind of a long shot, but ¡°Do you know what they are supposed to do?¡± I ask Rhona.

    ¡°Just because I know what they are doesn¡¯t mean I understand them.¡± She points at the simple ones at the top ¡°These are simple, they¡¯ll just get us all killed.¡± then she moves her finger down, ¡°These might see the city wiped from the face of the earth.¡±, and finally, she points at the bottommost runes, the ones that I just barely managed to copy. ¡°These? I¡¯ve never seen anything of this complexity before, even as an example¡­¡± There is a tremor to her voice as she finishes ¡°Countries probably fight wars over less.¡±

    Eilidh moves to grab the bark from Rhona as she shouts anxiously ¡°Right, so lets burn it! We don¡¯t need anything like this shit!¡± I¡¯m surprised that it¡¯s Eilidh responding like that. I¡¯d have expected it to be Iain. Rhona jerks the bark out of Eilidh¡¯s grasping hands though. ¡°No need to be hasty, it¡¯s been here for weeks and nobody has come for us.¡± she cradles the bark, as Eilidh glares at her. ¡°Rhona, what are you doing? Aren¡¯t you supposed to protect us all?¡±

    I raise my hand ¡°Uh, sorry, but that¡¯s kinda mine.¡± I don¡¯t truly care, since I¡¯ve more or less memorized the four simple runes during my trip here, and I¡¯m fairly certain I¡¯ve got the two intermediate ones down too, but that¡¯s not true for the complex ones. Not that I think they¡¯d be much help since I¡¯m fairly certain they¡¯re incorrect anyway.

    Iain looks at me sharply ¡°Emma, having that here is a danger to us all. We must destroy it.¡± Well, that¡¯s fair I suppose. I really wouldn¡¯t want anything to happen to them because I wanted to keep a weird piece of bark with funny symbols on. ¡°I mean, I don¡¯t really mind. I¡¯ve memorized those anyway.¡± This garners me an eyeroll, and another face in hands moment from Iain.

    ¡°Please, don¡¯t call anything down on us. Just, forget about them.¡± he pleads. I can¡¯t really agree to that. It¡¯s fucking magic! I don¡¯t want to implicate them, but I definitely don¡¯t want to stop experimenting either.

    Suddenly, Mairi¡¯s happy voice pipes up from behind me. ¡°So, can you show us some magic?¡± I jerk around. How long has she been there? Everyone else looks at Mairi, then shifts their gazes to me, expectant.

    ¡°Well, I¡­ I tried many times, but the one time I tried with too much power, I think something went wrong. Since then I¡¯ve been trying to improve my control first, since I don¡¯t actually know what any of these runes do.¡± I point at the bark in Rhona¡¯s hand. Rhona responds ¡°I¡¯m fairly certain that the simple runes can¡¯t really do much damage by themselves. They¡¯re supposed to be combined.¡±

    Combined? How does that work? ¡°Uh, how exactly?¡± I ask her. She looks at me like I¡¯m crazy. ¡°Do I look like a channeler to you? I know some theory, nothing more.¡± Well crap.

    ¡°Come on mama, you can do something? Right?¡± Mairy pleads. I¡¯m honestly not sure about this. In fact I think it¡¯s downright stupid, but I¡¯m certainly not immune to those pleading looks. What can go wrong?

    ?</a>

    I take a deep breath, and with all five of them looking at me expectantly, I sink into the juice effect. Even if I¡¯ve lost some, there is still a whole lot left. I try to recall what I did last time things went wrong. Even if I¡¯m not certain what that rune does, I¡¯ve tried it before and neither I nor my surroundings suffered any ill effects, so I guess it¡¯s as good to attempt as any. I just hope it won¡¯t feel so wrong again.

    I concentrate, and visualize the rune floating in my field of view. Maybe last few time the problem was that I tried to superimpose it within my own body, where the juice was already flowing? But how do I get it out of my body? I can twist those muscles to make it slosh around, but¡­ I have been imagining it as some kind of liquid, but maybe it¡¯s not like that at all? The mage that I saw when entering the city certainly didn¡¯t seem to have juice sloshing around in himself, and the runes that he was visualizing, imagining, creating, I don¡¯t know which, were all around him. Meters behind him on the back of the wagon. Under the wagon, on the steering shaft. And there were tens of them at a time.

    I try to imagine a set of runes, five of them floating in front me, and find that it somewhat works. They¡¯re imaginary anyway, so they come from the second body? Imaginary in that unreal space? Whatever, there¡¯s 5 of them. Is it all imaginary?

    God, I feel so stupid. If I¡¯ve been messing this up all this time because I imagined something hard and it was actually simple, I¡¯m going to be really pissed.

    I switch back to a single rune floating in front of me, and try to imagine a line from myself to the rune, with juice flowing through it. I use just a little bit of it, as far as I¡¯m able to imagine that. But¡­ it seems to be working. The imaginary line to the symbol seems to have juice slowly traveling through, and I second body mentally will it to hurry the hell up.

    There is a flash in that mindspace, as the juice, way too much of it, connects to the rune. The rune glows brightly for a second, and I feel a slow reverberation through the mindspace. Then¡­ The rune evaporates into nonexistence, taking a healthy chunk of my juice with it into oblivion.

    It¡¯s hard to notice at first, but¡­ right where my rune was is now an expanding sphere of¡­ something. It expands slowly outwards, but I realize that time is slowed down in my mind, and that it¡¯s actually expanding quite rapidly. Is time flowing more slowly again? It¡¯s annoying that I can¡¯t judge how fast or slow I am compared to the rest of the world. Regardless, I mentally cheer, it did work! I can fucking do magic!

    I do wonder what that sphere is though. Very soon it¡¯s going to hit the ground, and¡­ Oh fuck! What I thought was a sphere of something undefinable, something barely visible, is actually a sphere of rapidly expanding dust particles. In the air that the rune was materialized in, it wasn¡¯t very obvious, though getting more visible as more particles got stuck to the expanding shell, but now that the sphere has reached the ground, it¡¯s abundantly clear what is happening. As the sphere expands, it pushes all the dirt on the floor away. Since the floor here is purely dirt, it¡¯s like a tidal wave of dirt being pushed away from the origin. It doesn¡¯t look like it¡¯s penetrating into the ground, which is a blessing but¡­

    I see the faces of Rhona, Eilidh, Calum and Iain start to morph first into amazement, then shock. Mairi has purely stars in her eyes, apparently unaware of what is happening beyond that it¡¯s cool.

    Watching the disaster unfold in slow-motion is getting on my nerves, and I try to deliberately accelerate my pace compared to before. This seems to somewhat work, and the sphere of dust starts to rapidly expand, and then engulfs all of us. The stinging dust flashes into my eyes, which I¡¯d stupidly forgotten to close, nose and mouth. The shock drops me out of juice entirely. And suddenly the world resumes it¡¯s normal pace. A low whoomph fades away, as dirt rains down in a perfect circle around us.

    We all cough and rub the dirt and dust out of mouths and eyes, and stare wide eyed at the circle roughly three meters in radius that had its top layer of the dust swept away, now spread in a thin layer over the rest of the hideout.

    Fuck! I look up, and to my great relief, there is almost nothing visible above. Most of the dust came from the ground, and shot sideways instead of skywards. I¡¯m not certain how far the sphere expanded before it dissipated, but I can hope nobody will notice when a light rain of dust falls onto them from above.

    In the aftermath we¡¯re all stunned speechless. That is until the younger kids all come running over, screaming, in a complete panic about what the hell just happened.

    I¡¯m tempted to blame Rhona, ¡®Can¡¯t really do much damage¡¯ my ass. But the whole thing is indubitably my own fault for agreeing in the first place. Damn pride.

    Next to me, Mairi spits out a mouthful of dirt and whispers, her voice filled with absolute awe, ¡°That. Was. Awesome!¡±

 Mischief and Magic

    I suffer from the unexpected issue of being simultaneously happy I managed to do actual magic, and mortification at the way it happened.

    I don¡¯t have a lot of time to dwell on it, as we have nearly twenty upset little ones to comfort.

    With the help of everyone, we finally get the children settled after nearly half an hour. Half an hour I¡¯m sure everyone is anxiously waiting to discuss what the hell just happened.

    My stomach has been fluttering all the time. Some part of me can¡¯t keep from screaming ¡°I did magic!¡± It¡¯s like a dam has burst inside of me, and let out a whole flood of euphoria that it¡¯d been holding back. Ever since I saw those mages¡ªthose channelers as they call them¡ªI¡¯d been hoping I¡¯d be able to do the same thing. The idea that I can do magic, that I can effect change in reality with just my mind is¡­ well, it¡¯s absurd, hilarious, awesome and¡­ it¡¯s everything I¡¯d ever wanted of it.

    There were no weird words to use, no strange motions to make, I just sat, concentrated a little bit, and something happened! It¡¯s clearly different from the effect the mages on the wagons made happen, so I assume it¡¯s a different rune, but it didn¡¯t blow me or anyone else up. I¡¯m still not certain why it felt so bad when I did this with the rune overlayed on my body, but given the effect it had on the surroundings, I think I have a fairly good guess.

    Come to think of it, what would happen if I located the rune inside another person? Something tells me that going down that train of thought lies horror. I used less power than this time when I did it inside myself, and this drained about a third of my total juice, leaving me at a bit less than half full right now if I judge correctly. I really need to find another one of those fruits, but if what the kids say is true, that¡¯s nearly impossible outside of the forest with the tree I already found.

    After we get everyone settled, we are sitting in a circle again. Rhona inhales, but Mairi starts before she has a chance to say anything ¡°Mama, how did you do that?!¡± I smile at her and deadpan ¡°I haven¡¯t got the faintest clue.¡± It¡¯s not entirely untrue either. It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve managed anything like it, and I can¡¯t guarantee it¡¯d work again. I don¡¯t really believe that I suppose, if it takes me the rest of my life I¡¯m going to figure out how this thing works.

    Rhona seems to share Mairi¡¯s misgivings, because now that Mairi is finished, she says ¡°Emma, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s purely your fault, but¡­ what was that?¡± I sigh. Unfortunately she doesn¡¯t seem as excited as Mairi, which I guess is fair. ¡°Well, that was one of the runes, the one I tried before. But more importantly, I kinda got carried away and used too much power¡­¡± she smirks at me, as she meaningfully looks around their hideout, and at the large circle still carved out in the ground. ¡°You don¡¯t say.¡±

    The smirk disappears from her face ¡°But seriously, lets not do that again.¡±  She watches as some of the kids brush dirt from the cooking equipment. ¡°I didn¡¯t expect that to happen, probably none of us did,¡± she says slowly. I hear a choked sound from Iain¡¯s direction, but he remains silent.

    Eilidh speaks up for the first time ¡°And you say you have 5 more of these runes?¡± I nod at her ¡°Five more of the simple ones, and then two more complex ones.¡± I think back to the cave ¡°There were two more runes there, but I never wrote them down, too complex.¡± Eilidh has a very complicated expression on her face, clearly thinking about something. Iain breaks in before she can say more though. ¡°I don¡¯t think we should do any more of this magic here,¡± he still anxiously looks around at the surroundings, apparently still expecting a group of mages to descend and roast us alive.

    ¡°Agreed,¡± say me, Rhona, and Calum at the same time. We share a look, then a grin with each other. Then Eilidh continues, ¡°But you know where this tree is?¡± I nod at her, and she continues ¡°Then we should send someone there with you. Rhona?¡± I¡¯m surprised at this sudden change of heart. Didn¡¯t she just say we needed to burn the piece of bark and act as if it never existed?

    Iain is quick to reject that notion, his face panicked ¡°What are you saying Eil? We should forget it even exists!¡± Eilidh, however, remains calm as she fires back. ¡°The cat is out of the bag now. Do you think we¡¯re ever going to be able to explain that to them?¡± she says, as she meaningfully looks at everyone around. Not just the older kids, but the small ones keep glancing towards us as well, curious about what we¡¯re talking about.

    Rhona seems divided. ¡°I get your point Eilidh, but the danger¡­¡± Eilidh bristles at these words, her expression twisting into one of anger as she shouts at Rhona, sparks flying from her eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t lecture me about danger! I should think I know danger a lot better than you do.¡± Rhona apparently realizes her mistake, and tries to placate Eilidh ¡°I¡¯m sorry Eil, I didn¡¯t mean it like that. But it¡¯s not just you we need to consider.¡±

    In this whole discussion, I¡¯m mildly bemused that they don¡¯t seem to consider the obvious option of just kicking me out. It¡¯d make all their problems go away, and things would go back to how they were before.

    The argument proceeds, with me not being able to follow the whole thing perfectly. Eilidh is arguing in favour of sending a bunch of people to go retrieve more fruits, at which point I feel the need to point out that I¡¯m not certain of the location of the tree. All of them dismiss that point, apparently certain I¡¯ll find it again. Calum doesn¡¯t seem to have an opinion beyond no magic in the base, he doesn¡¯t really appear to have an interest in it. Iain is against any involvement with it. Arguing that they should stay well away from it, and finally Rhona seems to partially agree with Eilidh, but also agrees with Iain that it seems foolhardy.

    Finally, Mairi breaks in, a voice we haven¡¯t heard for a while. ¡°I want to learn how to do that¡­¡± she says sadly, vaguely gesturing to the epicenter of the dust explosion.

    Everyone falls silent, and Eilidh¡¯s expression seems to say ¡°See, I told you!¡± to the whole group. Iain splutters, apparently a bit lost for words ¡°Mairi, it¡¯s not safe!¡± Mairi¡¯s face falls just a little bit, and she remains silent for a while, but then she says ¡°Iain, how can it get worse?¡± The silence after that statement is packed with meaning, but eventually Iain replies softly, almost like he¡¯s asking a question ¡°We could all die?¡± It¡¯s almost as if silence has on the role of communicating meaning now, as it falls again in the wake of his statement.

    For some reason, Mairi glances at me, then the rest of the children around us, before her face firms, and she states, ¡°Then we die!¡± Everyone shifts back a step at the vehemence in her statement, me included. Her eyes shoot fire. ¡°Look at that!¡± she forces everyone to look at the circle of dirt dug out of the ground. ¡°We can do that!¡± then her righteous indignation seems to leave her, and she sinks in on herself ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t want to worry that¡­¡± she breaks off, dissolving into tears. When she instinctively turns toward me, I step forward to embrace her. She flinches slightly in surprise before crying even harder.

    The tears of the little girl seem to take all the fire out of Iain¡¯s opposition, and eventually he concedes that there¡¯s probably no harm in at least trying to find the tree. He¡¯s absolutely opposed to a large group going though. Which works out fine, as it¡¯s impossible for many of them to go anyway. Rhona has to stay, because she¡¯s the primary cook, and surrogate mother to many of the children. Calum has to stay, as he¡¯s the primary defense they have against intrusion. Iain has to stay, as neither of those two would be able to organize anything without him. That leaves Eilidh to come along, and Mairi refuses to stay, so eventually the party we settle on consists of those three.

    The plan is to trace my way back along the way I came, locate the forest with Rhonain¡¯s town, and follow the road back to the tree, which is incidentally called the ¡°craobh an e¨°lais¡± or roughly translated, ¡°tree of knowledge¡±. It¡¯s weird to think that I made my way all the way over here, only to go back again, but it does seem like getting the fruits would be a good idea.

    Unfortunately, nobody has any idea how long the fruit would stay edible, much less how long it¡¯d retain it¡¯s magic providing properties. In the worst case, only Mairi and Eilidh would be able to eat the fruit. We¡¯ll also need to find some way to transport it that doesn¡¯t make it abundantly clear what we¡¯re carrying. The fruit literally glows, so putting it in my bag will make it seem like I¡¯m carrying a christmas tree on my back, not to mention quickly squish it between it¡¯s other contents.

    Rhona and Iain come back with a small chest though. One small enough to fit in my sack. I¡¯ll still be carrying an obvious chest on my back, but nobody will know what¡¯s inside. It¡¯s better than nothing I suppose. We all decide that leaving now is probably a bad idea, and we should leave at first light of dawn tomorrow, so we have a full day to make it to¡­ well, there won¡¯t be a lot of chances we¡¯ll have to stay in villages along the way, unless we want to stop after half a days walk. Maybe it¡¯ll work out once in a while. We want to get there and back as soon as possible though. Even though the kids now have a fairly decent supply of food again, everyone is worried both about us being away too long, and what will happen while we are.

    The rest of the day flies by in a flash, and before we know it, we¡¯re bedding down, ready for a trip early tomorrow. As I hold a sleeping Mairi, I¡¯m sort of happy that she¡¯s coming along. Though a voice of reason suggests she might be better off staying here, my heart insists that the safest place for her is by my side.

    After a hurried breakfast, we begin packing. Even though Calum has kept the imperial sword after I handed it over, he now hands it back, and tells me to keep the girls safe on the trip. I glance at Eilidh and wonder if it wouldn¡¯t be more helpful in her hands, but she already has her knives, and I have nothing, so I guess it makes sense. I briefly consider asking if Mairi needs anything, but then reject the notion, imagining that will quickly end in bloodshed. Naturally, the next moment I look at her, I see Rhona strapping a belt on her that contains a small dagger, but will undoubtedly look almost like a short-sword in Mairi¡¯s hands. So much for my fears. Also, where did they get that?

    When it¡¯s clear it¡¯ll work for Mairi though, Rhona hands it to me, ¡°We got it this morning with the money you donated. It¡¯ll help keep her safe.¡± When I just stand there looking at it, she rolls her eyes and point at my sack ¡°Don¡¯t put it on her until you¡¯re out of the gates please.¡± It doesn¡¯t appear like they take kindly here to 8 year old girls running with daggers. I wonder why.

    I bring all three sets of underwear I¡¯ve managed to obtain over the past weeks with the children. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they obtain clothes in much the same way they obtain food. There¡¯s a lot more care to exactly who they take them from though. There¡¯s a strong desire not to take from families that already have too little, that means no stealing clothes anywhere in the slums, even thought they¡¯re just hanging in the street literally everywhere. People here are considerate of each other in strange ways here, even while they ignore each other¡¯s suffering, they go out of their way not to make it worse.

    Conversely, it¡¯s pretty hard to take clothes from the outer or inner city, since people there are a lot more careful with them clothes. Less so with the cheaper ones though, so that¡¯s practically the only thing we ever end up with. This works fine for us though. Nobody would ever believe a street child did not steal a fine silk doublet.

    I¡¯ve never managed to obtain a new dress in my size though, so I¡¯m still clothed in the one that went through hell. I suppose I now have a lot more good memories in it too though.

    I¡¯m mildly amused when Iain takes my money, or what used to be my money, and counts out 10 square coppers to Eilidh. I don¡¯t begrudge her carrying the money, it¡¯s probably safer with her than with me.

    When everything has finally been packed, we quietly leave the city. I¡¯m almost dissapointed by how anticlimactic it is. Mairi hangs on my arm, and Eilidh follows behind like the bored teenager she is.

    Everyone kept saying leaving the city was so dangerous, and now we just pass under the arch of the gate, the guards in their well-used armor tell us to be careful, and nothing else happens. I wonder what is up with that. Why¡¯d the kids have so many issues getting out of the city by themselves?

    My feet kick up dust as we weave between the endless stream of carts and animals. The city¡¯s stone walls still loom over us, casting long shadows across the patchwork of farms and workshops that huddle against them like children clinging to their mother¡¯s skirts. A shepherd curses as his flock blocks our path, the sheep¡¯s bleating mixing with the creak of loaded wagons and the general bustle of morning commerce. Every few steps another building crowds the path - a blacksmith¡¯s forge belching smoke, a tanner¡¯s yard reeking of chemicals, cramped houses with laundry strung between them. People who couldn¡¯t afford space within still want to be as close as possible to the protection and opportunities the city offers.

    It takes a while, but when we finally make our way out of the plain that the city is built on, and over the hill, it¡¯s like stepping into a different world. Gone is the rotting-trash-and-piss cocktail that usually assaults our nostrils, replaced by actual fucking oxygen. The wind whispers across our faces, carrying nothing but the scent of dirt and grass. If I thought that would be the main thing I¡¯d notice, I¡¯d be wrong. While the absence of the smell is noticeable, the lack of noise is deafening.

    I watch as Mairi¡¯s jaw drops and her head swivels back and forth, drinking in the rolling hills and endless sky sprawling out before us. Next to her, Eilidh crosses her arms and lifts her chin, trying to maintain her cool facade, but her wide eyes betray her. I can only imagine this is their first time outside the city. Well, the first time they can remember, anyway.

    I¡¯m very much inclined towards making the river our first stop. While we¡¯ve washed, such as it was, with water that fell from the sky and was caught in buckets, it¡¯s never been a proper bath, like I regularly had in rivers and streams before I arrived in the city.

    I pull the wide-eyed girls along until the road we¡¯re walking on bends away from the contours of the river. The river here is narrower than near the city, and the water passes us by in a torrent. Mairi stares at it for a good half minute before we get her to move on.

    I take them off the path, leading them along the river¡¯s edge, sheltered by a variety of trees and bushes. The rushing water beside us softens to a gentle song as we follow the river¡¯s curve. Only an hour from the city¡¯s walls, yet we might as well be in some fairy tale forest¡ªno trash-filled alleys or shit-stained streets here. After weaving between a few moss-covered boulders, we find a lovely spot that¡¯s out of sight of the road or any outlying farms. Purple and yellow wildflowers peek through the gravel ¡ªour own private little beach.

    Mairi is hanging from my arm, trying to drag me closer, and looking at the water with excitement. I get the feeling that the only thing holding her back is the fact she doesn¡¯t want to let go of my hand.

    I watch Eilidh rock back on her heels, arms crossed tight against her chest as she eyes the water like it might rear up and bite her. Her toes curl into the dirt at the water¡¯s edge.

    ¡°Uh, you really want us to get in there?¡± The words tumble out quick and high-pitched.

    I raise my eyebrow at her. ¡°You don¡¯t enjoy the prospect of being clean for once?¡±

    She takes half a step backward, shoulders hunching. When she finally extends one trembling foot over the water, her whole body tenses. The moment her toes break the surface, she yanks them back with a sharp inhale.

    ¡°It¡¯s cold, big, and I can¡¯t swim,¡± she mutters, wrapping her arms even tighter around herself.

    Cold? Well, I suppose the weather is getting a bit more chilly, but it¡¯s hardly the beginning of autumn. More like end of summer. Of course, maybe the climate is just different and this is their version of winter. I haven¡¯t gotten around to asking anyone. Plus, big? This little stream? It¡¯s barely seven meters across at this point. I¡¯ll admit that that means the water flows quite fast, but should be fine if we stay in this spot. It¡¯s not like the river rapidly deepens, and the water is so clean I can literally see the bottom.

    While I¡¯m still considering how to convince Eilidh that the river isn¡¯t a death trap, Mairi releases my arm and starts stripping off her clothes with the casual disregard that only children possess. Before I can even think to warn her about the temperature, she¡¯s running full tilt toward the water, her wild brown hair streaming behind her. With a whoop of pure joy, she launches herself into the stream, sending up a spectacular splash that manages to sprinkle both Eilidh and me despite our distance from the water¡¯s edge. When she surfaces, she¡¯s grinning from ear to ear, her teeth chattering slightly but her eyes alive with excitement. ¡°It¡¯s brilliant!¡± she calls out, just barely keeping herself upright while standing up to her waist in the stream. "Like the rain, but better!¡± She sticks her hands in the water, deliberately splashing it in Eilidh¡¯s direction, clearly trying to provoke her into joining her.

    I catch Eilidh giving me a long-suffering look, the kind that suggests I¡¯m somehow responsible for Mairi¡¯s wild behavior. Her pale hair catches the morning sunlight as she shakes her head, but I can see the internal struggle playing across her face. She shifts from foot to foot, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her worn dress.

    After what seems like an eternal debate with herself, she begins to carefully unlace her threadbare boots, placing them neatly on a nearby rock - a stark contrast to Mairi¡¯s scattered clothing. Her cheeks flush pink as she removes her dress, keeping her underclothes on, unlike her younger companion. With small, tentative steps, she edges toward the water, wincing at each cold touch against her skin. It¡¯s almost comical how different her approach is from Mairi¡¯s enthusiastic plunge, but then again, that pretty much sums up their personalities.

    It¡¯s never occurred that she might feel embarrassed, given how close together the kids live. It¡¯d be nearly impossible to not see skin at some point, and it¡¯s just us girls here. But I guess she¡¯s at the age where it would start to feel awkward for the first time. A slight smile crosses my face as I recall just how terribly awkward I was at her age. Being shy about undressing for a swim is hardly anything to worry about.

    I strip of my own clothes in a manner that¡¯s some halfway point between what Mairi and Eilidh did. I feel kind of silly myself, just dropping my clothes on the ground after Eilidh just made such effort to fold her clothes. But it¡¯s just¡­ pointless. These clothes are so messed up and rumpled that folding doesn¡¯t preserve anything.

    I idly wonder if we should wash the clothes as well. It¡¯s probably not a bad idea. It¡¯s morning now, and it should be getting warmer from now, so even if we have to wait here for a while it probably wouldn¡¯t hurt.

    A sudden shock of cold water hits my back, accompanied by high-pitched squeals and barely contained giggles. I whirl around, spluttering, to find both girls¡ªeven the usually reserved Eilidh¡ªwith their hands clapped over their mouths trying to contain their mirth. The contrast between Mairi¡¯s open delight and Eilidh¡¯s guilty pleasure is almost worth the surprise dousing. Almost.

    ¡°Oh, you think that¡¯s funny, do you?¡± I growl in mock anger, my lips twitching despite my best efforts to maintain a stern expression. The water drips down my back, making me shiver slightly, and that seems to set off another round of giggling. It¡¯s probably the first time I¡¯ve seen Eilidh let her guard down completely since I¡¯ve met her, her pale hair now dotted with water droplets, her eyes sparkling with mischief instead of their usual wariness. It¡¯s an especially sharp contract to her silence after that event several weeks ago, whatever it was. I¡¯m happy to see that there is still something that brings her joy.

    Even if I do need to get splashed with freezing water for it.

    I sink beneath the surface, the icy water stealing my breath and sending shivers down my spine. I let my head dip under, feeling the current tug at my hair while goosebumps ripple across my skin. The water is a lot colder than I¡¯d expected. For a few moments as I luxuriate in the undoubtedly imagined feeling of the dirt on my skin being carried away by the stream. My muscles tense and relax as I adjust to the cold, but I don¡¯t mind it - beats being filthy.

    When I come up, and lazily look at where Mairi and Eilidh are paddling, I lunge forward, snagging Mairi¡¯s arm as the current threatens to sweep her little feet out from under her. ¡°Careful there,¡± I warn, though I can¡¯t help but smile at her unbridled enthusiasm. She¡¯s like a puppy learning about water for the first time, all boundless energy and zero self-preservation. The girl just grins up at me, water streaming down her face, clearly unfazed by her near-mishap. Or maybe she just trusts me to fix it if something goes wrong.

    We spend the next while splashing and scrubbing. Even Eilidh seems to enjoy it. Joining in when Mairi starts a game of trying to catch water droplets in her mouth. The sound of their laughter echoes across the stream, and I find myself relaxing despite my habitual vigilance.

    At some point, I can¡¯t resist the impulse. We¡¯re out of the city now, and I know how it works, right? Besides, if this works as I think it does, this place is too perfect. I sink into juice mode, and imagine the blast rune a few meters downstream, just a tad below the waters surface. Then carefully touch it with just a little juice.

    The whoomph of displaced water makes both of the girls spin towards it in surprise. But when the droplets of water start pattering down on us, and I start uncontrollably giggling, they relax quickly. It works! If this isn¡¯t what magic was made for I don¡¯t know what it could be. ¡°Look!¡± I enthusiastically shout at the girls, then point to a point in the water between us all. The look at each other questioningly, then back at the spot of the water I¡¯m still pointing at.

    The second time is even easier, and just like the dirt, the water is pushed away from the epicenter. The radius is a lot smaller with the little power I put in, but on the other hand, it feels like I can keep this up nearly forever. First a little splash, then a large splash happen as water is launched into the sky by the initial blast, after which it rushes together to fill the gap left by the displaced water.

    The girls eyes grow wide, and they both shout they want more. Who am I to refuse?

    Eventually, with our skin starting to wrinkle, and the games starting to grow old, we drag ourselves out of the water. The morning sun has warmed the rocks, and I direct the girls to gather our scattered clothing while I look for a suitable branch to serve as a washing post. We take turns scrubbing our clothes against the rocks, using smooth stones to work out the worst of the dirt. Mairi makes it into a competition, declaring proudly that she¡¯s gotten her dress ¡°cleaner than clean,¡± whatever that means.

    With our newly-washed clothes draped over low-hanging branches like bizarre decorations, we all change into a new set of underclothes, and settle onto the sun-warmed rocks. The heat seeps into my bones, and I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle sound of the stream and Mairi¡¯s animated chatter about how she¡¯s going to learn to swim properly one day, like the sailors. Beside me, Eilidh hums softly, her feet dangling in the water, making small ripples in the current. It¡¯s a peaceful moment, one that almost makes me wonder if it wouldn¡¯t be better to take all the kids out of the city.

    As the sun climbs higher, our clothes finally lose their dampness, though they¡¯re stiff and a bit wrinkled from our makeshift washing methods. I run my hand over my dress - it¡¯s far from perfect, but it¡¯s clean. The fabric feels crisp under my fingers, sun-dried and carrying that freshness you only feel on clothes dried in the open air.

    Mairi bounces around impatiently as we gather our things, clearly ready to move on despite her earlier enthusiasm for swimming. She helps Eilidh fold their dried clothes, though ¡®helps¡¯ might be a generous term for the way she¡¯s haphazardly cramming things into their bags. Eilidh quietly refolds everything when Mairi isn¡¯t looking.

    We make our way back along the river to the dirt path we¡¯d left earlier. The path looks different now, dappled with late morning shadows instead of the early morning light we¡¯d walked through before. I adjust my sack on my shoulder, feeling the comfortable weight of the supplies we¡¯ve brought, and we fall into an easy walking rhythm. Mairi takes up her usual position beside me, her small hand finding its way into mine as naturally as breathing. Eilidh trails slightly behind, humming softly to herself - the same tune from earlier, I notice. It¡¯s becoming a familiar sound. The background music to our journey.

    Our travel is relatively uneventful. We basically traverse the same path that I¡¯ve taken to get to the city.

    The first three nights are spent in the open. The kids are initially reluctant to just lie down, and especially to do so under the cover of the trees. Ultimately their trust in me overcomes their fear, but I notice that Eilidh spends a long time pretending to sleep before she eventually truly falls asleep, and Mairi is even more clingy than usual that night.

    However, on the fourth day I manage to negotiate a decent price at a roadside inn, though the innkeeper¡¯s suspicious glare suggests he¡¯s not entirely comfortable with our ragtag group. The room we¡¯re given is small and musty, with two narrow beds whose straw mattresses have definitely seen better days. But to Mairi and Eilidh, it might as well be a royal chamber.

    I watch, amused, as Mairi bounces experimentally on one of the beds, her eyes wide with wonder despite her attempts to appear nonchalant. The straw crackles loudly beneath her, and she quickly stills herself, shooting a worried glance at the door. Eilidh, meanwhile, runs her hand almost reverently over the rough blanket of the other bed, her usually composed features softening into something approaching awe. She catches me watching and quickly withdraws her hand, but I can see her fingers twitching at her side, eager to touch the coarse fabric again.

    ¡°We¡¯ve slept in proper beds before,¡± Mairi announces suddenly, though her voice lacks its usual conviction. ¡°At least, I think we have. Right, Eilidh?¡±

    Eilidh just shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she perches carefully on the edge of her bed, as if afraid it might disappear if she puts too much weight on it. The wooden frame creaks anyway, and she jumps slightly at the sound.

    The night in a bed does everyone good. Even me, though I slept on our usual mat on the floor. Three days of travel in a row was fine for me, but though Eilidh and Mairi are in exceptionally good shape, their bodies are still smaller, and they were showing signs of flagging. A night of restful sleep completely restores their energy though, and we begin the fourth day early, and with good humor.

    I¡¯m honestly amazed that I haven¡¯t heard ¡°Are we there yet?¡± from Mairi. I don¡¯t think any child I knew would make it an hour before they¡¯d start asking how much futher they need to go, but she doesn¡¯t just not complain, she seems to stay excited about what¡¯s over the next hill.

    Another day of travel joins our tally as we near the large town where I encountered the elderly man who directed me toward the city. I¡¯m a bit excited to be back here. With the lack of stress I was dealing with at the time, I can actually enjoy the market. Or so I thought. The wide market street stretches before me, but where crowds of haggling traders once filled the air with shouts and the smell of spices, now only a few scattered townspeople hurry between the weathered shop fronts.

    I¡¯m disappointed, but given Mairi¡¯s proclivities, this might be for the best. She¡¯s been really good about it so far though. Since we brought enough supplies to last us there and back, there¡¯s no actual need for us to steal on this journey. Of course, all the supplies we brought were stolen in the first place, so it¡¯s all a matter of degree.

    Since there is nothing for us to do here, we proceed on our journey. This leads me to wonder whether I should take the exact route I took here back, which will lead us past the spot where the caravan was ambushed by the bandits, or whether I should take a detour. I can¡¯t imagine the remains would still be there though. It¡¯s been weeks since that event. So we go up the hill that I stumbled down from so long ago. I smile when we pass by the farm that I stayed that night, looking around to see if the girl that I met there¡ªwhat was her name again?¡ªis about somewhere. But the place lies deserted in the afternoon sun.

    The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves as we make our way up the hill, casting dappled shadows that dance across our path. The moment we step into the familiar copse of trees, the smell hits me first - a thick, cloying sweetness that makes my stomach turn. I stop abruptly, throwing an arm out to halt the girls, but it¡¯s too late. There, scattered among the undergrowth, stand the remains of the ambush. The two wagons stand silently, exactly where I¡¯d left them, in the light that filters through the trees. All the bloodstains seem to have washed away in the intermittent rain that fell since then.

    The smell comes from the graves that I so hastily dug next to the road. They¡¯ve been dug up, by animals perhaps, and what remains of the bodies is spread across the clearing. Half a jawbone grins up at me from the grass, and scraps of what might have been clothing flutter on nearby branches

    I can¡¯t help but turn towards Eilidh and Mairi. I didn¡¯t exactly mean for them to see this.

    I watch, horrified, as the girls look around the scene with curiosity. The disconnect between their young faces and their clinical assessment of death makes my skin crawl. Back home, children their age would be playing with dolls or arguing about who gets the next turn on the Xbox. Here they are, wandering around a clearing full of scattered body parts as if it¡¯s an excursion to the local park.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been here before, haven¡¯t you?¡± Eilidh¡¯s quiet voice catches me off guard. Her pale eyes fix on me with an unsettling intensity, and I realize she¡¯s pieced together more than I¡¯d thought. Before I can respond, Mairi wanders over to what¡¯s left of one of the bodies, poking at a fragment of bone with a stick.

    ¡°Eilidh, they¡¯re all spread out weird,¡± Mairi calls out, her voice carrying the same casual tone she might use to comment on scattered leaves. ¡°Is this what happens when you leave them outside too long?¡±

    Eilidh¡¯s face tightens almost imperceptibly. ¡°No,¡± she says after a moment, and there¡¯s a hint of reproach in her voice at her younger sister¡¯s flippancy. ¡°Usually they stay¡­ together more. Unless animals get to them.¡±

    I feel bile rising in my throat, not from the grotesque scene before us, but from the horrible realization that these children have enough experience with death to make such comparisons. I find it hard to reconcile their matter-of-fact attitudes with their ages. What kind of world is this, where children can look at scattered human remains with such¡­ professional interest?

    Eilidh turns back to me after her ¡®explanation¡¯ to Mairi. ¡°Well?¡± she prompts me. I sigh, and nod at her ¡°Yes, I came through here before. This caravan came under attack while I was following them.¡± I¡¯m suddenly struck by something, and motion Eildh to follow as I go to round up Mairi, still feeling a bit sick when I see her inspecting a¡­ femur? God I don¡¯t even know what all these bones are named. ¡°I can¡¯t figure out which one goes with which¡­¡± she mutters, as I try to get her to follow me. Did she really turn this into a puzzle?

    It sort of makes sense, but¡­ what the fuck? I¡¯m on my way to check the last grave that I dug, the one where the bandit rests. Of course, this grave seems to be undisturbed. There¡¯s nearly no smell either. Maybe just what lingers in my nose from the earlier scene. I guess I wasn¡¯t nearly as tired when I covered this guy, so the layer of dirt on top of the body is more like a small hill. I guess between the darkness and my exhaustion at the time, I just didn¡¯t do a good job of covering them.

    Mairi¡¯s small form appears beside me, her stick still clutched in one hand as she studies the raised mound of earth. Her earlier playfulness has dimmed somewhat, replaced by that sharp, calculating look I¡¯ve come to recognize when she¡¯s working something out. She glances between me and the solitary grave, her head tilted slightly to one side.Stolen story; please report.

    ¡°Why¡¯s this one all alone?¡± she asks, jabbing her stick toward the undisturbed mound. There¡¯s something in her tone that makes me think she already suspects the answer. These street children have an uncanny way of reading situations, of picking up on the small details others might miss. The way her eyes narrow slightly tells me she¡¯s already noticed how this grave is better made, how it¡¯s set apart from the others, how much more care was taken in its construction.

    I look around at the area. Mentally replaying the events of a month ago, ¡°I was hiding here when the ambush happened,¡± I say, as I point in the direction of the clearing, which is barely visible through the trees. ¡°A bandit snuck up behind me, and I stabbed him in the throat with a spear.¡± I sigh, ¡°I ran away at first, but came back later and buried his body.¡±

    I feel Eilidh¡¯s pale eyes boring into me before she even speaks. ¡°You¡­ buried him?¡± Eilidh¡¯s voice is quiet but sharp, like the edge of her shiv. ¡°He tried to kill you, and you gave him a proper burial?¡± There¡¯s something in her tone that goes beyond simple confusion¡ªa hint of anger, maybe even betrayal. She takes a step back from the mound, her shoulders tensing as if the very idea of showing respect to an enemy is physically uncomfortable for her. I can see her fingers absently finding the handle of her shiv, a habit I¡¯ve noticed she falls into when she¡¯s unsettled.

    Her reaction makes me pause. Of course it would seem strange to her¡ªin her world, survival means never showing weakness, never extending mercy, even to the dead. The concept of burying someone who tried to kill you probably seems as foreign to her as her casual acceptance of death seems to me. I open my mouth to explain, but what can I say? That where I come from, we believe in treating the dead with dignity? That somehow feels hollow in the face of her lived experience.

    As I stand there, trying to find the words to explain myself to Eilidh, that familiar sensation washes over me again¡ªa tingling that starts at the base of my skull and spreads through my body like warm honey. It¡¯s the same feeling I had after I buried him, when those strange words of prayer came unbidden to my lips. My vision blurs slightly at the edges, and I feel my consciousness step back, as if I¡¯m watching myself from a slight distance.

    When I speak, the voice that emerges isn¡¯t quite my own. It¡¯s deeper, more resonant, carrying an weight of ages I can¡¯t explain. ¡°All souls deserve peace in death,¡± the words flow through me, ¡°for in the final silence, we are all equal. The departed are beyond earthly grievances, beyond the petty conflicts that divide the living. To show respect to the dead is to acknowledge our own mortality, to recognize that one day, we too shall need the kindness of strangers to guide us home.¡±

    I feel my hand rise, almost of its own accord, gesturing to encompass both the scattered remains and the solitary grave. ¡°Whether friend or foe, saint or sinner, each spirit leaves behind those who loved them, those who mourn them. In honoring the dead, we honor not just who they were, but who we wish to be.¡±

    The words fade, and I¡¯m left feeling oddly hollow, like a bell that¡¯s just finished ringing. I blink, trying to ground myself back in the present moment, aware of the girls¡¯ eyes on me, their expressions a mixture of awe and uncertainty.

    ¡°Emma, what in the living hell was that?¡± Eilidh asks me uncertainly. ¡°Was it magic?¡± Mairi asks, with a raised eyebrow. ¡°It seemed different from the water splashes.¡±

    I look at them uncertainly, not sure what to say. ¡°It¡¯s not magic¡­ I think.¡± I turn to Eilidh, as the oldest person actually from this world. ¡°You¡¯ve not heard of something like this happening before? Like with the fruits?¡±

    She shakes her head ¡°Hell no. That was creepy. Like you were possessed by a spirit or something.¡±

    That bothers me, more than I care to admit. ¡°That¡¯s a thing that happens?¡± I stammer. I thought it was something to do with my sudden transportation. Some weird, but mostly harmless impartment. ¡°Has it happened to other people?¡±

    A small smirk plays across Eilidh¡¯s face, and she adopts an exaggerated, spooky tone. ¡°Oh aye, the spirits come in the night and make ye dance like a puppet while speaking in tongues.¡± She wiggles her fingers in the air dramatically, but seeing my genuinely concerned expression, her face softens. She drops her hands and shrugs, her ponytail swaying with the motion. ¡°Nah, it¡¯s just something old folk say when someone acts weird, you know? Like when Mairi starts talking about her elaborate plans to steal the baker¡¯s entire stock of sweet rolls.¡± She shoots a pointed look at her sister, who pretends not to notice. ¡°I¡¯ve never actually heard of it happening for real. Probably just stories to scare children into behaving.¡±

    That¡¯s somewhat relieving, but¡­ ¡°So where did this come from?¡± I ask her.

    She shrugs, ¡°Dunno, it sounded kinda nice.¡± She frowns then, however ¡°Not sure I agree though. Pretty sure I killed people that weren¡¯t mourned by anyone.¡±

    Several things occur to me at once, and my mind has difficulties processing them all at once. Elephant in the room is that Eilidh killed people plural. Second, she cares little enough about it that she can make a comment about it in casual conversation. Third, she actually understood what I just said. I thought I said all these things in English. No, I actually did say them in English.

    ¡°How many?¡± The words slip out, right as I mean to say ¡®Did you understand that?¡¯. I slap my hand in front of my mouth, as Eilidh¡¯s face goes wry. Like, she seriously looks at me with a bit of pity in her expression.

    ¡°Thought you were the only one?¡± she says with a hint of amusement. Did I? No. Not really. I just wanted that to be the case. I spend weeks in their company, and suspected, but didn¡¯t want to ask. I guessed it was something that was taboo, but Eilidh¡¯s words just now give the lie to that assumption. They just didn¡¯t feel a need to talk about a fact of life?

    Eilidh¡¯s face falls just a little bit. ¡°I wish I could say I¡¯ve lost count,¡± she says with a sigh, ¡°but all five still haunt me.¡± I nod at her. That, I can understand.

    The clearing stills, and I can hear each leaf scratching against its neighbor in the breeze. Then Mairi¡¯s high, clear voice rings out, almost cheerful in its matter-of-factness. ¡°I don¡¯t think about the two I killed at all.¡±

    Both Eilidh and I whip around so fast I feel a twinge in my neck. Eilidh¡¯s face has gone chalk-white, her usual composure shattered as she stares at her little sister. My own heart seems to have forgotten how to beat properly, skipping several beats before thundering against my ribs. Eight years old. She¡¯s eight years old.

    Mairi looks between us, her brow furrowing in confusion at our reactions. Her small fingers fidget with the stick she¡¯s still holding, and she takes half a step back. ¡°What?¡± she asks, genuine bewilderment in her voice. ¡°I thought we were comparing?"

    The innocence of her question, contrasted with its horrific content, makes my stomach turn.

    ¡°It¡¯s not like it was recent or anything,¡± Mairi continues, her voice taking on that defensive tone children use when they think they¡¯re being unfairly criticized. She kicks at the dirt with the toe of her worn boot, still clutching her stick like a lifeline. ¡°I was when I was little. You know, like¡­ two years ago?" She looks up at us hopefully, as if this detail might somehow make everything better.

    The words hit me like a physical blow. Six. She was six years old. I feel the blood drain from my face as I try to process this, try to imagine what circumstances could possibly lead to¡­ My mind recoils from completing the thought. Beside me, Eilidh makes a small, choked sound, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Her other hand clenches into a tight fist at her side, knuckles white with tension. I can see tears beginning to well in her eyes, though she¡¯s fighting hard to hold them back.

    It¡¯s obvious to Mairi that her words aren¡¯t having the desired effect, so she adds, ¡°They deserved it?..¡± as further justification. There¡¯s a hint of panic in her voice.

    Next to me, Eilidh can¡¯t hold it in any more, and breaks down in silent tears ¡°Why?! I do it so they don¡¯t have to! What could possibly¡­¡±

    Yeah Eilidh, you and me both. It beggars belief that Mairi would have to¡­ But does it? My mind jumps back to what Rhona told me about Mairi¡¯s past. Given the circumstances, I can understand how it might have happened. Still, the thought of a six-year-old even considering murder is¡­ It¡¯s too depressing to think about. It¡¯s true that it wouldn¡¯t be exactly uncommon, so maybe if she¡¯d seen it happen, she might think it¡¯s a great solution to her problem too?

    Watching Eilidh break down seems to pierce the last bit of Mairi¡¯s defensive shell. Her lower lip begins to tremble, and the stick falls forgotten from her fingers. The cocky facade crumbles, leaving a deeply uncertain girl behind. I can¡¯t bear it - can¡¯t bear to see either of them suffering like this. Before I can think better of it, I¡¯m crossing the space between us in two quick strides and dropping to my knees in front of Mairi.

    ¡°Of course it¡¯s okay,¡± I say, forcing the words past the bile rising in my throat. ¡°If Eilidh and I can kill people, you can too.¡± The words taste like ash in my mouth, and my stomach churns violently at the wrongness of having to say this to a child. But what¡¯s the alternative? To tell her she¡¯s a monster? To add guilt to whatever trauma she¡¯s already carrying? I reach out and grasp her small shoulders, trying to project a confidence I don¡¯t feel. ¡°You did what you had to do to survive. Just like we did.¡±

    The words feel poisonous. Am I seriously telling an eight year old killing is a valid solution to dealing with some issues? But, my old concepts of morality hardly apply any more, and these aren¡¯t children of that world. Am I going to tell her she can¡¯t protect herself if I¡¯m not around to protect her? No, hell no.

    ¡°Eilidh and¡­¡± Will I say that? No, not yet. It¡¯s so tempting to make her feel better though. ¡°¡­I are just sad you needed to do so at all. You didn¡¯t do anything wrong Mairi.¡± Behind me, I hear a sniffle and a muffled sound of agreement, and then Eilidh rushes forward to hug Mairi. I wrap my arms around them both.

    Mairi stands stiffly in our embrace for several long moments, her small body tense like a coiled spring. Then, gradually, I feel the rigidity start to leave her shoulders under my hands. She buries her face in my shoulder, her fingers clutching at the rough fabric of my shirt with desperate strength. A shudder runs through her tiny frame, and I can feel warm tears beginning to soak through to my skin. She doesn¡¯t sob or wail - her crying is nearly silent, as if she¡¯s still trying defend against something. I¡¯m not certain what she¡¯s crying about, but it doesn¡¯t matter. I¡¯ll be here regardless.

    After what feels like an eternity, Mairi¡¯s grip on my dress slowly loosens, and her breathing steadies. She pulls back just enough to wipe her face with her sleeve, her nose red and her eyes puffy. There¡¯s a moment of awkward silence as we all try to collect ourselves, when Mairi suddenly looks up at me with a wobbly attempt at her usual impish grin.

    ¡°Well,¡± she says, her voice still a bit thick but taking on that matter-of-fact tone she¡¯s so good at, ¡°I suppose that means I win by being the youngest.¡± She pauses, considering. ¡°Do you think that makes me special, or just proves what Calum always says about me being a wee demon?¡±

    The absurdity of her trying to turn even this into a competition, combined with her perfect mimicry of Calum¡¯s exasperated tone on the word ¡®demon,¡¯ startles a laugh out of both Eilidh and me. The sound¡¯s rough around the edges, like we¡¯re all forcing it past the lump still stuck in our throats, but it cuts through the thickness in the air. Mairi looks pleased with herself, and I can¡¯t help but marvel at her ability to bounce back¡ªshe¡¯s had to learn this trick, hasn¡¯t she? Had to figure out how to shake off horror like water off a duck¡¯s back. I imagine it¡¯s in large part why she¡¯s still alive.

    After our unfortunate encounter, and Mairi¡¯s revelation, we finally proceed along the last part of the route. We¡¯ve almost made it back to Ronain¡¯s village. Both me and Eilidh are lost in thought most of the way. Mairi however, is already back to normal, and is bouncing along with her usual enthusiasm.

    At some point, she suddenly speaks to me, whispering, ¡°She¡¯s never talked about¡­ anything. Why is she suddenly¡­?¡± Her eyes dart to Mairi, who¡¯s walking ahead of us on the dirt path, then back to me. I consider her question. Why would Mairi suddenly start talking? Is it because we are out of the city, the source of her trauma? Is it because of me? Because it¡¯s just the three of us? Because there¡¯s no younger children she feels she needs to protect? I shrug. It could be anything.

    I have a vague memory that it¡¯s good for people with any form of trauma to talk about it. It suddenly bothers me that I¡¯ve never had to deal with anything more than excessive anxiety. How am I supposed to help children that have gone through so much worse?

    I bend down to Eilidh, whispering back ¡°I don¡¯t know, could be anything, but we should let her. It¡¯ll help her get over it.¡± Damn, that sounds insensitive, like  everything that happened to her is some scraped knee she¡¯ll just walk off. ¡°You too probably,¡± I add, catching her eye

    She snorts, and scoffs ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± A moment later, she gets a pensive look on her face though, and she adds, a little bit uncertainly ¡°Probably¡­¡±

    We spend one more day camping outside, because we can¡¯t make it all the way from there to the village before nightfall, and the next morning, we set out early.

    At long last, when the sun is around halfway to it¡¯s midway point, we finally arrive back at Ronains village. I feel like I should have gotten it¡¯s name at some point, but I¡¯ve either forgotten, or I never actually asked. The sight however, causes a powerful feeling of nostalgia. It¡¯s a bit silly, because it¡¯s been only a short while ago that I left here, but nevertheless.

    I start to tell the girls to get off the road so we can circle around the village, but am suddenly uncertain why we¡¯d need to do so. My last attempts to enter the village were unfortunate, but I was unclothed, and they were on guard after my first attempt, and presumably worried about my hair. This time, with clothes on my back, and my hair covered, they could chase us out for beggars, but I probably don¡¯t have to be worried about getting shot with any more arrows.

    While I¡¯m still weighing the merits of different approaches, Eilidh and Mairi continue down the path, apparently having no such reservations. I hurry to catch up, watching as Mairi¡¯s head swivels from side to side, taking in the village with wide-eyed fascination. City girl through and through¡ªthe rough timber beams and golden thatch must look as foreign to her as a silk merchant¡¯s wares would to these villagers.

    ¡°Look at how crooked that house is!¡± Mairi exclaims, pointing at one of the buildings. ¡°I bet if you pushed on it, the whole thing would fall over!¡± Her voice carries clearly in the quiet village street, drawing attention from several villagers who peek out their windows or pause in their daily tasks. A woman pauses mid-sweep, her broom forgotten as she gawks at us.

    A boy, perhaps a year or two older than Mairi, steps out from behind a water barrel, his face pinched with indignation. ¡°Who are you to talk?¡± he shouts, his small fists balling at his sides. ¡°You look like you crawled out of a midden heap!¡±

    Mairi pauses mid-step, glancing down at her worn dress and mud-stained hem as if seeing them for the first time. Her face breaks into a wide, innocent smile. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re right!¡± she agrees cheerfully, giving a little twirl that makes the frayed edges of her dress flutter. ¡°I do look rather like a beggar, don¡¯t I?¡± The boy¡¯s jaw goes slack, his righteous anger evaporating like morning dew. He stands there gawping like a landed fish, completely disarmed by her playing the fool. Gods, she¡¯s good at this game.

    The exchange between the children leaves the adults shaking their heads, the offended glares they¡¯d been shooting at Mairi just moments ago have melted away. That girl knows exactly how to play people when she puts her mind to it.

    Eilidh turns to me, asking ¡°So, we pass through here, and then proceed down the path?¡± I start to nod at her, but at that moment a shout rips through the village.

    A small blur of motion is my only warning before I¡¯m nearly knocked off my feet by an enthusiastic impact. Strong, skinny arms wrap around my waist, and I look down to find Ronain¡¯s familiar face beaming up at me, his brown curls even more untamed than I remember. ¡°Emma! You came back!¡± he exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement. Then, with all the subtlety of a ten-year-old trying to be clever, he makes a show of looking over at the boy by the water barrel before turning back to my companions. His voice rises conspicuously as he asks, ¡°Who are these beautiful ladies with you?¡± He emphasizes ¡®beautiful¡¯ with such exaggerated courtesy that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing, especially when I catch Mairi¡¯s expression shifting from surprise to amusement as she realizes what he¡¯s doing.

    Eilidh clearly doesn¡¯t quite know what to make of it, though she blushes faintly, but Mairi happily continues her act from before, performing her best impression of a courtly bow towards Ronain, bending so low her wild hair nearly brushes the dirt. It¡¯s only mildly ruined when she bursts into giggles right as she comes out of it. I arch an eyebrow¡ªit¡¯s not that amusing¡ªbut she just flashes me that gap-toothed grin I know means trouble. ¡°I¡¯m Mairi,¡± she announces with all the authority of a town crier, waving her hand toward her companion. ¡°This is Eilidh.¡± Her finger jabs in my direction. ¡°And this is my mom.¡±

    I can feel my face heating up as Ronain¡¯s head whips between Mairi and me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. ¡°But¡­ but¡­¡± he sputters, his brow furrowing in confusion, ¡°you can¡¯t have children! You were here just a few weeks ago, and she¡¯s¡­¡± He gestures wildly at Mairi, who¡¯s watching the whole scene unfold with undisguised glee. ¡°She¡¯s almost as old as me!¡±

    Internally, I¡¯m cursing Mairi¡¯s penchant for stirring up trouble. Trust her to take a perfectly simple situation and turn it into a convoluted mess within minutes of arriving. For fuck¡¯s sake, Mairi, the village gate isn¡¯t even out of sight yet. But despite my exasperation, I can¡¯t help the slight twitch at the corner of my mouth as I watch Ronain¡¯s bewilderment grow. There¡¯s something absurdly amusing about watching this normally confident boy completely lose his composure, especially since he was just trying to play the gallant gentleman moments ago.

    I let out a small sigh and rest my hand on Ronain¡¯s shoulder, drawing his attention away from his sputtering confusion. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ well, it¡¯s complicated,¡± I begin, trying to find the simplest way to explain. ¡°I met Mairi and some other children in the city. They needed help, and somehow,¡± I shoot Mairi a pointed look, which she returns with an unrepentant grin, ¡°I ended up becoming something of a mother figure to her.¡±

    Ronain¡¯s eyes grow impossibly wide at this revelation, his previous confusion forgotten entirely. His gaze suddenly laser-focused on Mairi. ¡°Really? From the city?¡± he breathes, bouncing slightly on his toes. ¡°What¡¯s it like there? Are there really buildings taller than trees? How many other kids?¡± The questions tumble out of him in rapid succession, his earlier attempt at sophisticated behavior completely abandoned in his excitement. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the other boy by the water barrel inching closer, trying to appear disinterested but clearly hanging on every word.

    Mairi, ever perceptive to an opportunity for mischief, catches the other boy¡¯s poorly concealed curiosity. She rocks back on her heels, affecting a casual air that I¡¯ve come to recognize as trouble. ¡°Oh, you know,¡± she says airily, ¡°just normal city things.¡± The two lean forward as she speaks, moths to her flame. ¡°Markets where silk-wrapped merchants hawk spices that burn your nose from ten paces. Jugglers who dance on ropes strung between rooftops. Towers that stretch so high you¡¯d swear they scrape against the moon¡­¡± She lets the words hang in the air, glancing sideways at both boys¡¯ rapt expressions, savoring every moment.

    A sharp thwack breaks through Mairi¡¯s theatrical storytelling as Eilidh¡¯s knuckles connects with the back of her head. ¡°Quit filling their heads with nonsense,¡± Eilidh mutters, her usual quiet demeanor tinged with irritation. Her pale hair gleams like spun silver as she whips around to face the wide-eyed boys. ¡°The city¡¯s not that great. It¡¯s crowded, dirty, smelly beyond belief, and half the buildings look like they¡¯re about to collapse.¡±

    She pauses, her eyes drifting over the neat rows of timber houses with their carefully maintained thatch roofs, taking in the well-swept dirt paths and the small gardens visible between buildings. There¡¯s a subtle shift in her expression, something between longing and disbelief, as she realizes there isn¡¯t a single desperate soul huddled in a doorway or thin-faced child peering out from a shadow. ¡°You should be grateful you live here,¡± she adds softly, almost to herself, her arms wrapping around her middle in what might be an unconscious gesture of self-comfort.

    An older man with patchy white hair comes walking up behind Ronain, and immediately agrees with Eilidh ¡°Indeed, cities are nothing but trouble.¡±

    I glance at the elderly man, taking in his frail appearance. Despite his steady voice, his skin is papery thin and mottled with age spots, stretched over prominent bones like delicate parchment. The way he carries himself speaks of someone who has spent decades bent over workbenches and herb gardens, his spine curved slightly forward as if permanently shaped by his craft. When he introduces himself as Master Fergus, Ronain¡¯s teacher in the art of apothecary, I can¡¯t help but wonder how many more seasons this fragile-looking man has left to pass on his knowledge. Yet there¡¯s a sharp alertness in his pale blue eyes that suggests his mind, at least, hasn¡¯t succumbed to the ravages of time just yet. He rests a gnarled hand on Ronain¡¯s shoulder with surprising steadiness, and I notice how the boy unconsciously leans into the touch, a gesture that speaks of deep respect.

    My heart sinks as Mairi¡¯s spine straightens and her eyes flash like a cat spotting a mouse. Fuck. I know that look. ¡°So,¡± she bounces on her feet like an excited child, ¡°does that mean you can make poison?¡± The question comes out with all the innocence of asking about sweetmeats, and I have to resist the urge to clamp a hand over her mouth. But before I can intervene, Master Fergus lets out a wheezing chuckle that catches us all by surprise. His pale eyes twinkle with something that might be mischief, not so different from Mairi¡¯s own expression.

    ¡°My dear girl,¡± he says, his weathered voice carrying a note of pride, ¡°an apothecary worth his salt can make anything.¡± He emphasizes the last word with a slight lift of his bushy eyebrows, and I notice how his gnarled fingers drum thoughtfully against Ronain¡¯s shoulder. ¡°The real question isn¡¯t what we can make, but what we choose to make.¡± There¡¯s a gentle warning in his words, though it¡¯s wrapped in enough warmth to take any sting out of it. I can¡¯t believe the old man is going all uncle Ben on her. It takes me quite a bit of effort not to roll my eyes.

    Mairi¡¯s initial enthusiasm dims slightly as she processes Master Fergus¡¯s words. Her brows draw together in that particular way that means she¡¯s working through something in her mind, her small fingers absently playing with a loose thread on her sleeve. Then, with the relentless directness that only a child can muster, she frowns and asks, ¡°So, do you?¡± The question hangs in the air, managing to sound both innocent and slightly dangerous at the same time.

    Master Fergus¡¯s eyes crinkle at the corners as he slowly sweeps his gaze across the village square, taking in the tidy houses, the fat chickens pecking at seeds, the women carrying water, and the men hauling firewood. ¡°Tell me, young lady,¡± he says, his voice carrying that particular tone adults use when trying to teach a lesson, ¡°do you see anything here that would warrant such¡­ extreme measures?¡±

    Without missing a beat, Mairi¡¯s arm shoots up, finger pointing directly at the boy by the water barrel who¡¯d insulted her earlier. ¡°Him,¡± she declares with cheerful certainty, as if she¡¯s answering a simple arithmetic question.

    The sudden silence is deafening. Ronain¡¯s mouth drops open in shock, while Eilidh¡¯s hand flies to cover her own. By the water barrel, the boy¡¯s face drains of color as he stumbles backward, treating Mairi¡¯s extended finger like a loaded crossbow. Even Master Fergus seems taken aback, his weathered face flickering between surprise and something that might be reluctant amusement. I feel my own chest tighten with that familiar mix of exasperation and embarrassment that seems to follow Mairi¡¯s more¡­ creative social interactions. Her deadpan expression gives me no hint whether she¡¯s taking the piss or plotting murder.

    I take a deep breath, step forward, and¡ªmimicking Eilidh¡¯s earlier actions¡ª give Mairi a gentle but firm rap on the back of her head. ¡°No,¡± I say firmly, trying to channel the proper maternal disapproval despite the absurdity of the situation. ¡°We do not poison people over a few nasty words.¡± I pause, fixing her with what I hope is a suitably stern look. ¡°Especially not after you¡¯ve already won the exchange and made them look foolish.¡±

    Mairi rubs the back of her head, her face scrunching up like a disgruntled cat. For a moment, I see that familiar spark in her eyes¡ªthe one that usually precedes some clever retort¡ªbut then she catches sight of Master Fergus¡¯s raised eyebrow and seems to think better of it. Instead, she lets out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping in exaggerated defeat. ¡°Fine,¡± she mutters, though the corners of her mouth betray her, twitching upward despite her best efforts. ¡°I suppose it would be a waste of perfectly good poison anyway.¡±

    The whole exchange, as amusing as it all was, leaves me at a loss for what to do. I didn¡¯t expect to have to explain to anyone why we were passing through the village. There is no way to explain why I and a bunch of children from the city have traveled all the way here. Ronain might not know how far away the nearest city is, but I have to assume Fergus nearly certainly does. We need to somehow hide that we came here for the tree, and give them a plausible reason for our visit.

    I wouldn¡¯t mind visiting my cave again either. If we¡¯re going to do magic, I want to make a proper copy of all those runes, regardless of how often I need to rewrite them to get it right.

    Master Fergus clears his throat, his eyes crinkling with a mixture of amusement and concern as he watches Mairi rock back and forth on her heels, clearly ready to launch into another potentially problematic conversation. ¡°Perhaps,¡± he says, his weathered voice carrying a gentle authority, ¡°we might continue this discussion somewhere more comfortable?¡± He gestures toward a modest timber house just past the village square, its window boxes overflowing with what I recognize as medicinal herbs. ¡°Ronain and I were just about to break for morning tea, and I find conversation flows better over a warm cup and somewhere to rest one¡¯s feet.¡± The look he gives me is knowing, almost conspiratorial, and I can¡¯t help but feel grateful for his intervention. Standing here in the open, with curious villagers beginning to take notice of our unusual group, feels increasingly uncomfortable.

    ¡°That would be most welcome,¡± I gratefully grab the lifeline that he¡¯s thrown me. Mairi looks momentarily disappointed, then brightens when she sees the house that Fergus is gesturing to.

    A few moments later, we¡¯ve vacated the village square, and I sink down onto a creaky wooden stool that surrounds a sturdy wooden table. Everywhere I look, clay cups and earthen pitchers crowd the surfaces like a drunken potter¡¯s forgotten stock. Herbs dangle from the ceiling rafters, their shadows dancing in the dim light, while half-finished remedies and crushed plants litter every available surface. No woman¡¯s touch here - either Fergus never married or his wife¡¯s been in the ground a good long while. The clutter has that distinctly bachelor feel to it, the kind that comes from a man who knows where everything is but couldn¡¯t be bothered to make it look pretty.

    As soon as we settle into our seats, Ronain wastes no time in asking the question I¡¯ve been dreading. ¡°So, why did you come back?" he asks, leaning forward eagerly, his elbows propped on the table between us. ¡°Not that we¡¯re not happy to see you,¡± he adds hastily, catching a warning look from Master Fergus. I feel my heart quicken as I scramble for a plausible explanation, but before I can stammer out what would likely be an unconvincing response, Eilidh¡¯s quiet voice cuts through the tension.

    ¡°We¡¯re here because of me, actually,¡± she says softly, her pale hair catching the dim light that filters through the herb-crowded windows. Her fingers trace invisible patterns on the wooden table as she speaks, a habit I¡¯ve noticed she has when she¡¯s nervous but trying to appear calm. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯ve always wanted to learn about healing herbs. In the city, there¡¯s not much chance for that, and Emma mentioned meeting an apothecary here.¡± She glances up at Master Fergus through her lashes, her usual timidity making the lie all the more convincing. ¡°I was hoping¡­ maybe¡­ you might be willing to show me a few things?¡±

    I catch Ronain¡¯s eye across the table, and there¡¯s a peculiar mix of emotions playing across his young face. His brows are slightly furrowed, and there¡¯s a tension in his jaw that speaks volumes about something that clearly bothers him. It takes me a moment to understand - in all my time here, I¡¯ve never seen a female apothecary, and thinking back, I¡¯ve never heard mention of one either. The way Ronain¡¯s gaze flicks between Eilidh and his master carries an unspoken question, tinged with what might be territorial concern. Almost in unison, we both turn to Master Fergus, whose weathered face remains carefully neutral, though I notice his fingers have stilled their perpetual tapping against the wooden table. I find myself wondering why, of all the possible excuses, Eilidh chose this one.

    Master Fergus¡¯s weathered face slowly transforms, a smile spreading across it like sunrise over distant hills. ¡°Well now,¡± he says, his voice warm and thoughtful, ¡°it¡¯s not often I meet a young person with the wisdom to seek out knowledge rather than wait for it to find them.¡± His gnarled fingers resume their tapping on the table, but now it seems more like an expression of pleased contemplation than nervous energy. ¡°In fact, the last apprentice who showed such initiative was your mother, Ronain.¡±

    I blink in surprise, but Eilidh remains perfectly still, only the slight softening around her eyes suggesting she¡¯d anticipated this response. Ronain¡¯s mouth falls open slightly, his previous territorial concern evaporating into confusion. ¡°But you told me my mother was your best student,¡± he protests weakly.

    ¡°Indeed she was,¡± Master Fergus nods, his pale blue eyes twinkling. ¡°And do you know why? Because she didn¡¯t let the fact that no one had heard of a female apothecary stop her from becoming one.¡± He leans back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him as he studies Eilidh with newfound interest. ¡°Sometimes the best healers are those who understand what it means to need healing themselves.¡±

    The warmth in the room seems to dim slightly as Master Fergus¡¯s expression clouds over, the earlier twinkle in his eyes fading like sun behind gathering storm clouds. ¡°Not everyone understood that, mind you,¡± he says softly, his gnarled fingers stilling their dance against the wooden table. ¡°Some folks hold too tightly to the way things have always been done.¡± There¡¯s a weight to his words that makes my stomach tighten, and I can¡¯t help but notice how Ronain¡¯s shoulders hunch slightly, his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting knot in the wood grain. The conspicuous absence of any mention of Ronain¡¯s parents in the present tense hasn¡¯t escaped me, and I find myself wondering what became of this brilliant, boundary-breaking mother and the father who¡¯s equally absent from the conversation. The question burns on my tongue, but the heavy silence that¡¯s settled over the room warns me against voicing it. Some wounds, are better left undisturbed until their bearers choose to share them. Unsurprisingly, Mairi also seems to understand this, and remains uncharacteristically silent.

    The silence stretches for a moment longer before Master Fergus leans forward, his chair groaning in protest. His pale eyes fix on Eilidh with an intensity that seems to cut through all pretense. ¡°Knowing this then,¡± he says, his voice gentle but weighted with meaning, ¡°do you still wish to learn? It¡¯s not an easy path, lass, and some folks can be¡­¡± he pauses, searching for the right words, ¡°less than kind about such things.¡±

    Eilidh meets his gaze with surprising steadiness, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ¡°Master Fergus,¡± she says, her voice carrying its usual softness but underlaid with steel I rarely hear from her, ¡°I doubt learning herb-craft could make my life any more dangerous than it already is.¡± The truth in her words makes my chest ache. These kids are already outcasts, abandoned by the world, hell, they¡¯re planning to become unsanctioned mages. Knowing which plants will stop a fever will be the least of the shit they¡¯ll have to dodge.

    I find myself studying her face. There¡¯s something in the way her fingers have stopped their nervous tracing of the table, in how her shoulders have straightened ever so slightly, that makes me wonder. Perhaps she actually does want to learn this? After all, I¡¯ve never actually asked her what she dreams about, beyond survival.

    Master Fergus drums his fingers against the table one final time before laying his palm flat against the worn wood. His eyes, sharp despite their pale cloudiness, study Eilidh for a long moment. I can see the questions forming behind them - about her past, about the dangers she speaks of, about the careful way she holds herself like someone much older than her thirteen years. But he ultimately doesn¡¯t voice any of them.

    ¡°Aye,¡± he finally says, his voice gentle but firm. ¡°Well then, lass, I¡¯ll teach you what I know, and you¡¯ll learn what you¡¯re capable of learning.¡± He straightens in his chair, and I notice how Ronain unconsciously mirrors the movement. "Though I warn you - I¡¯m not an easy teacher. Every herb, every remedy must be perfect. There¡¯s no room for almost-right when someone¡¯s life is in your hands.¡± His eyes slide over to Mairi, a mischievous glint sparking in them as he throws her a wink. ¡°Or when you are trying to do the opposite.¡±

    I watch as Eilidh¡¯s fingers resume their pattern-tracing on the table, but this time it seems less nervous and more thoughtful, as if she¡¯s already imagining the precise measurements and careful preparations she¡¯ll need to learn. Her nod is slight but determined, and I find myself wondering if perhaps we¡¯ve stumbled into something more than just a convenient excuse for our presence here.

    Ronain steals another glance at Eilidh, his earlier reservations melting away like morning frost in sunlight. His hands are fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve as if he can barely contain his excitement. I remember being his age, how emotions could flip as quickly as a coin in the air, especially around someone pretty. And Eilidh, despite the dirt smudged across her cheeks and her threadbare clothes, has a delicate beauty about her that seems to have finally caught his notice. He keeps opening his mouth as if to speak, then closing it again, clearly wanting to share something but struggling to find the right words. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he blurts out, ¡°I could show you my notebooks! I¡¯ve drawn pictures of all the important plants, and Master Fergus says my illustrations are getting really good.¡± His cheeks flush slightly at this self-praise, but his eyes remain hopeful, seeking approval from both his master and his potential new study companion.

    My gaze bounces from Ronain¡¯s eager face to Eilidh¡¯s downturned one, and the corner of my mouth twitches upward. Eilidh¡¯s cheeks have taken on a rosy tint as she traces the wood grain with renewed intensity, pointedly not meeting anyone¡¯s eyes. Behind her shoulder, Mairi¡¯s lips curl into that familiar cat-who-got-the-cream smile, her eyes dancing with the promise of future teasing.

 Mischief and Magic - 2

    Since the day has just begun, Fergus, Ronain and Eilidh get right into it, leaving me and Mairi free to roam. I told Fergus we won¡¯t actually be able to stay longer than a week, at which he frowned, but that¡¯s already pushing our timeline. We were supposed to go here and back, if we stay away any more than a few extra days, everyone is going to be sick with worry.

    Mairi and me make our way down the path to the north of the village.

    It¡¯s surprising how well I remember these paths, given how messed up I was last time I passed by here. It¡¯s amazing what having healthy legs can do for you. In no time at all, we make our way back to the fork where I made my fateful decision. After that it¡¯s just a straight, well, sorta straight line along the path.

    I have no idea where exactly I found the tree, so I¡¯m counting on the attraction I felt last time to guide me there.

    It¡¯s almost comical how easy it is. After a few hours of steady walking, I feel a tug on my mind, and I gesture to Mairi that this is where we turn off the road. She happily follows, though she struggles a bit walking through the undergrowth barefoot, being more accustomed to the packed dirt paths and city cobblestones.

    Blue light filters through the leaves above us, dancing across my skin like ghostly fingers. The tree stands before us, somehow more magnificent than I remember. Glowing fruits hang heavy on every branch, more numerous than before, swaying slightly despite the still air. Each one pulses with an inner radiance, like dozens of captured moons. The entire tree seems to breathe with ancient power, and for a moment I swear I can feel its roots stretching deep into the earth beneath my feet.

    Beside me, Mairi has gone completely still, a rare sight for the usually fidgety child. Her eyes are wide with wonder, reflecting tiny points of blue light like stars. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s beautiful,¡± she whispers, her usual brash confidence momentarily forgotten in the face of something truly magical. She takes a hesitant step forward, her small hand reaching up as if to touch one of the lower-hanging fruits, then pulls back, casting a questioning glance my way.

    I understand her caution. It was hard to appreciate last time I was here, exhausted and hurt as I was, but there¡¯s something almost sacred about the scene - like we¡¯ve stumbled into a fairy tale. The air feels different here, heavier somehow, charged with possibility. A slight breeze rustles through the leaves, making the glowing fruit dance and shimmer, and I swear I can almost hear music in the movement.

    I nod encouragingly at Mairi, breaking the spell of reverence that had momentarily overtaken us both. ¡°Go ahead,¡± I say softly, ¡°but be careful - they¡¯re very juicy.¡± I watch as she stretches up on her tiptoes, her small fingers wrapping around one of the lower-hanging fruits. The glow intensifies slightly at her touch, as if responding to her presence. With characteristic determination, she pulls it free and immediately takes a bite, softly glowing juice running down her chin and reflecting the ethereal light from above, making her face shimmer momentarily.

    While Mairi enjoys her fruit, I turn my attention to gathering some for later. The wooden chest Rhona had given me isn¡¯t large, but it¡¯s sturdy and should keep the fruits from being crushed. I carefully select six of the ripest-looking specimens, each one pulsing with that strange blue light as I pluck it from its branch. They feel warm in my hands, almost alive, and I can¡¯t shake the feeling that I¡¯m taking something precious, something that doesn¡¯t quite belong in our mundane world of dirt streets and empty bellies. Still, I arrange them carefully in the chest, trying to nestle them so they won¡¯t bounce around too much on our journey back.

    I glance over at Mairi just as her eyes go wide, her half-eaten fruit forgotten in her small hand. She stretches out her other arm in front of her face, turning it this way and that, as if seeing it for the first time. I recognize that look of wonder and bewilderment - it¡¯s exactly how I must have appeared when I first experienced the strange doubling of perception. She wiggles her fingers slowly, deliberately, and I can tell she¡¯s marveling at the strange sensation of seeing and feeling both bodies move in perfect synchronization.

    ¡°I¡­ I can feel¡­¡± she trails off, struggling to find the words to describe this entirely new sensation. The usual rapid-fire chatter that follows her everywhere is notably absent, replaced by a sort of reverent amazement. She presses her hand against her chest, then against a nearby tree trunk, testing the boundaries of this new awareness. The blue juice still glistening on her chin catching the ethereal light from the fruit above, makes her look almost fae-like in the dappled shade.

    I¡¯m watching her explore this new sensation when suddenly her head snaps up, her eyes meeting mine with a calculating gleam that immediately sets me on edge. The contemplative wonder vanishes from her face, replaced by a familiar mischievous grin that spreads slowly across her juice-stained lips. Before I can even process the change, she launches herself at me with all the fury of a tiny whirlwind. I instinctively drop into juice mode myself, expecting to dodge, or block her attack as I did during our first encounter - but Mairi hasn¡¯t just been standing there in awe. While I see her movements turn slightly awkward as she sinks into the same temporal distortion for the first time, her natural agility compensates for it in ways I hadn¡¯t thought possible. Ways that were certainly impossible for me. There¡¯s a blur of brown hair and small fists, and the next thing I know, I¡¯m staring up at the canopy of glowing fruit, flat on my back with the breath knocked out of me. Mairi stands over me, hands on her hips, wearing a triumphant smile that would put a cat with a canary to shame. I can¡¯t help but laugh, even as my pride smarts from being so thoroughly trounced by an eight-year-old girl.

    As I dust myself off and sit up, Mairi becomes a whirlwind of motion and giggles, darting between the trees with newfound enthusiasm. From my perspective, there¡¯s little to mark the difference between her usual energetic self and this enhanced version¡ªjust subtle things, like the way her movements occasionally stutter or flow too smoothly, betraying moments when she shifts in and out of the temporal distortion. It¡¯s strange, watching from the outside. When you¡¯re the one experiencing it, everything feels so profound, so dramatically different, but here I am, watching an eight-year-old girl basically playing tag with herself, and if I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d think she was just being¡­ well, an eight-year-old girl.

    She stops abruptly by a fallen log, her face scrunched up in concentration as she carefully places one foot in front of the other, probably testing how the distortion affects her balance. The juice stains around her mouth have dried to a faint purple, and her hair is increasingly disheveled from her acrobatics, but her eyes still sparkle with that mixture of wonder and mischief that seems uniquely hers. I find myself smiling, remembering my own first experiments with this strange power¡ªthough mine had been considerably more cautious, a lot less successful, and certainly less playful.

    I glance up at the tree, trying to count the glowing fruits that still dangle from its branches. Even after our harvest, there seem to be hundreds left, their ethereal blue light creating a mesmerizing constellation through the leaves. The longer I stare, the more difficult it becomes to keep track - the gentle pulsing of their light makes them seem to shift and multiply, like stars appearing in the evening sky. Some clusters hang so high that they blur together into a soft azure haze, while others remain tantalizingly just out of reach. I find myself wondering how quickly the tree replenishes itself. How many fruits you should expect on any given tree. How much juice you¡¯d get out of every fruit. All the mechanics of the thing. Everything I¡¯ve heard from Rhona and Iain seems to indicate these trees are just like any other fruit tree. But standing here, bathed in that otherworldly glow, watching the fruits shift and shimmer like stars at dusk, my gut tells me there¡¯s more to it. Something that can¡¯t be measured or predicted, something that laughs at human attempts to understand it.

    I pluck a new fruit for myself, and take a bite. The juice dribbles down my cheeks, making me look much the same as Mairi. I can slowly feel my juice supply refilling, and part of me can¡¯t help but rejoice as I get closer to full, it truly is like filling your stomach. If you use it, you get hungry, and you¡¯ll be drawn towards food, just like smelling a bakery when you haven¡¯t had lunch yet.

    As my awareness of the tree fades, I start thinking we might as well go back to the cave and properly document the runes there. I can make another attempt at writing down the more complex ones. Don¡¯t think we¡¯ll be able to do anything with them soon, nor should, for that matter, but it¡¯ll be good to have them.

    Sure, copying the runes down could spell disaster if they fall into the wrong hands¡ªIain¡¯s dire warnings echo in my ears. But my fingers itch to preserve that knowledge, to understand it. Besides, who better to keep these secrets than someone who actually gives a shit about not starting another war? Still¡­ the fact that I¡¯m justifying this to myself probably means something. Fuck it. Knowledge is knowledge, and I¡¯d rather have it and not need it.

    ¡°Mairi,¡± I call softly, trying not to startle her out of whatever game she¡¯s playing with herself. She pivots mid-step, her movement unnaturally fluid thanks to the fruit¡¯s effects. ¡°Lets go now. I want to show you my hidden cave."

    She bounds over to me, her face flushed with excitement and exertion. ¡°What about Eilidh?¡± she asks, glancing at the remaining fruits overhead. ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we bring her some too?¡±

    I follow her gaze to the gently pulsing fruits and shake my head reluctantly. ¡°We can¡¯t. These things glow like lanterns¡ªno way to walk into the village with these and not be noticed.¡± I gesture at the wooden chest already filled with our earlier harvest. ¡°These are safe, and if we get a chance later we can just give her one. Besides," I add, trying to soften my refusal, ¡°Eilidh¡¯s supposed to be studying herbcraft right now. Can¡¯t exactly explain why glowing juice is dribbling down her chin now can we?¡±

    The silent judgment in Mairi¡¯s eyes makes my skin prickle. ¡°You keep calling it ¡®the village¡¯,¡± she says slowly, each word dripping with suspicion, ¡°why don¡¯t you just use its name?¡± Heat creeps up my neck. ¡°Uh¡­¡± The word hangs in the air between us, and her face falls flat. ¡°You don¡¯t know do you¡­?¡± I stand there frozen, caught in my own ignorance, until she breaks the silence. ¡°Coille Dhubh,¡± she declares, and I just stare back blankly. ¡°That¡¯s it¡¯s name!¡± she nearly shouts at me, exasperated. ¡°How can you have been here multiple times and still not know?¡± She clicks her tongue, muttering under her breath, ¡°Just like Iain. How are you ever going to deceive someone if you don¡¯t even know where they live?¡±

    It takes me a while to get over that, and the vague feeling of shame doesn¡¯t leave me until w¡¯re nearly back to the village¡ªno dammit, Coille Dhubh¡ª though we don¡¯t actually enter it, and instead make our way around it to the cave. It¡¯s late afternoon when we get there, and it¡¯s kind of hard to see already. When we step into the cave, the runes on the side of the entrance are already alight, glowing with their uncanny blue light. While this makes them easy to see, they don¡¯t give off enough light by themselves to actually see what you are writing.

    I gather dry branches and debris from the cave¡¯s entrance, supplementing them with branches from the forest, while Mairi eagerly helps by collecting smaller twigs and leaves. We soon have a modest fire going, its warm light creating a cozy circle that pushes back the darkness and blends with the runes¡¯ cool blue glow. It makes me smile to remember that this is almost the exact spot where Ronain first taught me how to make fire.

    I settle down cross-legged near the fire, pulling out the pieces of bark I¡¯d gathered on our way here. The firelight dances across the rough surface, making it easier to see what I¡¯m doing while also casting strange, shifting shadows that sometimes make the runes on the wall seem to move. Mairi positions herself opposite me, her face alternately lit by the orange glow of the flames and the supernatural blue of the runes, making her look almost otherworldly.

    ¡°Hand me that smaller piece,¡± I murmur, reaching out without taking my eyes off the wall. The runes are more complex than I remembered, with subtle variations in their curves and angles that I hadn¡¯t noticed before. I can¡¯t help but wonder if the fruit¡¯s effects are helping me see details I missed during my first desperate copying attempt, it¡¯s certainly good for copying fine details though. If your hand moves three times as slow, you get a lot more opportunity to stop in time, or draw fine curves. My hand moves carefully across the bark, trying to capture every nuance of the strange symbols while being acutely aware that each mark could be the difference between success and disaster. Well, I assume that. For all I know the margin of error on what constitutes a ¡®proper¡¯ rune is huge. Maybe it only matters that they¡¯re sufficiently different from any other to differentiate them? It¡¯s magic, it could do anything.

    The scratching of my makeshift stylus against bark fills the cave, punctuated only by the occasional pop from the fire and the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness. I¡¯m so absorbed in capturing every detail of a particularly intricate rune that I barely register Mairi¡¯s movement as she shifts position, scooting closer to the wall. Her small face is scrunched up in concentration, brown eyes reflecting the mixed light of fire and runes as she studies the markings with unusual intensity. After a few minutes of silence¡ªpossibly a record for her¡ªshe extends one finger toward a familiar symbol.

    ¡°Is this the one?¡± she asks, tracing the air just in front of the rune that seems to pulse slightly brighter at her proximity. ¡°The one you used for the water and dust thing?¡±

    ¡°Mmhmm,¡± I respond absently, most of my attention focused on getting the curve of another symbol just right. It¡¯s only when I hear the sharp intake of breath and feel an unfamiliar surge of power that my brain catches up with what¡¯s happening. My head snaps up, eyes widening in horror as I realize my mistake¡ªbut it¡¯s too late.

    The shockwave erupts right in the middle of the cave with all the subtlety of a thunderclap. It kicks up a cloud of dust and debris, sending my carefully arranged bark pieces scattering and nearly extinguishing our fire, when the whole of it is blasted several meters away over the rough cave floor. As the ripples fade away and the dust begins to settle, I find myself staring at Mairi¡¯s dirt-streaked face, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and delight, her hair standing nearly on end somehow.

    ¡°Oops,¡± she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

    I sit there, bark fragments scattered around me, mouth slightly agape, trying to process what just happened. The logical part of my brain is informing me that I should be angry¡ªafter all, she just caused a near explosion in our relatively secret cave hideout. But that thought is completely overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what I just witnessed.

    While I¡¯m still struggling to form words, my brain helpfully supplies a comparison: it took me weeks of frustrating trial and error just to get the smallest effect from the same rune. Weeks of headaches, of trying to figure out the trick of how these two bodies worked together. Of fighting against my own mind¡¯s stubborn insistence that I could only move the juice with that second body, not the mind. And here¡¯s Mairi, not more than a few hours after her first taste of the fruit, casually triggering a rune that I have barely figured out. Sure, I expect future runes to go a lot faster for me, the theory is the same after all, but what the hell?

    I look at her dirt-smudged face, those bright eyes still dancing with excitement, and finally manage to croak out, ¡°How did you¡­?¡± I trail off, not even sure what I¡¯m asking. How did you know what to do? How are you already using both minds so effortlessly? How did you figure out that it was the mind, not the body? The questions pile up like the debris around us, but none of them quite make it past my stunned silence.

    Is this the benefit of getting this power at an early age? I look around at the scattered bark around the cave, that imagine there¡¯s probably an age that is optimal to start teaching at. Clearly kids have an easy time figuring it out, but they need the responsibility that comes with being adults. Then I remember how I located this rune inside my own body on my first attempt. Maybe not as true as I would like it to be.

    Mairi bounces to her feet, already reaching toward another rune with the same eager curiosity. Her finger traces the air near a particularly complex symbol, one that seems to writhe in the mixed light of fire and magical glow. Before she can make contact, I grab her wrist¡ªgently, but firmly.

    ¡°Hold on there, little demolitions expert,¡± I say, trying to keep my tone light despite my concern. ¡°Let¡¯s not blow up any more of the cave until we actually understand what we¡¯re doing.¡± Her face falls into an impressive pout, complete with furrowed brows and slightly pursed lips. It¡¯s the kind of expression that probably works wonders on the merchants in town, but I know exactly what it means by now. "These aren¡¯t toys, Mairi. We need to figure out what each one does before we start experimenting.¡± I try to think of an example, and say ¡°What of instead of a shockwave, it instead summons a wolf? Right here in the cave?¡±

    She drops back down to sit cross-legged, arms folded across her chest in a perfect picture of childish disappointment. But I notice her eyes haven¡¯t lost that spark of mischief. Before I can return to my copying, she¡¯s already eying the original rune again. This time, though, her face scrunches up in concentration, and instead of the explosive blast from before, there¡¯s just a tiny ¡®pop¡¯¡ªbarely enough to disturb the dust at her feet.

    A satisfied grin spreads across her face, and before I can say anything, she¡¯s creating more tiny blasts, like a string of firecrackers going off around the cave. Pop-pop-pop. Each one perfectly controlled, each one just strong enough to create a small puff of dust. She looks at me triumphantly, as if to say ¡®See? I can be careful!¡¯ I can¡¯t help but shake my head, caught between exasperation and amazement at her rapid mastery of the power.

    It does lead me to notice something though. The pops are unequal. In hindsight I should have maybe noticed this before, but¡­ they¡¯re not actually shockwaves. No air is displaced by what we¡¯re doing. That¡¯d be very near an explosion I imagine, at least the concussive part. Instead, the rune seems to be pushing on everything that¡¯s not air. The pops Mairi¡¯s tiny explosions make, are just the sounds of various dust particles and small piece of debris hitting the floor and walls. When she makes one in midair, it barely does anything, except create a faint ring of displaced dust that¡¯s otherwise invisible.

    I wonder how that works. If it just displaced everything, then that¡¯d sorta make sense; the idea of it making a vacuum would be a bit weird, but I could understand it. Why does it ignore air though? Is it based on how you perceive reality? No. If that were the case then I¡¯d probably displace everything, given I know air is a thing that can be displaced. Is it just hardcoded in the rune? Like a game? It certainly displaces water though¡­ I get temporarily distracted by figuring this out, before realizing that it¡¯s pointless until I figure out what the other runes do.

    Mairi seems unbothered by this, testing the thing out on everything in the cave to see what it does. Eventually she settles on launching pebbles across the cave, until one bounces of the wall and hits me in the back, and I tell her to take it outside. That hurt. It didn¡¯t actually cause a bruise I think, so it¡¯s probably not a very effective weapon, but it¡¯s still more than I thought to use it for.

    Before she steps outside, I ask her how much juice all that blasting is costing her, but she doesn¡¯t seem to understand the question. So either it¡¯s really small, or she just hasn¡¯t noticed she¡¯s slowly running out. Then again, it cost me a third of my capacity to make a blast three meters across. You can fit thousands of the small 10cm things Mairi is doing in there. Assuming its cost is based on volume anyway. There¡¯s still too much about this stuff that we don¡¯t know.

    I guess I could plant myself next to the tree and just keep it up until I figure out the relative cost? I can always eat another fruit if I run out of power. As I have that thought, I realize that there¡¯s a lot more to the reason people keep these trees behind lock and key. It allows them to do research that others can¡¯t. Even if you eat a single fruit, eventually you¡¯ll run out of juice, and that¡¯s just not enough to truly figure out how it all works. I was half empty when I got back here, and that was slightly over a month of intermittent usage.

    Suddenly, I hear a nasty noise outside, somewhat akin to an explosion, and a moment later Mairi comes running into the cave, her face white. ¡°I¡­ I¡­¡± she stammers. Then from outside, there is a mighty creaking noise, a thunderous roar of branches breaking, and a crash. ¡°The tree¡­ It¡­¡± I crouch in front of her, and try to calm her down. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it, what happened?¡± Then I notice that her arm is soaked through with blood. I pull her sleeve back, and find a massive wooden splinter stuck in her arm.

    The splinter is deeply embedded, dark wood stark against Mairi¡¯s pale skin and the bright red blood that keeps welling up around it. My hands hover uncertainly for a moment¡ªI know you¡¯re not supposed to remove embedded objects, but seeing it there, seeing her blood continuing to seep out¡­ My stomach lurches. This isn¡¯t like the scrapes and bruises I¡¯ve seen on her before.

    I tear a strip from the bottom of my dress¡ªnot caring for a moment that it¡¯s my only garment¡ªtrying to stabilize the splinter and slow the bleeding, but the makeshift bandage quickly soaks through. Mairi¡¯s face is growing paler by the minute, her usual chatter replaced by shallow, quick breaths. The sight of her blood-soaked sleeve and her uncharacteristic silence sends a spike of fear through me.

    ¡°Hold on, sweetheart,¡± I murmur, scooping her up as gently as I can. She feels so small in my arms, her good hand clutching weakly at my shirt. The village is at least fifteen minutes away at a normal pace, but I don¡¯t have time for normal. I break into a run, trying to keep my movements smooth despite my pounding heart and the uneven ground. It¡¯s a good thing I know this area intimately. Each jostle draws a tiny whimper from Mairi, the sound cutting straight through me. I force myself to focus on the path ahead, on keeping my footing, on anything but the warm wetness seeping into my clothes where her arm presses against me.

    ¡°Just stay with me,¡± I pant, pushing myself faster. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡± It¡¯s a lie¡ªwe¡¯re not even halfway¡ªbut Mairi¡¯s eyes are starting to look unfocused, and I need her to hold on. I need her to stay awake. I need her to be okay. The thought of losing her, this fierce, brilliant child, is unthinkable. So I run, my legs burning, my lungs screaming, but none of it matters as much as the increasingly limp bundle in my arms.

    The door crashes open with such force that it rebounds against the wall, making the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling dance and sway. I burst in, Mairi cradled against my chest, her blood now soaked through both our clothes. ¡°Help!¡± I manage between gasping breaths, my legs trembling from the run. ¡°Please!¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Eilidh and Ronain spin around from their workbench, mouths agape, a handful of crushed herbs falling forgotten from Eilidh¡¯s fingers. But it¡¯s Master Fergus who moves with surprising swiftness for his age, he takes one look at Mairi¡¯s arm and takes control, his papery hands already clearing space on his main work table before I can take another step. Everything that was on the table clatters to the ground, breaking, splashing, not a care given to what it was. ¡°Here, child,¡± he commands, his voice carrying a steady authority that cuts through my panic. ¡°Lay her down.¡± The usual mischievous twinkle in his pale eyes has been replaced by the sharp focus of half a century of experience. As I gently place Mairi on the table, he¡¯s already rolling up his sleeves, his gnarled fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he examines the wound. ¡°Ronain, my surgical kit. Eilidh, I need fresh water and clean linens. Now.¡±

    The room erupts into controlled chaos, a rehearsed dance I can only look at in wonder. Eilidh disappears through a small door I hadn¡¯t noticed before, her white ponytail whipping around the corner as she moves with surprising purpose. Ronain¡¯s footsteps thunder up what must be stairs, and I can hear him rummaging through something above. The confidence in their movements strikes me¡ªthere¡¯s no confusion, no asking where things are kept, no hesitation. A wry thought crosses my mind, even through my worry: I wonder if Fergus drilled them on emergency procedures before anything else, like some medieval version of airline safety instructions. Ronain I understand, but Eilidh has been here all of one day.

    Ronain returns first, his arms cradling a worn leather case that¡¯s clearly seen its share of emergencies. The brass clasps are polished from frequent use, and there¡¯s a certain weight to how he handles it, as if the contents are precious beyond measure. Master Fergus takes it without looking up from Mairi¡¯s arm, his fingers already working at the straps with practiced efficiency. The sound of the clasps opening seems unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet, broken only by Mairi¡¯s shallow breathing and the distant splash of water from wherever Eilidh has gone.

    The door bursts open again as Eilidh returns, water sloshing over the rim of a deep copper basin clutched against her chest. Clean linens are draped over her arm, stark white against her stained dress. Again, I wonder at the wealth casually displayed here. The only thing I¡¯ve ever seen a basin made out of is wood, even in the city. She sets everything down with trembling hands, though her face remains composed. Master Fergus nods approvingly and reaches for the splinter, his weathered fingers poised above Mairi¡¯s arm.

    ¡°Wait!¡± The word escapes me before I can stop it. Everyone freezes, turning to look at me with varying degrees of surprise and concern. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of questioning the man who¡¯s clearly done this countless times before. ¡°Your hands¡­ shouldn¡¯t we wash them first?¡± The memory of my fever-wracked body and festering leg wound rises unbidden. ¡°Infections,¡± I add softly, almost apologetically.

    Master Fergus¡¯s eyebrows rise slightly, and for a moment, I fear I¡¯ve offended him. His pale eyes lock with mine, sharp and questioning, before something in them softens. Without a word, he plunges his hands into the basin, splashing water over his weathered knuckles and between his fingers, before rubbing them together. Water drips from his elbows as he works, but his eyes never leave mine, storing away my strange request for later questioning. ¡°Ronain, Eilidh, hold her legs. And you,¡± His voice cuts through the tense silence as he shakes the water from his hands. He jerks his chin toward me. ¡°keep her shoulders still. This won¡¯t be pleasant.¡±

    What follows is a meticulous process that seems to stretch for hours, though it can¡¯t be more than minutes. Master Fergus cleans the wound with careful precision, his movements gentle but sure as he works. When he finally threads the needle, the firelight catches on its curved surface, and I have to look away. Mairi whimpers softly as the first stitch goes in, her small hand finding mine and squeezing tight. I count my own heartbeats to stay calm, focusing on the steady rhythm of Fergus¡¯s hands as he works, each neat stitch closing the angry wound bit by bit.

    Finally, Master Fergus ties off the last stitch with practiced fingers and reaches for a small, well-worn tin I immediately recognize. The familiar scent fills the air as he unseals it, and I can¡¯t help but smile despite my exhaustion. The same salve that had worked such wonders on my wounds. As he spreads the pale green paste carefully around the neat row of stitches, I feel Mairi¡¯s death grip on my hand gradually loosen. The tight lines of pain around her eyes soften, and her rapid, shallow breathing begins to even out. I watch the tension melt from her small frame like ice in spring, remembering vividly the first time I¡¯d felt that blessed relief myself. It¡¯s strange how something so simple - a bit of paste in a humble tin - can seem more miraculous than any modern painkiller. There¡¯s clearly more to this world¡¯s medicines than meets the eye, and I find myself wondering about the true nature of Master Fergus¡¯s craft.

    Eilidh looks on in wonder. Her mouth hanging open as she observes the effect of the salve. ¡°Will I learn how to make that?¡± she asks breathlessly. Master Fergus looks over at her, the twinkle back in his eyes now that the worst is over. ¡°Not within the coming week you won¡¯t,¡± he replies with a smile. Her face falls, but not by much, she nods, apparently having already expected that answer.

    I look at Mairi¡¯s face, now relaxed. She¡¯s seemingly transitioned straight to sleep. I really wanted to know what happened, but I think I can make an educated guess.

    Seeing Mairi¡¯s peaceful face, Master Fergus gestures toward a rough wooden door behind his workbench. ¡°There¡¯s a bed through there¡ªRonain¡¯s room. Let her rest; she¡¯ll need it.¡± I gather Mairi¡¯s small form in my arms again, this time without the desperate urgency of before. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel the steady rhythm of her breathing. As I pass through the doorway, I notice Ronain doesn¡¯t even flinch at the idea of giving up his bed. Instead, he¡¯s already moving to pull back the woolen blanket, his face etched with genuine concern.

    The room is small but tidy, with herbs drying from the rafters and a few carefully preserved books stacked on a crude shelf. There¡¯s something touching about the way Ronain hovers as I settle Mairi onto the narrow bed, his usual scholarly detachment replaced by an almost brotherly protectiveness. Once she¡¯s tucked in, I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, taking a moment to steady myself before returning to face the questions I know are coming.

    Sure enough, Master Fergus is waiting in his chair by the workbench, his pale eyes sharp with curiosity. The blood-stained table has already been cleaned, and the surgical implements carefully put away. He gestures to another chair, and I sink into it gratefully, my legs finally remembering their exhaustion from the frantic run.

    ¡°Now then,¡± he says, his weathered hands folded in his lap, ¡°perhaps you might tell me what brought our young friend to such a state.¡± He pauses, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ¡°And after that, you can explain this business about washing hands. In all my years of healing, I¡¯ve never heard such a request, yet you spoke with the certainty of someone who knows its importance.¡±

    I take a second to think, ¡°Let me start with the easy one. You were going to wash out her wound right?¡±, he motions with his hand to concede the point, and for me to continue ¡°Well, the stuff you wash out of the wound, not the blood, but the dirt, and other stuff, that¡¯s on your hands too.¡± I shrug. ¡°If you wash it out of the wound, but then put it back in with your hands afterwards, that kind of defeats the point.¡± Master Fergus¡ªIt¡¯s strange how it¡¯s hard to think of him as anything other than Master Fergus¡ªis silent for a while. ¡°That sounds correct, but I feel like you are holding something back. Like you¡¯ve dumbed down your explanation somehow.¡± he says to me with a slight trace of annoyance in his tone.

    Eep. Well, he¡¯s not incorrect. Guess you can¡¯t become an apothecary and grow to his age without being perceptive. I mean, I don¡¯t actually mind telling him, I just don¡¯t think it¡¯ll make sense to him, but whatever. ¡°Well, that¡¯s because I did. And I did that because I¡¯m not entirely certain how this all works anymore myself.¡± I pause, thinking of how to best say this. ¡°The sum of it is, that there¡¯s little creatures. Smaller than you can see, that infest everything. They¡¯re on your hands, on your tools, on the floor, everywhere. The only way to get rid of them is by washing your hands, boiling water, which kills them, or by sterilizing your tools with fire.¡± I look around the room, trying to spot something like soap, before slowly saying ¡°It¡¯d be even better if you had soap, but I don¡¯t know how to make that.¡±

    Master fergus stares at me, and I feel slightly uncomfortable under his gaze. It¡¯s not clear to me from his expression whether he¡¯s getting ready to denounce me as a witch¡ªwhich, come to think of it, would be fair¡ªor thank me. ¡°I see.¡± he says slowly, still lost in thought. A moment later, he¡¯s back, and he ask me ¡°And that is everything you know?¡± I nod, feeling slightly sorry to not be of more help, ¡°Where I come from, this much is common knowledge. I didn¡¯t exactly need to know the details because I was no healer.¡±

    There¡¯s another small nod ¡°At least you are telling me the truth now.¡± he says, with a hint of reproach that leaves me feeling like I swallowed something wrong. ¡°Then how about my other question? How did that girl end up with such a grievous wound?¡±

    I was kind of hoping he¡¯d forget about that other question of his in all the talk of microbes. No such luck I guess. ¡°In all honestly, I don¡¯t know that. I was¡­ outside when she came running up to me in panic. I thought she¡¯d just done something stupid, but her arm was like that.¡±

    Master Fergus¡¯s eyes narrow, and I can feel the weight of his disapproval settle over me like a heavy cloak. His weathered fingers drum once, twice on the arm of his chair¡ªa measured gesture that somehow manages to convey decades of dealing with half-truths and evasions. ¡°Child,¡± he says, and despite being thirty-two, I feel properly chastised, ¡°I¡¯ve just spent the better part of an hour putting that girl back together. No questions asked, mind you.¡± He lets the silence stretch, and I find myself fighting the urge to squirm in my seat like a schoolgirl caught passing notes. Finally, I crack under his steady gaze. ¡°Fine,¡± I mutter, rubbing my temple. ¡°I may have been¡­ experimenting with something. Near a tree. Which might have, sort of¡­ exploded.¡±

    Master Fergus leans back in his chair, the wood creaking softly beneath him. His expression shifts from skepticism to something more complex¡ªa mixture of surprise and what might be recognition flickering across his weathered features. For a moment, he studies me with those pale, knowing eyes, as if seeing something new in me, something that makes him reassess everything he thought he knew. Then his eyes widen slightly, and I can almost see the pieces falling into place behind them, though whatever conclusion he¡¯s reached is anyone¡¯s guess. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then seems to think better of it, his lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, he simply says, ¡°Be careful, lass. Some trees have deeper roots than others.¡± There¡¯s a weight to his words that suggests he¡¯s not talking about actual trees at all, but I¡¯m too exhausted to puzzle out his meaning right now.

    That evening, I have a hard time getting to sleep. Master Fergus has graciously allowed us to stay in his house, though we¡¯re still sleeping on the mats we brought, since both beds are occupied. Ronain wouldn¡¯t hear of kicking Mairi out of his bed, so he¡¯s sleeping on the ground with me and Eilidh. Through the dim moonlight filtering in, I catch Ronain¡¯s head turning¡ªagain¡ªtoward Eilidh¡¯s sleeping form. His eyes linger on her face, soft and peaceful in sleep, before he quickly looks away. He¡¯s done this at least six times now. I hide my smile in the darkness; he¡¯s still so young, soon eleven if my count of the seasons is right. When Eilidh leaves in a few days, she¡¯ll likely vanish from his life forever, but watching him now brings back memories of my own first crush¡ªthat flutter in the stomach, the stolen glances, thinking the whole world revolved around one person.

    When sleep finally comes, it is the deep, dreamless sleep of complete exhaustion.

    The next five days pass in a flash. Eilidh is laser focused on learning as much as possible, which I think both disappoints and excites Ronain, as he gets to spend all that time with her.

    Mairi is in bed for a day by order of Master Fergus, and has enough of it after about two hours, claiming she¡¯s doing well enough that she can get up. I stand watching in the doorway as he looks at her in surprise, and pokes her wounded arm once with his finger, at which she cries out, and looks at him in betrayal. ¡°You will stay in bed until I can do that and not have you cry out.¡± he tells her without inflection. That sounds kind of harsh, she¡¯s definitely going to take that as a challenge. Some kind of teaching method?

    As I suspect, Mairi says she¡¯s ready to go out three more times over the next hour, each time getting a poke or tap on her arm. It¡¯s clearly not enough to open the wound, but enough to hurt like hell. I leave him too it, trusting him to not do anything too crazy. After the third time though, Mairi stops complaining, and even falls asleep for a few hours. The moment she wakes up she says she¡¯s ready to leave though, and is immediately rewarded with another poke and pained cry. I smirk, and wonder if there¡¯s some way we can apply this method to other things she needs to learn.

    There¡¯s no further attempts from Mairi that day, and the next day, after another good night of rest, Master Fergus allows her to get out of bed as long as she promises to be careful. For a wonder, she is, apparently having taken his words to heart. She mostly spends the second day around Fergus¡¯s house

    I use that time to go back to the cave, and gather all the scattered bark, as well as finish the final impressionsn I made. I now have a single piece of bark for every rune, which works a whole lot better than the single piece I had before. The evidence of Mairi¡¯s accident hits me as soon as I reach the entrance. Holy shit. Where a tree once stood, there¡¯s nothing but destruction - a stump surrounded by a blast radius of splintered wood and sticky sap. In the center of the devastation, a perfect circle about the width of my palm remains carved into the mangled trunk, wood bent outward like a frozen explosion. This stupid, brilliant child managed to set the rune in the middle of a living tree and forcibly create a sphere of empty space where solid wood used to be. My mind immediately jumps to the application I thought of before¡ªthat same perfect sphere carved into someone¡¯s skull, brain matter and bone exploding outward like¡­ I shake off the gruesome thought, but can¡¯t quite banish the twisted fascination.

    The third day and after Mairi spends running around the village, with me alternately paying attention to her, and going off to do a bit of practice with the other runes. By the fourth day her arm is doing well enough that the bandages can come off. Master Fergus frowns at this, apparently having expected something different, and I¡¯m reminded of my own near miraculous recovery from the arrow wound. Does it really have something to do with the fruit?

    It slowly becomes clear that maybe I should have spent a bit more time paying attention to Mairi, and less practicing magic. It¡¯s a good thing we¡¯re now known as the guests of Master Fergus, because I¡¯m not sure the townspeople would have let Mairi leave alive after the trouble she caused in just those final two days.

    It started innocently enough with her ¡°helping¡± the baker by reorganizing his display window, claiming the arrangement wasn¡¯t catching enough attention. The poor man came back from his lunch break to find his carefully crafted bread sculptures arranged in what Mairi insisted was ¡°a more dynamic composition.¡± The fact that it looked like a battle scene, complete with a bread-soldier stabbing another with a baguette, didn¡¯t exactly align with the baker¡¯s usual family-friendly image.

    But that was just the beginning. The next day, she somehow convinced several of the village children that the clotheslines needed ¡°improving.¡± They spent an hour meticulously rearranging everyone¡¯s laundry by color, creating what Mairi called ¡°a rainbow of opportunity.¡± The fact that this ¡°rainbow¡± involved tying the clothes together into long chains that stretched between houses, turning the village into a maze of other people¡¯s undergarments, was apparently beside the point.

    But the final straw came when she decided to ¡°help¡± with the village¡¯s logging operation. I should have known something was wrong when I saw her deep in conversation with a group of children near the woodcutter¡¯s storage area, gesturing animatedly at the massive log-hauling sleds. By the time anyone noticed what was happening, she had orchestrated what she called an ¡°improved delivery system.¡± The children had greased the wooden runners of three sleds with pig fat and positioned them at the top of the village¡¯s main slope. The idea, as Mairi later explained with unwavering conviction, was that gravity would do most of the work. Now, the slope isn¡¯t actually all that steep, it¡¯s a forest after all, but the pig fat made it so much worse. So what actually happened was three heavily-laden sleds careening down the hill like runaway wagons, sending villagers diving for cover and eventually crashing into the wood storage area. The sight of half the village¡¯s wood supply scattered all over the clearing, while Mairi enthusiastically pointed out how ¡°the logs actually cushioned the impact perfectly!¡± was too much. I heard several villagers making the sign against evil and muttering "beag deamhan¡±¡ªlittle demon¡ªunder their breath. Even Master Fergus couldn¡¯t entirely hide his relief when it was finally time for us to leave.

    I watch as Mairi skips ahead of me through the village gates, and can¡¯t help but shake my head, a mix of exasperation and amusement washing over me. The last few days have certainly put the market vendors¡¯ reactions in a new light. That peculiar dance of theirs¡ªsome greeting her warmly while others eye her warily¡ªsuddenly makes perfect sense. The girl is either your best entertainment or your worst nightmare, and there seems to be no middle ground.

    I should probably be more stern about all this. A proper parent would put their foot down, lecture about responsibility and respect about other people¡¯s property. But damn it all if I don¡¯t find myself fighting back a grin every time I think about those bread soldiers locked in their eternal baguette battle, or the rainbow of laundry stretching across the village like some deranged festival decoration. The girl has a way of causing chaos that¡¯s almost¡­ artistic.

    It¡¯s exactly the kind of mischief I would have dreamed up at her age, if I¡¯d had the courage - or maybe just the lack of sense - to actually do it. The difference is, Mairi doesn¡¯t just dream; she executes with the precision of a military campaign, complete with recruited accomplices and elaborate battle plans. I¡¯m supposed to be the responsible adult here. Though, given how I¡¯ve handled things so far, I might be failing spectacularly at that particular job requirement.

    I pause in my reflections and glance back toward Master Fergus¡¯s house, where Eilidh is still saying her goodbyes right outside the entrance. There¡¯s something different about her now¡ªa spark in her eyes that wasn¡¯t there when we arrived. She¡¯s standing straighter, more confident, even as she clutches a small leather-bound notebook to her chest that Master Fergus must have given her. A precious gift if the price of parchment is any indication. Ronain hovers nearby, his face a brilliant shade of red, stealing glances at her when he thinks no one is looking. The sight makes my heart ache a little; these moments of innocence are rare in our line of work.

    Eilidh catches my eye and waves me over, her usual timidity temporarily replaced by an urgency I haven¡¯t seen before. As I approach, she looks up at me with pleading eyes. ¡°Emma," she starts, her voice barely above a whisper, ¡°couldn¡¯t I¡­ couldn¡¯t I stay? Just a little longer?¡± Her fingers trace the edge of the notebook nervously. ¡°There¡¯s so much more to learn, and Master Fergus says¡­¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± the old man interjects, his pale eyes twinkling with that familiar mixture of wisdom and mischief. ¡°A week is barely enough time to scratch the surface of proper herbal study. The girl shows remarkable promise.¡± He strokes his chin thoughtfully, careful not to look at Ronain, whose blush has somehow managed to deepen even further. ¡°It would be a shame to waste such potential.¡±

    I notice how Eilidh¡¯s hands have stopped fidgeting with the notebook, how her shoulders have squared ever so slightly as she awaits my answer. Behind her, Ronain seems to be finding the pattern of the floorboards absolutely fascinating, though his ears are pricked toward our conversation like a cat¡¯s.

    I¡­ I mean, I don¡¯t mind. I just don¡¯t know what Rhona and the others will say. At the same time. It¡¯s not really their decision. As much as these kids live together, and have made a temporary family, there¡¯s really no parents to decide anything for them. While I¡¯m flattered Eilidh is asking me, I¡¯m in no position to say no.

    ¡°You know I¡¯m not actually your parent right? Besides, aren¡¯t you almost old enough to be considered an adult anyway?¡± I don¡¯t really know what the age of majority is in this era, but I seem to remember it was a deal younger than in mine. ¡°Well, yes¡­¡± she stammers. She stares at the dirt, drawing patterns with one of her toes ¡°I might have been married by now.¡±

    I can resist a glance at Ronain, whose head has turned ripe tomato red. Never mind that he¡¯s not of an age to marry himself, and that it¡¯s probably youthful infatuation.

    It¡¯s not like it¡¯s permanent anyway right. Am I really going to reject this one chance she has at a better life? Hell no. She should take it with both hands.

    I let out a small sigh and give Eilidh a gentle smile. ¡°Look, the way I see it, opportunities like this don¡¯t come around often in our world.¡± I pause, choosing my words carefully. ¡°Master Fergus is offering you a chance to learn something real, something valuable. Not just picking pockets or¡­¡± I gesture vaguely, not wanting to explicitly mention the less savory activities in front of the old man. ¡°Well, you know.¡±

    Eilidh¡¯s eyes light up with hope, though she¡¯s still trying to contain her excitement, as if afraid I might change my mind. I continue, ¡°I¡¯ll talk to Rhona and the others. And listen,¡± I place my hand on her shoulder, making sure she meets my eyes, "this isn¡¯t a forever goodbye, okay? We¡ªwe¡¯re your family too. You¡¯re welcome to come back any time you want.¡± I smile a bit wryly at the idea that we¡¯ll probably be back soon if the whole fruit thing works out. ¡°Plus, well, I have a feeling we¡¯ll be back here soon anyway.¡±

    The words feel strange coming from my mouth. Me, the antisocial programmer who used to avoid office parties like the plague, talking about family and belonging. But I mean every word of it, and somehow that¡¯s even stranger.

    ¡°Just¡­¡± I add with a smirk, glancing at Master Fergus, ¡°try to learn actual healing herbs and not whatever Mairi would undoubtedly try to learn, alright?¡±

    Master Fergus¡¯s weathered face turns serious, the persistent twinkle in his eyes temporarily replaced by something harder, more ancient. ¡°Ah, now that¡¯s where you¡¯re wrong, lass,¡± Master Fergus says, pushing himself up straighter with a soft grunt ¡°There¡¯s no learning healing without understanding its opposite. Every plant, every root that can mend can also harm. It¡¯s two sides of the same coin, you see.¡± He runs his papery fingers along the arm of his chair, as if tracing invisible patterns. ¡°A healer who knows nothing of poison is like a warrior who¡¯s never seen a blade¡ªdangerous in their ignorance. The difference lies not in the knowledge itself, but in the heart of the one who wields it.¡±

    His words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of experience. I find myself shifting uncomfortably, suddenly aware that this kindly old man probably knows a hundred ways to kill a person while making it look like natural causes. The thought sends a chill down my spine, even as I recognize the wisdom in his words. Eilidh, for her part, is hanging on every word, her eyes wide with a mixture of fascination and something that might be fear.

    ¡°Well, alright then.¡± I say with forced cheerfulness. ¡°Learn whatever Master Fergus thinks you should learn then.¡± I¡¯m reminded of how Ronain also inadvertedly taught me how to make a few simple poisons, and I suddenly feel foolish for saying what I did. We had a whole conversation about this right when we arrived too.

    ¡°Emma, Eilidh, are you coooming?¡± shouts Mairi from the village entrance, where she¡¯s stopped, waiting for us to catch up. I wave at her, then turn to Eilidh and wish her good luck one more time, before turning back and jogging to catch up to Mairi. ¡°Where¡¯s Eilidh?¡± she asks. I¡¯m hesitant, not sure how she¡¯ll respond. ¡°She¡¯ll be staying here to study with Master Fergus,¡± I say with some hesitation.

    Mairi looks shocked. ¡°What? Nooo!¡± She looks rapidly back and forth between where Eilidh is standing, and the road. ¡°I was going to¡­¡± she looks dejected. Then suddenly cups her hands around her mouth and shouts at Eilidh ¡°Have fun with your boyfriend!¡± That done, she turns around and starts walking down the road. I look between Mairi and where Eilidh was standing, though it seems she¡¯s fled inside. Master Fergus is waving, somehow, with his old body, and Ronain, well, I¡¯m sure he¡¯s happy.

    I run after Mairi. What was her problem? When I catch up, I quickly ask ¡°You are not sad?¡± She looks at me with surprise painted all over her face. ¡°No? Why would I be?¡± It¡¯s my turn to frown ¡°You seemed so upset that Eilidh was staying.¡± She laughs ¡°No, that¡¯s good for her. I was just looking forward to teasing her this entire trip.¡±

    I shake my head, not sure how things ended up this way, but we have the fruit, I copied all the runes properly, Mairi has magic, and Eilidh has found a new passion. It¡¯s a shame Eilidh hasn¡¯t eaten a fruit, but I had planned to do that on the way back. Either way, now it¡¯s time to return, and figure out what to do after.

 Mischief and Magic - 3

    The whole way back, I¡¯m on guard, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but after four days, we stand on the hill overlooking the city and I breathe out out a sign of relief.

    I won¡¯t say it out loud, because that will surely trigger a flag, but I¡¯m now nearly convinced nothing bad will happen. For a wonder, it doesn¡¯t.

    We¡¯re almost to the city gates when Mairi wrinkles her nose, looks at me in disgust and exclaims ¡°Why does it smell so bad? What died here?!¡±

    I smirk, days out in the wilderness have apparently done wonders for her sense of smell. Some of the people surrounding us¡ªI mark them as city folk by the way they don¡¯t make a face¡ªglance at us in amusement.

    A bushy eyebrowed farmer that¡¯s also in town for one reason or another laughs heartily, before he agrees with Mairi ¡°Ain¡¯t that the truth, ey?¡±

    Mairi looks at him with indignation, and takes in a breath. The prelude to another helpful retort no doubt. This time, I  manage to clap my hand over her mouth before the inevitable outburst.

    ¡°I whife heu¡­¡± she tries to say through my hand, as I talk over her and respond to the farmer ¡°Yeah, first time in a long time we¡¯re visiting the city.¡±

    He nods roughly, and barks a laugh ¡°Better get used to it then!¡± Then he walks off, dragging the goat that he¡¯s brought after him.

    Thank heavens. I don¡¯t need someone questionining why two people dressed like, well, beggars, are claiming to live in the city. Even most of the people living in the slums don¡¯t look like this. We may have washed our clothes, but the roads have not been kind on them. These kinds of dresses are meant to be covered when you go out, being little more than a long tunic. We¡¯ve basically been abusing them for weeks and it¡¯s¡­ well, it¡¯s visible.

    It occurs to me that we should have stolen new dresses while we were out there. There¡¯s barely any watching eyes in those outlying villages, especially compared to the city. I bite my lip, cursing our missed opportunity. Here we need to somehow sneak them out of the inner city. Damn.

    I tap my forehead with my knuckles, muttering curses at myself before my hand freezes mid-tap. Do I really think that I¡¯m stupid for not having stolen something, because it would have been¡­ easier? I examine my thoughts, and am forced to conclude that, yes, that¡¯s exactly what I feel like. The old me would¡¯ve been horrified, would¡¯ve spent hours fretting over even considering theft. Now? I shrug, already planning to do better next time. Somewhere between stealing food, money and scaling walls for clothes that hang too high, my conscience learned to take a nap. A little voice at the back of my mind reminds me that it¡¯d be inconvenient if I were worried about it every time. The kids need to eat, and dead people don¡¯t have much use for morals.

    I motion Mairi ahead, my lips quirking as I puzzle over my own thoughts. The guards¡¯ eyes slide right past us as we trudge through. The guards stand rigid in their posts, their eyes barely flickering our way¡ªa stark contrast to how they usually ogle the prettier girls passing through. One of them shifts his weight, his hand tightening on his spear as a young woman in a clean dress walks past. His gaze follows her until she disappears into the crowd, but he stays put. I¡¯ve seen this dance before; they look, but never touch. Still, my skin prickles at the thought of walking through here alone after sunset.

    Regardless, Mairi and I have no such issues. Dirty, ugly, mother and child combinations never seem to have problems of that kind. My mind drifts to Rhona, who¡¯d probably turn heads even wrapped in a burlap sack. The way her hips sway when she walks¡­ I catch my reflection in a puddle and grimace. Curves like a fencepost, that¡¯s me.

    I glance at Mairi, but there¡¯s no saying yet how she¡¯ll turn out. Chances are that any issues boys have with her will be more related to her personality than anything else.

    I stifle another laugh, watching Mairi¡¯s determined stride through the crowded street. The thought of this fierce little urchin growing up, maybe turning into some demure young lady¡ªor more likely not¡ªstrikes me as absurdly funny. Will she be chasing after boys or girls with the same single-minded intensity she uses to case potential marks? Will she shoot up tall and willowy, or stay compact and fierce? The mental image of her trying to maintain her current tough-girl persona while dealing with teenage crushes nearly sets me off.

    ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡± Mairi¡¯s suspicious voice cuts through my musings. She¡¯s stopped walking and turned to face me, hands on her hips in a pose that makes her look an awful lot like Rhona when she¡¯s angry. Her eyes narrow as I try to compose myself, but the way her nose scrunches up in annoyance only makes it harder not to laugh.

    ¡°I¡­ uh¡­¡± I sputter, caught between amusement and the sudden realization that I probably shouldn¡¯t share my thoughts about her future romantic life with an eight-year-old. ¡°Nothing! Just¡­ thinking about¡­ things.¡± I manage lamely, which of course only makes her more suspicious.

    ¡°Things?¡± Mairi¡¯s eyes narrow further, if that¡¯s even possible. She plants her feet more firmly on the cobblestones, making it clear we¡¯re not going anywhere until she gets a proper answer. A cart laden with vegetables rumbles past, forcing us to step closer to the buildings. The driver shoots us an irritated glance, but Mairi¡¯s attention never wavers from my face. ¡°What kind of things?¡± she demands, crossing her arms. ¡°You were looking right at me and laughing.¡±

    I run a hand through my hair, buying time. How do I explain I was imagining her future without sounding condescending? The truth might actually be better¡ªshe¡¯d see through a lie in a heartbeat anyway. ¡°I was just thinking about how you might be when you¡¯re older,¡± I admit carefully. ¡°You know, wondering if you¡¯ll stay as¡­ determined as you are now.¡± The word ¡®determined¡¯ is definitely more diplomatic than ¡®stubborn¡¯ or ¡®fierce¡¯, though the slight twitch of her mouth suggests she knows exactly what I mean.

    Mairi¡¯s stern expression melts away, replaced by an unexpected brightness that transforms her whole face. ¡°Oh! Well, that¡¯s easy,¡± she declares, transitioning from being glued to the ground to bouncing slightly on her toes. "I¡¯m going to be like you!¡±

    Blink.

    I stare at her and I feel my throat tighten unexpectedly. This fierce, clever little girl wants to be like me?  I try to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat, but it¡¯s no use. My vision blurs, and I have to blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

    Mairi¡¯s face falls slightly, uncertain now. ¡°Emma? Did I say something wrong?¡±

    I shake my head quickly, managing a wobbly smile. ¡°No, no, you didn¡¯t say anything wrong. I¡¯m just¡­¡± I have to pause, collecting myself. ¡°I¡¯m touched that you¡¯d want to be like me.¡± My voice comes out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat.

    Mairi¡¯s face scrunches up in that particular way she has when she thinks someone is being particularly dense. ¡°Well, that¡¯s silly,¡± she declares, with all the conviction an eight-year-old can muster. ¡°Who else would I want to be like?¡± She starts ticking off points on her fingers, as if presenting evidence in court. "You showed up out of nowhere, you keep us fed, you actually help us steal, taught us¡­¡± she seems to hesitate here, before making a vague gesture at the chest in the bag ¡°awesome things.¡±

    At this point she realizes she ran out of fingers on the hand she was using to count, so she balls her remaining fist tightly, ¡°but most importantly, you actually listen when we talk. You don¡¯t treat us like we¡¯re stupid just because we¡¯re kids. Even Iain says so and he rolls his eyes at everyone." Her chin lifts defiantly, brown eyes aflame with certainty, as if she¡¯s daring me to contradict her. ¡°That¡¯s what grown-ups are supposed to be.¡±

    I stare down at her upturned face, those brown eyes blazing with such unwavering faith it makes me dizzy. Every day I wake up wondering if I¡¯m doing any of this right, fumbling through each decision like a drunk in the dark, yet here stands this fierce little scrap of humanity, who somehow finds something in me worth looking up to.

    I tell myself that she doesn¡¯t have any role models. That the fact she wants to be like me is inevitable, but there¡¯s Rhona, there¡¯s even Eilidh. Of course Mairi¡¯s situation is special, but it¡¯s also not.

    My thoughts are a mess. A happy mess.

    I wrap my arms around her, pressing her close, ¡°Thank you.¡± I whisper in her ear.

    Mairi lets me, though I can almost feel her thinking that adults¡ªor this particular adult anyway¡ªare weird sometimes.

    Every time I feel sad about the life I¡¯ve lost, every time I think about the family I left behind, I¡¯m sad, sure. I loved them. But¡­ I¡¯m also not, because it meant I found this new family, and this brave little one in particular. Meeting these kids, meeting Mairi, is what saved me when I was at my lowest point.

    If someone were to ask me, right now, whether I would turn back time, and simply continue my old life if I could. I don¡¯t know what I would answer.

    Well¡­ I do. The answer is literally right in front of me. I just feel ashamed to admit it. It feels silly that I¡¯d choose this girl that I¡¯ve known for barely two months over my family back home. But¡­ I know all of them would cheer me on. They¡¯re good people, and I¡¯m inclined to think they¡¯d choose the same. These children need me in a way my family does not.

    I imagine it¡¯d be different if there was anyone waiting for me back there, but¡­ there¡¯s not. I never quite managed to settle down.

    I pull away from Mairi, and a small sigh escapes her lips. My brow furrows as I try to decipher the sound. I tentatively pull her closer again, and she immediately twists like a cat in a bath.

    ¡°No, no, you¡¯ve had enough! No more cuddling!¡± She shakes her head. Her little arms push against my chest until I release her, watching as she bounces backward, putting a safe distance between us.

    ¡°How long were you going to keep me like that?¡± she frowns at me. Her head turns sideways to look at the dirt, and she mumbles, ¡°I mean, it was kind of nice.¡± Then she stills, and her head snaps back up, nose pointed skyward like some merchant¡¯s spoiled daughter. ¡°But enough is enough.¡±

    I bite back a laugh¡ªdid this girl just go all tsundere on me?

    ¡°Alright,¡± I agree. ¡°Lets get home then.¡± Mairi bounces forward with a vigorous nod, her small fingers wrapping around my palm without hesitation. I guess hand-holding doesn¡¯t count as cuddling in her carefully drawn rulebook.

    Eventually, we are standing in front of the alley that leads to the hideout. ¡°Ready for a triumphant return?¡± I ask Mairi. She nods vigorously ¡°I can¡¯t wait for them to try the fruits too.¡±

    I¡¯ve carefully inspected the fruits every day, and so far they don¡¯t seem to have lost their lustre. I wonder how long we¡¯d be able to keep them. Not that I expect this set to survive our return for very long.

    It   occurs to me that we¡¯ve basically walked into this city with the equivalent of a nuclear bomb in our bags. At least as far as reaction from the authorities is concerned. No use crying over spilt milk I suppose.

    Just a moment after we turn the corner that allows people to see us from our cozy hideout, a shout rings out. Calum is the one standing guard right now, and he rushes towards us, his eyes wide with fear. I¡¯m momentarily confused, before he starts babbling in a panic ¡°Eilidh!  Why isn¡¯t she here?! What happened to her?!¡±

    I take an involuntary step back, my mind suddenly blank in the face of Calum¡¯s frantic energy. ¡°I¡­ she¡­¡± The words tangle in my throat unable to deal with his sudden panic. My hands unconsiously jump up to hold my nonexistent ponytail, a nervous habit I really aught to leave behind now that I¡¯ve cut it off. Drawing in a shaky breath, I try to find my usual composure, but  the responsibility of explaining Eilidh¡¯s absence makes my tongue feel like lead. Mairi presses closer to my side, her  presence both comforting and somehow adding to the pressure of the moment.

    Just as I¡¯m struggling to form a coherent explanation, Mairi¡¯s eyes light up. Before I can stop her, she steps forward, puffing up her chest. ¡°Oh! Eilidh¡¯s fine,¡± she announces with dramatic flair, clearly savoring every word. ¡°She just found herself a boyfriend!¡±

    The statement hangs in the air for a moment, and I watch as Calum¡¯s face transforms from panic to confusion to something that might be hurt. I want to intervene, to soften the blow somehow, but Mairi¡¯s already warming to her theme. ¡°He¡¯s really old too,¡± she adds helpfully, ¡°and knows lots about magic!¡±

    I jerk towards Mairi, the nonsense coming out of her mouth stirring me out of my inaction. ¡°Who in the blazes are you talking about?¡± I frown. ¡°Ronain¡¯s like 10. What geezer are you talking about?¡±

    There¡¯s definitely something like relief in Calum¡¯s expression, some marginal relaxation of tension when he hears my words. He does look even more confused though. ¡°So she¡¯s safe?¡± he blurts out, clearly putting her wellbeing in front of any other concern he might have.

    I hold my hands up, trying to placate him. ¡°Yes. She¡¯s safe. Probably safer than any of us.¡± I say lowering my voice, trying to lower his panic. At this, Calum finally relaxes. ¡°Thank god, when I didn¡¯t see her turn the corner with you, I thought for sure she must¡¯ve¡­¡±

    ¡°No, no, she was perfectly fine the whole trip. Nothing bad happened.¡± I say. Then I glance at Mairi, before I mutter, more to myself than to Calum, ¡°at least to us.¡± This little troublemaker really did a number on the village.

    ¡°So what¡¯s this about a boyfriend?¡± Calum apparently cannot decide whether to address this question to Mairi or me.

    I step in front of her, before she has the chance to say anything more,  and try to placate him ¡°There is no boyfriend.¡± Just as Mairi leans happily around my body and shouts ¡°They kissed!¡±

    I¡¯m not surprised to find Calum hears only one of these things, and unfortunately it¡¯s not mine. ¡°K-kissed?¡± He stumbles over the word, completely ignoring me, and looking at Mairi¡¯s face peeking from behind my back in abject terror.

    ¡°Look,¡± I continue, ¡°There is no boyfriend.¡±

    Meanwhile, completely ignoring my words, Mairi thinks very hard for a moment, then says, slightly less certain ¡°With their tongue?¡±

    Calum makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a word, his face cycling through several shades of red. If he weren¡¯t clearly upset, it¡¯d be absolutely hilarious.

    Mairi¡¯s eyes dart between us, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head as she tries to think of something even more scandalous to add before I shut her down, or Calum¡¯s brain finally catches up to his panic.

    ¡°There is absolutely nothing going on,¡± I interject firmly, trying to head off whatever new horror she¡¯s conjuring up.

    But Mairi, never one to be silenced, brightens suddenly and pipes up, ¡°Oh! And he gave her something shiny! Like a¡­ like a wedding ring!¡± The last part comes out in a rush of inspiration.

    This particular detail is one step too far, even for Calum. An exasperated expression forms on his face, as he slaps his palm against his forehead and rubs it. ¡°He proposed they marry? After what, 10 days?¡± the disbelief is dripping off his words.

    ¡°Like I kept trying to say.¡± I can¡¯t keep my own exasperation out of my voice, ¡°Nothing happened.¡±

    My lips twitch as I watch Mairi¡¯s face fall, her previous excitement draining away like water from a broken jug.

    ¡°Aww, and it was going so well too,¡± she whines, her bottom lip jutting out. Her words trail off into a mutter, ¡°Should have stopped while I was ahead.¡±

    Then she glances at me with the same patented puppy-dog pout ¡°You are no fun,¡± she huffs, ¡°But come on, he was definitely making eyes at her.¡±

    I sigh, ¡°Yes Mairi, but 10 year old boys do that at every pretty girl.¡± Most of them anyway. ¡°Chances are he never even saw anyone like Eilidh before. Have you seen anyone else with hair like that?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­¡± Calum and Mairi¡¯s voices blend together, their eyes landing on my head. Their matching grins spread across their faces like a pair of cats who¡¯ve found the same mouse. I push the scarf off, not caring for the moment. We¡¯re alone here anyway. I grab a lock of my  patchy hair, the strands dark as a raven¡¯s wing. It¡¯s been slowly growing longer again, but the length is still no more than a few centimeters. I thrust it toward them. ¡°This? This is black! Like night! Like coal! Have you both gone blind? Her hair glows like the moon!¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s unique though.¡± Calum points out, his earlier anxiety melting away into a teasing smirk.

    ¡°Uhuh,¡± Mairi nods vigorously, suddenly all too happy to align herself with him.

    I glance between their matching grins, my jaw dropping slightly. When did these two become a united front? The tension from moments ago has evaporated as quickly as morning frost in sunlight.

    ¡°Ugh, lets just go talk to the others.¡± I mutter. Stepping past them while ignoring their grinning faces. There¡¯s no fixing these kids. A small smile plays on my face as soon as I turn away though. It¡¯s true I don¡¯t talk to them in a patronizing way, but¡­ I keep getting the feeling that¡¯s because I  get dragged down to their level instead. What does it say about my  maturity that I argue with an 8 year old like we¡¯re equals?

    I glance back at Mairi, who¡¯s following and has already launched into a retelling of everything that happened to Calum. She does somehow see me as a role model though, so I must be doing something right.

    A few minutes later, the all the kids that are there are gathered around in a circle. I carefully pull the little chest out of my sack. I¡¯m really going to need to get a proper backpack at some point. Maybe I can ask Mairi if she knows a good place?

    Calum, Iain, Rhona and the kids have gotten a short assurance from Calum and us that Eilidh is fine, and that being the case, everyone is more interested in the fruits we brought back than what happened to her for the moment. Poor girl.

    I lift the lid, and sapphire waves dance across our faces. The six fruits lie cupped in their hollows, pulsing with the same otherworldly shine they had on the tree. Around me, tiny mouths drop open with soft ¡°ooohs,¡± and I catch their awestruck expressions turning blue in the glow. Damn, even after seeing them, even eating them so many times, these things still make my hands tremble.

    Six chances at divinity. Not literally, of course, but that¡¯s how these children perceive it. I don¡¯t know where the magic comes from though, it may as well be the gods.

    I slide back as Rhona lurches forward, her hands already reaching. ¡°Can I?¡± The words tumble from her lips in a rush.

    ¡°Go ahead,¡± I say, watching her fingers hover over the pulsing light.

    I try to reassure her. ¡°It¡¯s entirely like you said, just normal fruit.¡±  Her eyes dart to mine, one eyebrow raised. I chuckle, ¡°Aside from, you know, the fact they glow with that divine blue light.¡±

    The moment Rhona¡¯s fingers close around one of the glowing fruits, the spell of hesitation breaks. Small hands reach forward from all directions, eager to touch, to hold, to experience the strange warmth that emanates from within. The blue light dances across their faces, casting otherworldly shadows that make them look like spirits themselves. They pass the fruits between them with a mix of reverence and barely contained excitement, whispering and giggling as the light pulses brighter with each touch.

    Then comes a heart-stopping moment¡ªyoung Aileen, always a bit too enthusiastic when it doesn¡¯t come to stealing, fumbles her grip as he tries to toss one of the fruits to Aileas. The precious cargo tumbles through the air in slow motion, its  glow trailing behind like a falling star. Several gasps pierce the air, but before anyone else can react, Mairi darts forward with near supernatural speed and precision. She slides across the dirty ground on her knees, small hands cupped, and catches the fruit mere inches from disaster. The blue light flares briefly as it settles into her palms, as if relieved at its narrow escape.

    ¡°Careful!¡± she scolds, cradling the fruit protectively against her chest. Her brown eyes flash with intensity as she glares at Aileen, who shrinks back with an appropriately sheepish expression. ¡°These aren¡¯t turnips to be tossing about!¡±

    I stare at her in surprise. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever heard her speak so sharply to one of the younger children.

    Iain looks at the fruit he¡¯s holding. ¡°Could we all just¡­ take a single bite?¡±

    I see eyes light up at that prospect all around. That way there would be more than enough for everyone. I don¡¯t expect it¡¯ll be so easy though. Mairi only started to feel the effect after nearly finishing her fruit. I can¡¯t really say how it worked for me, given I gobbled up three of the things before I even considered any effects.

    ¡°Only one way to find out.¡± Rhona looks around at everyone, clearly anxious to take a bite, but needing the nods of permission she gets. If anyone deserves one it¡¯s Rhona. And it¡¯s not like these are the last fruits they¡¯ll see. It¡¯s a pain we need to travel so far, but at least we can get them. Couldn¡¯t we find one of those trees in a forest closer by?

    Before I can think more on that, Rhona takes a large bite from the fruit, its juice splashing everywhere. Right, forgot to tell her that. Mairi has an equally sheepish expression on her face. Rhona looks like a smurf, her face all splashed with glowing blue juice. It takes her all of ten seconds to gobble up the whole thing, leaving her hands and face positively streaming with juice.

    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t feel any different,¡± she says with a tone of worry in her face.

    I¡¯m not worried. Mairi ate quickly too, but it took nearly a minute before Mairi felt anything, so it stands to reason that even if Rhona ate bit faster she¡¯s going to have to wait for a while.

    After roughly a minute, she looks at her hands, in a hilarious imitation of what Mairi did as well. ¡°What¡­ what is happening?¡± she mutters, the sound of wonder in her voice clear to everyone. Mairi has a shit-eating grin on her face. ¡°The best part comes next,¡± she enthuses.

    A moment later, Rhona goes silent, and seems to stare off into space. I¡¯m starting to wonder if the same thing happens to everyone. I¡¯m fairly certain there was nothing like this for me. I¡¯ll be the first to admit I was a bit out of it at the time, but not enought to miss whatever this seems to be.

    A moment later Rhona comes back to herself, just like Mairi did before she suddenly decided to tackle me. Happily, Rhona doesn¡¯t have any such urges. There is wonder in her eyes. She tries to speak, but her voice is distorted and hardly understandable. It¡¯s the first time she¡¯s fallen into the time distortion caused by the juice. For a wonder, when she tries to move, she stumbles, and crashes to the ground. It looked really funny to us, but I remember the frustration and fear of seeing the ground slowly coming towards me, while my arms strained like they were digging through molasses to stop myself. I¡¯m sure it was much less fun for her.

    I find myself pleased with the outcome. Somehow I feel like a huge disaster was averted. I¡¯m also happy to see that not everyone seems to be a natural. I¡¯ll actually be able to help Rhona get used to moving while under the time distortion, as opposed to feeling cheated by Mairi just magically know how to do so. It feels slightly unfair, but I find myself hoping the same thing is true for the others.

    We¡¯ll soon find out if it¡¯s all the little brats that magically know how to deal with it, or whether Mairi is just unique.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.

    About ten minutes later, we have a verdict.  Everyone else has just as many issues with movement under the distortion as I did: Iain, Rhona, Calum, the three lucky kids that won the draw. They were all awakened and could hardly move until they figured out how to turn it off.

    Should I call it awakened? I guess, why the hell not. We already have juice. It¡¯s not like our naming scheme can get any worse.

    Anyway, yeah, Mairi is the only to whom moving under time dillation somehow comes naturally. I feel betrayed. Wasn¡¯t I supposed to be the special one? I don¡¯t know why I got transported to a different world just so I can see the rise of the hero, but¡­ Yeah. I guess that feeling is not exactly new, and I should just be satisfied with having found the tree, and being the protagonists adopted mother.

    The lucky little ones are adorable though. It doesn¡¯t matter how often they drop. It doesn¡¯t matter  they have no clue what they¡¯re doing. It¡¯s just, drop, stand, reactivate and try again. One of them got the bright idea to try it from atop a barrel, and all the others have followed, I¡¯m half convinced they just enjoy the experience of slowly falling to the floor, and they¡¯re not actually trying to do better. I think it¡¯s ironic that Aileen was one of the ones that got the fruit, given she almost dropped it earlier.

    Rhona, Iain, Calum, Mairi and me leave the kids to it, without runes, there¡¯s very little that can go wrong. I learned from my experience with Mairi, and I¡¯ve decided that there will be no runes under 10. I¡¯m not quite sure how Mairi fits into that, since I doubt she¡¯d listen and she¡¯ll just sneak out to study the pieces of bark by herself. No, we¡¯ll just have to let her have access, and let her try things out under strict supervision. There¡¯s no handy master apothecary around to save her if something goes wrong this time.

    With that thought begins our conversation, because everyone is dying to know what happened to Eilidh.

    I speak up ¡°So, Eilidh is currently staying at a village that is located closest to the magic fruit tree.¡± there¡¯s hesitant nods, acknowledging what I said, but still not sure why Eilidh is staying there. ¡°When I passed through there in the past, I met a boy, an apothecary in training.¡± I gesture at my hair, which is properly covered with the scarf again. ¡°Last time I had a lot of trouble getting into the village due to my, uh¡­ unique situation.¡±

    I pat my scarf. ¡°With this handy tool,¡± I say as I do so, and snickers erupt from all around, ¡°I was able to finally meet his teacher, and that teacher turned out to be a century old master apothecary.¡±

    ¡°We had to come up with an excuse for why we were there.¡± I continue.

    Rhona mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear ¡°Not if you just walked around the village.¡±

    I grin, and point my finger at her, inclining my head, ¡°Point. Mairi and Eilidh kinda made the decision for me though.¡±

    Mairi frowns at me, and says with just the right amount of hurt in her voice, ¡°Don¡¯t blame me. Eilidh was just so happy to see all those hovels, she couldn¡¯t stop herself.¡±

    She¡¯s probably gotten too used to playing pranks in said village, where they don¡¯t yet know to take everything she says with a grain of salt. In the presence of her friends, what happens is that all four turn unamused gazes towards her, and she laughs nervously.

    Since Mairi is silenced, I continue. ¡°Anyhow, Eilidh had the inspired idea to say that she head about him from me, and that she was interested in herbcraft.¡± I scan the faces around me, searching for confirmation. ¡°Did she ever show an interest in that before? You should¡¯ve seen her eyes light up when she was talking about herbs and healing. That wasn¡¯t just some story she cooked up purely as an excuse.¡±

    The looks I get back tell me none of them had any idea, so I get to the important bit. ¡°Anyhow, when it was time to leave, she asked me if she could stay instead. I didn¡¯t think it was my place to refuse.¡±

    Mairi apparently has not had enough of her favorite joke, because she says, ¡°She also got a boyfriend.¡± I look at her sharply, tempted to rap her on the head once again. ¡°I really should ask master Fergus how he managed to make you listen.¡±

    I turn back to the others, and explain ¡°What she wants to say, is that master Fergus  has a different disciple, the boy that I met, and they¡¯re now studying together.¡±

    ¡°Wasn¡¯t he around 10 years old? Ronain right?¡± Iain asks. I give him a nod, I¡¯m not sure when I told them, but I¡¯m surprised he remembers.

    Rhona leans back against the wall, her lips quirking into a slight smile. ¡°Can¡¯t be more than a year or two between them, right?¡±

    Iain¡¯s face softens at that, and he strokes his chin thoughtfully. ¡°A bit of normalcy would do her good,¡± he says, his voice warm with approval.

    Calum looks like he swallowed something bitter ¡°Yeah, good for her,¡± he eventually says.

    Iain¡¯s hand crashes onto Calum¡¯s shoulder with a loud smack. ¡°Hey man, I kept telling you.¡± He swings around to face Rhona, who¡¯s picking at her nails with studied nonchalance. ¡°You saw it too right? The way she¡¯d stare at him during meals? When he was practicing?¡± Iain questions her.

    I press my lips together and find something fascinating to examine on the rafters of the buildings around. I¡¯m not stupid enough to wade into whatever this is.

    ¡°Bah,¡± Calum¡¯s shoulders slump as he drags a hand across his face. His next words come out barely above a whisper. ¡°I just, I just didn¡¯t want to ruin things. The way she looked at me¡­¡± He trails off, staring at his boots. ¡°Thought it¡¯d make things harder.¡±

    I¡¯m reminded that as much as these kids have the reponsibility for this whole group of little ones, they¡¯re still a bunch of teenagers full of hormones. I don¡¯t think Calum is wrong exactly. If he got together with Eilidh, that¡¯d leave¡­ I look from Rhona to Iain, and I just don¡¯t see it. They work very well together, but there¡¯s zero chemistry there. Hell, there¡¯s more chemistry between Rhona and me.

    I cross my arms and watch the dance of unspoken words. Calum and Rhona¡¯s eyes meet, and something passes between them that makes my stomach clench. Four hearts tangled up in leadership would leave the little ones caught in the crossfire. Still, my fingers twitch with the urge to smack some sense into them all¡ªthey deserve their stupid crushes and fumbling kisses like any other teenager.

    Rhona¡¯s steady voice cuts through my thoughts. ¡°I don¡¯t think you are wrong Calum, which is why I think we should be happy for Eilidh now.¡±

    Calum¡¯s shoulders loosen as he meets her gaze, and his breath escapes in a long exhale. ¡°Yeah, you are probably right.¡±

    I still feel the need to point out that literally nothing has happened. Sure, Ronain trails after Eilidh like a lost puppy during their daily lessons, but what else would you expect from a ten-year-old boy spending hours with a pretty thirteen-year-old girl? I catch myself opening my mouth to burst their bubble, but snap it shut instead. Let them imagine their little romance. The truth will sort itself out.

    Out of nowhere, Mairi chirps at me. ¡°So, who do you like?¡±

    I choke on my own spit, whipping my head around to gawk at her with what must be the dumbest expression.

    Who do I like? I count the years between us on my fingers, shaking my head at the absurdity. The oldest of these kids is barely half my age¡ªmight as well ask if I fancy  Master Fergus, and he¡¯s got one foot in the grave already.

    My mind races through the few adults I know, ticking off a mental list. Unbidden, an image flashes through my head¡ªsweat-slicked skin stretched over rippling muscle, the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal¡­ I shove the thought away with a snarl. Sure, he¡¯s easy on the eyes, but the fucker thinks women shouldn¡¯t work. He could be the final male in existence and I¡¯d still rather die alone.

    The smirk playing across Rhona¡¯s face makes my stomach drop. She¡¯s latched onto Mairi¡¯s question like a dog with a bone, and I can already tell she won¡¯t let this go easily.

    ¡°Come on now,¡± she drawls, her voice sweet enough to rot teeth, ¡°surely there must be someone.¡± She leans forward, her blonde hair falling in a curtain around her face.

    From the corner of my eye, I catch Calum¡¯s subtle head tilt toward Iain. The boys exchange a look that screams ¡®retreat,¡¯ and I don¡¯t blame them one bit.

    Their attempted escape only draws Rhona¡¯s attention, and her grin widens wickedly. ¡°Oh no, you have to stay! Don¡¯t you want to hear about our dear Emma¡¯s love life?¡±

    I lean back against the rough wooden wall, a wry smile tugging at my lips as I consider their eager faces. How exactly do I explain that my dating history belongs to another world entirely? That before two months ago, I didn¡¯t even exist here? I could tell them about Mark from accounting, who always brought me coffee just the way I liked it, or James from that coding bootcamp who just wouldn¡¯t take a hint. But somehow, tales of office romances and awkward first dates over sushi don¡¯t quite translate to a world where the height of culinary sophistication is putting herbs in your stew.

    Besides, trying to explain modern dating would be like trying to teach calculus to a fish. How do you describe Tinder to someone who¡¯s never seen a phone? Or speed dating to people who think courtship means chaperoned walks and meaningful glances across the village square?

    Not to say that that¡¯s the process these kids will go through. No parents means no rules. They¡¯ll never have anything like a chaperone looming over them.

    There¡¯s a peculiar ache in my chest at the realization that I¡¯ve not yet told them the full truth about my arrival here. They¡¯ve become my family, and yet they don¡¯t know this most basic fact about me¡ª¡°From elsewhere,¡± I¡¯d told them when I stumbled into their lives, and it wasn¡¯t a lie. But it¡¯s like calling the ocean ¡°some water.¡±

    I watch as Rhona¡¯s expression shifts from playful predator to something more calculating. She settles back slightly, crossing her legs beneath her, and I can practically see her changing tactics. ¡°Alright then, let me ask something else,¡± she says. ¡°What sort of person catches your eye? Surely you must have a¡­¡± she pauses, searching for the right words, ¡°a type you prefer?¡±

    Huh. It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve thought about this sort of thing¡ªsurvival tends to push romance pretty far down the priority list. I actually consider it, trying to translate my modern preferences into something that would make sense here. Tall? Principled? Kind to animals? ¡®Must know Rust and have a good GitHub profile¡¯ probably wouldn¡¯t mean much to them. I let out a short laugh at my own joke, earning curious looks from my audience.

    ¡°I suppose,¡± I say, ¡°That I like  people that create things?¡±

    I give them a moment to process my answer, then decide it¡¯s high time to redirect this interrogation. With practiced nonchalance, I turn to Rhona, mirroring her earlier posture. As I do so, I realize I don¡¯t have hair to  fall in front of my face any more, making it look rather sillly. Well, whatever.

    ¡°But what about you?¡± I ask, letting a healthy dose of teasing creep into my voice. ¡°A beautiful young woman like yourself must have quite particular tastes.¡± I watch with satisfaction as her confident smirk falters slightly. The tables have turned, and now it¡¯s her turn to squirm.

    Calum and Iain, who moments ago were plotting their escape, suddenly seem very interested in the conversation again, though they¡¯re trying hard not to show it.  Rhona¡¯s cheeks flush just enough to be visible beneath the dirt, and I almost feel bad for putting her on the spot. Almost.

    Rhona¡¯s eyes dart around the room searching for an ally, but she finds only attentive faces. Even  Mairi, usually so quick to create a distraction when things get uncomfortable, is too caught up in her own curiosity.

    Our usually so composed leader looks decidedly less assured. Her fingers fidget with a lock of her hair, and she clears her throat once, twice.

    ¡°I¡­ well, I suppose I¡­¡± she starts, then straightens her spine, some of her usual confidence returning. ¡°Someone who can take care of themselves,¡± she finally manages, lifting her chin defiantly.

    The moment of vulnerability passes quickly, and her eyes narrow as she fixes me with a look that promises revenge. ¡°Though I notice you didn¡¯t actually answer the question, Emma. ¡®People who make things?¡¯ That¡¯s rather vague, isn¡¯t it?¡± She spreads her hand in front of her. ¡°I mean, Fergus makes things, and I¡¯m fairly certain you¡¯re not pining after him.¡±

    I can¡¯t help the grin that slowly spreads across my face.  ¡°Well, no, I¡¯m not pining after Fergus,¡± I say, drawing out the words. ¡°But I¡¯d sooner fancy him than those idiots at the gates who thinks their muscles make up for their personality.¡± I mime flexing, pulling an exaggerated grimace that sets Mairi giggling.

    Calum¡¯s forehead wrinkles in confusion, his light brown hair falling across his eyes as he tilts his head. ¡°But¡­ isn¡¯t being strong important?¡± he asks, genuinely puzzled. ¡°I mean, how else would someone protect¡­¡± He trails off, clearly wrestling with the concept that I might not care about physical strength all that much. I imagine it¡¯s a lot more relevant to live here in general, and their lives in particular. It¡¯s endearing, really, how he¡¯s trying to reconcile his own protective nature with what I¡¯ve just said.

    ¡°Being strong is definitely nice, but it doesn¡¯t make up for  acting like a lecher every time a pretty girl walks by.¡± I smile at him sweetly.

    Calum¡¯s eyes light up with understanding, and his posture shifts as he processes this distinction. ¡°Like Domnall at the fishmonger¡¯s,¡± he says with clear distaste. ¡°Always making those¡­ comments about the girls who come to buy fish.¡± His face darkens, and I can tell he¡¯s remembering specific incidents.

    I figure it¡¯s my turn again, and look back at Rhona, picking up where I left of. ¡°Now, I think it¡¯s your turn again. ¡®Someone who can take care of themselves,¡¯ you say?¡± I tap my chin thoughtfully. ¡°That¡¯s awfully specific. Almost like you might have someone in mind?¡± The way her shoulders tense tells me I¡¯ve hit a nerve, and I¡¯m not above enjoying this small victory. After all the teasing I¡¯ve endured, turnabout seems only fair.

    Rhona¡¯s eyes dart toward the entrance of the hideout, as if contemplating a strategic retreat. The confident leader who¡¯d been grilling me moments ago seems to have vanished, replaced by someone who looks very much her actual age¡ªjust sixteen and caught in an uncomfortable conversation. Her fingers twist her hair almost to the breaking point before she finally takes a deep breath, and says, her voice barely above a whisper.

    ¡°S¨¬neag,¡± she says, and the name hangs in the air like smoke. ¡°The baker¡¯s daughter.¡±

    The silence that follows is absolute. Mairi¡¯s mouth forms a perfect ¡®O¡¯, while Calum and Iain exchange wide-eyed looks that suggest they¡¯re completely recalibrating everything they thought they knew about their leader. I freeze for a moment, this whole thing was a joke, and she¡­

    Just how much does she trust everyone here that she feels, well, clearly not comfortable, but safe enough to say that? Is it even a thing in this day and era? I immediately feel a fierce protectiveness for this young woman who¡¯s just made herself incredibly vulnerable.

    Mairi breaks the tension first, bouncing on her heels with characteristic enthusiasm. ¡°Oh! S¨¬neag is so pretty!¡± she chirps, seemingly oblivious to the weight of the moment. ¡°She always gives me  bread when I go by, and her hands are really strong from kneading dough all day!¡± Her innocent observation draws a soft, almost wistful smile from Rhona.

    Calum, still wrestling with this revelation, jumps on something he can understand. ¡°But¡­ how is she someone who can take care of herself?¡± he asks slowly, genuine confusion written across his features. ¡°I mean, she just¡­ bakes bread?¡± He looks between Rhona and me, clearly trying to reconcile his image of self-sufficiency¡ªprobably involving swords and street fights¡ªwith the quiet girl who works in her father¡¯s bakery.

    I catch Rhona¡¯s expression and have to bite back a laugh. Oh, you sweet summer child, I think, watching Calum struggle to put the pieces together. Before I can formulate a diplomatic response, though, Rhona¡¯s composure  cracks.

    ¡°Are you joking?¡± she bursts out, her voice rising with each word. ¡°Have you seen her handle drunk soldiers who try to steal from the shop? She once knocked out a man twice her size with a rolling pin!¡± She leans forward, jabbing her finger for emphasis. ¡±And do you have any idea how much strength it takes to knead dough for hours every day? To haul those hundred pound sacks of flour of the delivery cart. One wrong move near that beast of an oven and you¡¯ll be nursing burns for weeks.¡± Her cheeks are flushed now, not with embarrassment but with passionate defense, and her eyes are bright with something that looks very much like pride. ¡°She runs that whole shop when her father¡¯s laid up with his bad back, keeps the books better than any merchant in the lower market, and still finds time to help feed half the street kids who come begging!¡±

    I can see Calum trying to process all of this, his face scrunching up in that way it does when he¡¯s dealing with something completely outside his experience. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again before finally managing to speak. ¡°But¡­ how would that work¡­¡± he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands. ¡°I mean, you¡¯re both girls?¡± His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and I can see him cringe at how young it makes him sound. There¡¯s no malice in his question, just the pure bewilderment of a fifteen-year-old boy whose world view is being expanded in real time. His eyes dart between Rhona and me, clearly hoping one of us will explain this in a way that makes sense to him, while simultaneously looking like he might bolt if we actually try to do so.

    ¡°Well, Calum,¡± I say, keeping my voice deliberately casual while fixing him with an innocent stare, ¡°since you¡¯re so interested in how it works, why don¡¯t you explain to all of us, in detail, how a boy and a girl get together?¡± Rhona¡¯s head snaps up, a flash of relief crossing her features as she realizes what I¡¯m doing. But Calum, bless his heart, completely misses the point I¡¯m trying to make. His face lights up with the earnest determination of someone who thinks they¡¯re about to be helpful.

    ¡°Oh! Well, you see,¡± he begins, sitting up straighter, ¡°first the boy notices the girl, and then he¡¯s supposed to¡­¡± He gets about three sentences in before the implications of what he¡¯s about to explain to an audience full of girls finally catches up with his brain. His words screech to a halt, and I watch with amusement as the color drains from his face, only to come rushing back with a vengeance. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and I swear I can actually see the moment his soul tries to leave his body.

    ¡°Listen,¡± I say gently, taking pity on poor Calum, ¡°it¡¯s really not that complicated. You know how you might look at a girl and your heart does this little flutter thing?¡± I press a hand to my chest, mimicking the sensation. ¡°And maybe you get nervous around her, or you can¡¯t stop thinking about her smile?¡±

    Calum gives a tiny nod, and he looks like he knows very well. I wonder if he¡¯s thinking about Eilidh? He¡¯s still red-faced but listening. ¡°Well, that¡¯s just¡­ that¡¯s just how people feel when they like someone. And sometimes, a girl might feel that way about another girl, or a boy about another boy. The feelings aren¡¯t any different, really. It¡¯s just¡­ who you feel them for.¡± I glance at Rhona, who¡¯s watching me with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension. ¡°Love is love, Calum. It doesn¡¯t always follow the rules people think it should.¡±

    Rhona leans forward, her eyes searching my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. But there¡¯s something  in her expression that keeps me still. ¡°How¡­¡± she starts, then swallows hard. ¡°How do you speak of it so easily? Like it¡¯s¡­ normal?¡± Her voice catches on the last word, and I can hear years of hidden fears and quiet doubts beneath the question. ¡°I¡¯ve never heard anyone talk about it like that before. Like it¡¯s just¡­ another way to be.¡± Her fingers have found their way back to her hair, twisting nervously, but her gaze remains steady on mine, hungry for understanding.

    I let out a slow breath, weighing my words carefully. ¡°I suppose¡­ that¡¯s just how I was raised,¡± I say, feeling the inadequacy of the answer even as I speak it. I pause, watching Rhona¡¯s face as she processes this. There¡¯s a flicker of something there¡ªlonging, maybe, or disbelief. Her lips curve into a sad, almost bitter smile.

    ¡°Sounds like you come from some kind of fairytale land,¡± she says softly, and I catch the edge in her voice¡ªnot quite accusatory, but tinged with a painful sort of wonder. ¡°Where people can speak of it as easily as discussing the weather.¡± She looks down at her hands, which have finally stilled in her lap. ¡°Must be nice,¡± she adds, barely above a whisper, and I feel the weight of everything she¡¯s not saying.

    My throat constricts, my fists clenching at my sides. ¡°That¡¯s because it is!¡± The words burst out before I can stop them. I force my shoulders to relax and my breathing to slow. ¡°A fairytale land, that is¡­¡± Every eye in the room fixes on me now. ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know how to say this.¡±

    Damn, Emma, get yourself together. If Rhona can admit to being the devils daughter in this era, you can damn well open your mouth about stumbling in from another reality.

    ¡°I¡¯m not from this world.¡± I just blurt out. ¡°I¡­ I just suddenly appeared here barely a month and half ago. Plop, from one to the other with nothing in between.¡±

    If the silence after Rhona¡¯s announcement was deafening, the one now may have have just removed sound from existence. My eyes lock onto Rhona, pleading silently. I can practically see the doubt swirling in her eyes, unvoiced only because reflected in her eyes is also  the pathetic state I¡¯m in. How uttering those words affected me.

    I¡¯m lost between hope and fear. They won¡¯t believe me. I hardly believe it myself. But I so very much want them to. I need someone, anyone, and they are my best bet. If anyone here is ever going to believe me, it must be these children.

    ¡°Okay¡­¡± Rhona says slowly, the expression in her slowly shifting from disbelief to pity, as if worried she¡¯s going to spook a cat.

    I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the doubt I can see written across their faces. ¡°I know it sounds crazy,¡± I say, managing a weak smile. ¡°But the entire world, it¡¯s different. My world looked somewhat like this one in the past, if I can believe the history books I read. But nothing is the same.¡± I gesture at the sky. ¡°We had vehicles that could fly through the sky. Skyscrapers taller than the city is wide.¡± I pause, contemplating the size of the city. ¡°Okay, maybe not quite as big as that, but certainly half a tall as the city is wide.¡±

    I watch their expressions shift from skepticism to fascination, though I can tell they¡¯re still not sure whether to believe me or if I¡¯ve just lost my mind. Mairi leans forward, her eyes wide with wonder, while Calum¡¯s brow furrows in that way it does when he¡¯s trying to work something out.

    ¡°But how did you get here?¡± Rhona asks, her voice careful, measured. She¡¯s trying to hide it, but I can see the spark of curiosity breaking through her earlier doubt. ¡°Did someone send you? Was it magic?¡±

    The question makes me laugh, but it comes out sounding more bitter than I intended. ¡°I wish I knew. One minute I was standing in a bookshop reading a book, the next¡­¡± I gesture vaguely at our surroundings. ¡°I just appeared in the middle of a massive forest. No warning, no explanation. Nothing but my bare skin and a whole lot of questions.¡±

    Calum¡¯s eyes go wide, and I can practically see his teenage brain short-circuiting as he processes that particular detail. Oops. I think he¡¯s had his quota of shocks for today. His mouth works silently for a moment before he manages to squeak out, ¡°You mean¡­ completely¡­?¡± He can¡¯t quite finish the sentence, his face turning a shade of red that would make a sunset jealous. I notice him very deliberately looking anywhere but at me.

    ¡°Yes, Calum,¡± I say, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. ¡°Completely. No clothes, no shoes, not even a hair ribbon.¡± I pause, letting that sink in. ¡°Trust me, it wasn¡¯t exactly my proudest moment, stumbling around the forest like that.¡± I can¡¯t help but chuckle at the memory now. ¡°It¡¯s actually quite terrifying how quickly you can get used to something like that if you have no other choice.¡±

    ¡°Actually,¡± I say, my mind drifting back to those first confusing days, ¡°the lack of clothes wasn¡¯t even the worst part. What I missed most was my phone.¡± The word feels strange on my tongue here, like speaking about a mythical creature. I catch myself absently patting the place where it should be in my pocket, but no phone or pocket exists.

    ¡°Your¡­ phone?¡± Mairi tests the unfamiliar word, her nose scrunching up in confusion. ¡°What¡¯s that then?¡±

    I look at their expectant faces and feel a familiar wave of frustration. How do you explain something so fundamental to your daily life? ¡°It¡¯s like¡­¡± I start, then stop, searching for the right words. ¡°Imagine having a tiny window in your pocket that could show you anything in the world. You could talk to anyone, anywhere, instantly. See their faces even if they¡¯re on the other side of the earth. Have every book ever written at your fingertips. Find the answer to any question in seconds.¡± I pause, remembering all the mundane ways I used to rely on it. ¡°Or just¡­ know what time it is without having to look at the sun.¡±

    Their expressions are a mixture of awe and disbelief, and I can¡¯t blame them. It sounds like magic even to my own ears.

    Rhona¡¯s eyes sweep across our makeshift home, with its collection of salvaged blankets, improvised kitchen, mismatched¡­ everything, and the lingering smell of damp wood. Near the far wall, a group of younger children are playing with carved wooden figures, while others huddle around the small fire pit, sharing stories with amused voices.

    ¡°Aye,¡± she says softly. ¡°I can see why you¡¯d be missing your magical window now.¡± She gestures at their surroundings with a slight tilt of her head. ¡°Must be quite the change, going from having all the world¡¯s knowledge at your fingertips to¡­¡± she pauses, watching as little D¨°mhnall attempts to patch a hole in his worn sock with a piece of string, ¡°to teaching wee ones how to tie their shoes and hoping we¡¯ve enough food to last the morning.¡± There¡¯s no bitterness in her voice, just a quiet understanding of the contrast between the little bit of the world I¡¯ve just described and the one we¡¯re currently sitting in.

    I barely hear her over my brain shouting that she¡¯s somehow accepted what I said.

    ¡°Yeah, well, anyway.¡± I stammer out, ¡°That¡¯s why it¡¯s easy for me to think different.¡±

    Rhona looks at me like she can¡¯t quite remember what I¡¯m talking about for a moment. Finally she smiles, almost ruefully. ¡°Thank you Emma.¡±

    The rest of the day is not spent with practicing magic as I had expected. It¡¯s spent explaining to them exactly how my world differs from theirs, and to Mairi, what ice cream is, and how it tastes. It¡¯s exhausting, but having that secret finally out there is¡­

    I didn¡¯t realize how much that was weighing on me.

    As I fall asleep, Mairi once more clinging to my back, I hope tomorrow involves less difficult conversations. After this long trip, it¡¯d be nice to just¡­ be, for a bit.

 Lines in the Dirt

    The next morning is nice. As much as sleeping under the stars doesn¡¯t really bother me any more, and the trip with Mairi and Eilidh was great fun, this place has started to feel like home. And waking up to the chatter of little ones feels like a warm, comforting blanket, much more so than the actual blanket.

    I wonder how things will go as we get further into autumn. I haven¡¯t heard Rhona worry about it, and she¡¯s been doing this for years, so I guess they have some way to deal with the colder winter months?

    Cooking breakfast is just another thing to do, and it suddenly occurs to me how relaxing life is when you don¡¯t constantly have to worry about work. Sure, there¡¯s things I need to do, like cleaning the clothes, preparing food, and the theft itself is pretty stressful, but it takes but a moment and after that we¡¯re essentially free.

    That¡¯s a pretty scary thought, I don¡¯t think we should make our future dependent on continuing like this, and I doubt Rhona thinks so either, but for now it¡¯s¡­  nice. I can¡¯t even really bring myself to feel guilty about that thought. It¡¯s not like I didn¡¯t try to get a more respectable job, it¡¯s just this world forced us all into circumstance we somehow have to deal with.

    It¡¯s a bit silly to think that my very own isekai adventure turned into such a slice of life thing, but here we are, and I¡¯m not even sad about it.

    I look at the children running around. The three little ones with juice have stopped trying to fall in slow-motion by now, and are instead playing a game of catch with the others. A game they are winning. It¡¯s shocking how quickly they adapted, but I guess kids will be kids. They kept practicing long after I¡¯d given up in frustration when I was in their position. Maybe I should cut myself some slack though, I was trying to get somewhere, so falling on my face constantly wasn¡¯t very conductive to that goal.

    A shadow falls over me, and I look up to see Rhona standing there. Her eyes are bright, almost glowing with the lingering effects of the fruit. She crouches down beside me, her voice lowered so the children can¡¯t hear. ¡°How long do you reckon this¡¯ll last?¡± she asks, gesturing vaguely at herself. ¡°Not that I¡¯m complaining, mind you. Just need to know what I¡¯m working with here.¡±

    I lean my arms on my knees, considering how to explain this. ¡°I¡¯ve never really tried to measure how long it lasts, to be honest. When I was learning, I spent a whole week practicing while traveling here, and I barely noticed any drain at all. The juice just seemed to stay at roughly the same level no matter how many times I used the time-slowing effect. It was still decreasing, mind you, just slowly enough that it might last months.¡±

    My hand absently traces the rune in the dirt as I continue, ¡°But powering runes? That¡¯s different. When I activated that single rune here in the hideout, I felt almost a third of my juice vanish in an instant. It¡¯s like there¡¯s a massive difference between just using the juice naturally and channeling it through the runes.¡±

    ¡°Though,¡± I muse, watching the kids play, ¡°those channelers on the wagons keep at it for hours. I¡¯ve watched them at the city gates, and they¡¯re constantly powering dozens of runes just to keep those massive things moving. So it can¡¯t be that every activation costs a third of your juice. Must be about how much power you push through them.¡± The thought makes me frown, wondering if I¡¯d simply been too heavy-handed with my attempts.

    The thought of power consumption suddenly reminds me of Mairi¡¯s dramatic display with the tree. ¡°Mairi!¡± I call out, watching as she breaks away from her game with the other children. As she trots over, her hair bouncing with each step, I study her face for any remaining trace of the fruit¡¯s glow. ¡°That tree you destroyed¡ªhow much juice did that take? Can you feel how much you have left?¡± She scuffs her feet in the dirt, looking somewhat sheepish as she admits she¡¯s running nearly empty.

    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you mention this during our journey back?¡± I ask, keeping my voice gentle to make it clear I¡¯m not angry. She meets my eyes then, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. ¡°I wanted the others to try it too,¡± she explains, gesturing toward where Rhona stands. ¡°If I¡¯d said something, you¡¯d have given me another fruit, and then there¡¯d be one less for someone else to experience.¡± There¡¯s something touching about her logic, even if it makes me want to shake her for being so self-sacrificing. It¡¯s exactly the sort of thing she does - putting others first while pretending it¡¯s all part of some grand mischievous plan.

    ¡°Well, there you go.¡± I say to Rhona, as I gesture at Mairi. ¡°If you keep it to zero runes, you should be good for months.¡± Rhona nods, having heard the story of Mairi¡¯s tree by now. She smirks, an amused smile on her face ¡°I don¡¯t expect I¡¯ll be needing any replacements soon.¡±

    Rhona shifts her weight, her earlier amusement fading into something more pensive. She runs her fingers through her tangled blonde hair, a habit I¡¯ve noticed she falls into when working through difficult thoughts. ¡°Maybe we got ahead of ourselves here,¡± she says softly, her eyes distant. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, when you showed up with the knowledge of those fruits, it seemed like¡­ like finally having something that could change things for us. But now?¡± She gestures vaguely at the air around us. ¡°What can we actually do with it? The moment anyone sees us channeling, that¡¯s it. Game over.¡±

    I let out a long breath. The excitement of discovery, of finally having something concrete to offer these kids who¡¯d taken me in,  blinded me to the practical realities. It¡¯s one thing to have the power, but it¡¯s another entirely to be able to use it without bringing the full weight of whatever passes for government, and potentially other mages down on our heads. The memory of Iain¡¯s words about it being a death warrant echoes uncomfortably in my mind.

    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± I admit, staring off into the great beyond. ¡°I think I got swept up in it all, that I¡¯d finally found something to give back.¡± The words taste bitter in my mouth, but they¡¯re honest. Since stumbling into this world, I¡¯ve been mostly taking¡ªtaking shelter, taking food, taking protection. The fruits had seemed like a way to balance that a little bit, but perhaps I¡¯d been too eager to give these kids that double edged sword.

    I watch Rhona¡¯s eyebrow arch up as she clicks her tongue at me. ¡°Don¡¯t be silly Emma, you arriving here has been the best thing to happen for me since I found Mairi.¡± She looks down at the floor. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong, they¡¯re all wonderful, but¡­ Iain and Calum are boys, and before you came, I¡¯d just bottle everything up inside.¡± A crooked smile tugs at her lips as she meets my eyes again. ¡±You¡¯re a grown-up, and as much as I hate to admit it, that makes me feel like I can dump all my troubles on you without feeling like I¡¯m burdening someone who¡¯s already carrying too much.¡±

    She gestures at Iain, who¡¯s already hunched over one of his ledgers¡ªI still have no clue where he gets them¡ªand then at Calum, who¡¯s claimed back the imperial sword and is now in the middle of practicing some sword forms. She looks at Emma meaningfully ¡°Even Eilidh left, and she was more like Calum than she¡¯d like to admit.¡± She pauses for a moment, hesitating. ¡°But now she¡¯s studying medicine of all things, and I wonder if it was just because she was chasing after him.¡±

    I watch her eyes drop to her feet as she shifts her weight. ¡°It¡¯s kind of weird how you can live together like this for years and still miss so much.¡±

    I find myself nodding slowly, understanding the meaning behind her words. It¡¯s strange how isolation can exist even in a crowded room, how leadership can create an invisible barrier between you and those you care for most. God knows something changed the moment they made me a team manager. So much jealousy and just plain inability to talk normally with each other. Responsibility for people and towards people makes it hard to be entirely forthright all the time.

    My eyes drift to the ledgers, the sword forms, these individual pursuits that mark the growing independence of her makeshift family. The ache in her voice when she mentioned Eilidh strikes a chord¡ªI know what it¡¯s like to watch people you care about drift away, their paths diverging from your own. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze her hand gently, offering what comfort I can in this quiet moment of vulnerability.

    She glances at me with the ghost of a smile on her face. ¡°Thanks,¡± she says with a small sigh.

    As soon as it looks like Rhona is done with me, Calum comes over. ¡°I think it¡¯s time you learned how to use this one too,¡± he says, as he holds out the sword.

    I stare at him, my mind momentarily blank, then racing with memories¡ªthe bandit in the woods, that first terrifying encounter where dumb luck was all that saved me, the way my hand keeps finding the sword¡¯s hilt whenever I feel threatened. How many times had I felt exposed, vulnerable, wishing I actually knew what to do with the blade at my hip beyond awkwardly swinging it? The weight of the sword has become sort of familiar against my leg, and very much so in the sack, but it¡¯s more like a security blanket than a weapon¡ªsomething that makes me feel safer without actually making me any safer. The irony of carrying around such a finely crafted blade while having no idea how to properly use it isn¡¯t lost on me.

    I nod slowly, feeling a small spark of determination kindle. After all, what do I have to lose? The blade¡¯s already weighing down my hip whenever Calum isn¡¯t using it¡ªmight as well learn to do something useful with it beyond accidentally stabbing myself. And it¡¯s not like the skill isn¡¯t transferrable to other weapons either. ¡°Alright,¡± I tell him, trying to project more confidence than I feel. ¡°Show me what to do.¡±

    I quickly discover that Calum¡¯s idea of ¡°teaching¡± involves a lot of barked commands, precise criticism of every minute flaw in my stance, and absolutely zero patience for my complete lack of coordination. My arms are trembling after just fifteen minutes of holding the basic guard position he demonstrated, and he keeps adjusting my grip with increasingly exasperated sighs. It¡¯s like having the world¡¯s most militant dance instructor, except instead of learning the waltz, I¡¯m learning how not to die.

    ¡°Higher! No, not that high¡ªdo you want to leave your entire torso exposed?¡± Calum¡¯s voice cuts through my concentration for what feels like the hundredth time. When I dare to suggest that maybe we could take a short break, he gives me an incredulous look. ¡°Eilidh never complained about the pace, and she mastered these basics in half the time,¡± he states matter-of-factly, as if that¡¯s supposed to be encouraging.

    I barely manage to suppress an eye roll at that comment. Of course Eilidh never complained¡ªshe would have endured far worse just to spend time with him. Sometimes men can be so oblivious it hurts. Still, I grit my teeth and adjust my stance again, determined not to let his comparison get to me. This isn¡¯t about Eilidh or Calum¡¯s teaching methods¡ªit¡¯s about me finally learning how to defend myself properly.

    My arms feel like they¡¯re made of lead, and every movement sends dull waves of pain through muscles I didn¡¯t even know I had. The wooden practice sword, crafted from pieces of restwood,  grows heavier by the minute, while the growing collection of bruises decorating my forearms serves as a colorful reminder of every time I¡¯ve failed to block correctly. Calum may be using a practice weapon, but he certainly isn¡¯t pulling his strikes.

    Then something strange happens. As Calum¡¯s practice sword comes whistling down in what must be the hundredth overhead strike of the morning, my body moves before my mind can catch up. The wooden blade comes up smoothly, angled just so, and his strike slides harmlessly off to the side. For a brief moment, I¡¯m too surprised to feel the burning in my muscles or the throbbing of my bruises. My eyes meet Calum¡¯s, and I catch the ghost of an approving nod before he launches into his next attack.

    Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Calum lowers his practice sword and runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. ¡°You did well today,¡± he admits, though the words seem to cost him something. ¡°Better than I expected, if I¡¯m being honest.¡± A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he adds, ¡°And I suppose I should mention that while Eilidh never complained during training, she also never stuck around past the second hour. Always had some urgent business to attend to elsewhere.¡±

    I let out a breathless laugh and sink to the ground, my legs finally giving out. The ground feels wonderfully cool against my burning skin, and I allow myself to lie back completely, staring up at the patches of sky visible between the buildings surrounding us. ¡°I completely understand her reasoning now,¡± I manage between heavy breaths. ¡°Though I have to admit, I¡¯m surprised she gave up on something that meant spending time with you.¡±

    As I watch the leaves dancing in the breeze, a question that¡¯s been nagging at me surfaces. ¡°Where did you learn all this anyway?¡± I ask, propping myself up on my elbows to look at him. ¡°These aren¡¯t just random swings¡ªI recognize some of these forms from historical manuscripts I¡¯ve seen. They¡¯re period correct, or at least close to it.¡± Calum¡¯s expression shifts slightly, something unreadable flickering across his features, but before he can respond, I quickly add, ¡°I mean, I wouldn¡¯t expect a street kid to have access to that kind of training.¡±

    Calum settles down beside me, his practice sword laid carefully across his lap. ¡°Period correct¡­ you mean from your world¡¯s history?¡± he asks quietly, his eyes searching my face. When I nod, he looks away, focusing on some distant point beyond the buildings. The question seems to have struck something deep within him, something he usually keeps carefully hidden.

    ¡°There was an old man,¡± he finally says, his voice taking on an almost reverent quality. ¡°He lived in one of the abandoned buildings near the docks. Most people thought he was mad¡ªhe¡¯d spend hours practicing these movements with a piece of driftwood, muttering to himself in some foreign language. But he saw something in me, I suppose. Started teaching me when I was barely tall enough to hold a proper sword. Said he learned it all from his father, who learned it from his father before him, going back generations.¡± His fingers trace absent patterns on the wooden blade as he speaks, and I notice they¡¯re following the same methodical movements I¡¯d seen in his practice earlier.

    It baffles me that there is something like a sword form here that would be similar to my world¡¯s history, but then, I¡¯m not sure if this is actually a different world, besides the existence of magic. I just haven¡¯t seen or heard enough of it to judge whether the continents are all in the same place. All the name of countries I¡¯ve heard so far are completely different from my world though. Even the historical ones. No Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar here.

    Or could it be something even more crazy. Could people have appeared here earlier? In the same way that I appeared here, except from a different era? It¡¯s too much to imagine that one fo the few of the 8 billion people earth that still knows these sword forms in my era had appeared here. Female programmers may be rare, but not nearly as rare as those that know historical european martial arts.

    I shift my weight, drawing my knees up to my chest as I consider his words. That same reverent tone in his voice makes me hesitate before asking, but curiosity wins out. ¡°What happened to him? The old man?¡± My voice comes out softer than intended, almost matching his earlier quiet tone. Something in the way Calum spoke of his teacher, using the past tense, suggests I might already know the answer, but I want¡ªmaybe need¡ªto hear it anyway.

    Calum¡¯s expression shifts, a mix of sadness and pride crossing his features. ¡°He went as he lived,¡± he says, still tracing those intricate patterns on the wooden sword. ¡°Teaching. We were practicing by the docks one winter morning¡ªhe¡¯d been showing me a particularly complex sequence of movements. The cold didn¡¯t seem to bother him like it did the rest of us. He finished demonstrating, turned to me with this¡­ satisfied look on his face, and just collapsed.¡±

    His voice grows softer, but there¡¯s a certainty in it that seems beyond his years. ¡°The harbor master said it was his heart, but I think¡­ I think he knew. That morning, he¡¯d been more insistent than usual about getting the movements exactly right, about understanding the philosophy behind them. He¡¯d told me that morning that a true swordsman¡¯s legacy lives on in his students.¡± Calum¡¯s fingers still on the practice sword, gripping it firmly. ¡°Sometimes I wonder if that¡¯s why he chose me¡ªif he somehow knew he needed to pass it on before¡­.¡±

    ¡°Well, Calum,¡± Emma says, slightly hesitant, but with authority in her voice. ¡°If I can pick up that they¡¯re authentic sword forms from the little I know of medieval manuscripts I¡¯ve seen, then whatever else happened, you must have done something right.¡± It¡¯s honestly bizarre. I don¡¯t have a lot of experience with that kind of thing at all. It was more of a passing fancy when trying to see if the stuff you see in movies was actually sensible. But seeing him run through them makes me feel like I¡¯m looking at those pictures. Can¡¯t even recall what it was called, but it was authoritative.

    I shake my head, leaning forward slightly. "No, Calum, I don¡¯t think it was just chance.¡± An image of Johan springs to mind, his gangly form ricocheting off our living room walls, wooden sword whistling through the air as Mom ducks beneath his enthusiastic swings. ¡°You said you trained with him since you could barely lift a sword, right? Most kids I knew would¡¯ve killed for that chance. Hell, my brother Johan¡­¡± I snort, seeing him clear as day in his ridiculous padded vest, practically vibrating with excitement as he corners yet another victim for his demonstrations. ¡°He found this historical combat group and wouldn¡¯t shut up about it for months. The dinner table became his personal stage - ¡®No, no, you have to angle the blade exactly forty-five degrees or it won¡¯t deflect properly!¡¯ - while our parents just sat there nodding, probably marking days off their mental calendar until his next great passion came along.¡±

    I catch my thoughts drifting as my tongue shapes these foreign words, wrestling modern memories into ancient terms. Quite aside from the fact that it¡¯s a different language, translating through different eras is a challenge. My brother¡¯s padded vest becomes ¡°leather armor,¡± his HEMA club transforms into a ¡°warrior¡¯s guild,¡± and I¡¯m not even sure how I managed to describe our kitchen table without mentioning plastic. It¡¯s like I¡¯m telling someone else¡¯s story, even though these memories still pulse warm and real in my chest.

    ¡°But most of them quit once reality hits them in the face. All those heroic dreams crumble the first time they¡¯re standing in freezing rain, repeating the same slash for the hundredth time until their arms shake.¡± I point at the wooden sword resting in his calloused hands. ¡°Your teacher didn¡¯t waste years training some snot-nosed brat by chance. He saw something in you, watching you struggle and grow. Not just a student who¡¯d memorize his forms, but someone who¡¯d grasp the heart of what he was passing down. The soul of it, hidden beneath all those careful movements.¡±

    Droplets of sweat trickle down my neck as my own words echo in my ears. Here I am, perched like some wise woman dispensing wisdom from her sacred stone. I have to bite back a laugh at the absurdity. Next thing you know, Iain will come up to me with those soft brown eyes of his, asking me to untangle his troubles. The thought alone makes me snort. Sure, Rhona and Calum, I can almost wrap my head around that - but Iain?

    A gentle throat-clearing from Calum pulls me out of my wandering thoughts. His face has softened somewhat, the earlier tension giving way to something more vulnerable. ¡°Thanks, Emma,¡± he says quietly, fidgeting with the wooden sword in his hands. ¡°For¡­ you know, thinking there might be more to it than just dumb luck.¡± The way he says it, almost shy, makes me realize how much my words must have meant to him. It¡¯s strange seeing this side of him¡ªthe dangerous-looking boy who usually radiates such confidence, now looking almost unsure of himself. Family therapist indeed.

    I watch Calum¡¯s hesitant smile and something twists inside me. Mom¡¯s face swims before my eyes¡ªfirst that tight, worried look when Johan burst through our door, wooden sword held high, then the way her lips would curl up at the corners as the months wore on. Dad just kept nodding through dinner, even when his eyes turned glassy from Johan¡¯s endless prattle about sword angles. They didn¡¯t get it at first, but gods, they tried. Their love settled over us like Mother¡¯s favorite quilt, giving us room to grow wild and strange and true. I glance at Calum¡¯s white-knuckled grip on that practice sword, and my heart clenches. I¡¯ve seen too many children with dead eyes and bent shoulders, crushed beneath mothers and fathers who refused to see them. Perhaps that¡¯s what truly kills a soul¡ªhaving no one to whisper that it¡¯s right to be yourself, to love your strange loves, to walk your own winding path through this world.

    I feel a warm smile spread across my face as I watch Calum return to practicing his forms, his movements more fluid now, less burdened. There¡¯s something profoundly moving about being able to give these kids what they need¡ªeven if it¡¯s just someone to validate their choices, to see the worth in their struggles. My own parents¡¯ faces flash through my mind, and I understand now, in a way I never did before, why they eventually came around to support my decisions. It wasn¡¯t about agreeing with everything I chose; it was about making sure I knew I was valued regardless of those choices. Standing here, watching Calum move with renewed confidence, I feel an unexpected surge of pride¡ªnot in myself, but in the fact that I can be that steady presence these kids seem to need so desperately.

    As if doomed by my own thoughts, Iain calls me over, gesturing at at one of his ledgers as he does so.

    I drag my feet as I make my way over to Iain, mentally preparing myself for another emotional conversation. After the intensity of dealing with Calum¡¯s feelings earlier, I¡¯m not sure I have it in me to be anyone else¡¯s impromptu therapist today.

    To my immense relief, when I peer over his shoulder, I see he¡¯s pointing at a series of numbers rather than trying to bare his soul. The ledger is open to a page filled with neat columns of figures, some circled in red ink, others crossed out entirely, there¡¯s scribbles and shapes all over the page that don¡¯t immediately resolve into sense for me. It seems my services as an amateur counselor won¡¯t be required after all¡ªthough knowing my luck, helping with accounting might not be much better.

    I lean in closer, curious to finally see the contents of these mysterious books he¡¯s always scribbling in. The  columns of numbers are interspersed with what looks like a crude map, locations marked with xs and circles, with lines connecting them in an intricate web. Some of the figures appear to be quantities, while others look more like dates or times. My eyes dart across the page, trying to make sense of the cryptic notations before he changes his mind about sharing.

    Instead of explaining the figures, Iain¡¯s finger traces along one of the connecting lines and he asks in a low voice, ¡°Do you think you could make it from here to Ceann Locha without being seen?¡± The question catches me off guard¡ªI¡¯d been prepared for some accounting puzzle, not¡­ whatever this implies. The way he asks makes it clear this isn¡¯t just idle curiosity, and I find myself studying the marked route with newfound intensity, noting how it weaves through the less populated areas I¡¯ve come to know during my time here.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    I pause, my brow furrowing as I try to recall the geography lessons I¡¯ve picked up since arriving here. ¡°Ceann Locha?¡± I ask carefully. ¡°That¡¯s the town to the north, right? Near the lake right before the great river empties into the sea?¡± I¡¯ve heard it mentioned in passing conversations, usually in the context of trade routes and merchant caravans, but I¡¯ve never had reason to think much about it before now. The way Iain¡¯s asking about getting there unseen makes my stomach twist with unease¡ªthis isn¡¯t just idle chatter about travel destinations.

    Iain nods grimly, his finger tapping against the map. ¡°Aye, that¡¯s the one. Last proper town before you hit the scattered villages that mark where our lands end and the High Empire begins.¡± His voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper, as if merely speaking of it might summon unwanted attention.

    The map before me shifts from abstract lines to a stark reality¡ªthe lines arranging themselves to show me a top-down view of the country around the city. The sea, the surrounding villages, what goes for the border. The Empire isn¡¯t some far-off monster in children¡¯s tales, but a beast breathing down our necks. I trace the short distance between our city and Ceann Locha with a shaking finger. Some thirty kilometers, maybe less. Any Imperial spy worth their salt could slip across that border under cover of darkness and blend into a market crowd by sunrise. The scattered villages Iain mentioned might as well be paper walls against a storm. Suddenly, all the worry about my hair and the conversations about the danger the Empire poses make perfect sense. The paranoia isn¡¯t paranoia at all¡ªit¡¯s a fact of life for these people.

    I lean forward, studying Iain¡¯s face in the dim light of the room. ¡°Why?¡± I ask, keeping my voice just as quiet as his. ¡°Why would I need to make that journey at all, much less without being seen?¡± The familiar weight of anxiety settles in my stomach¡ªthe kind that always comes before something goes terribly wrong. I¡¯ve learned enough about this world and the way the kids talk to know that  whispered conversations rarely lead anywhere good.

    Iain¡¯s shoulders slump slightly as he traces the line of the river with one weathered finger. ¡°There are whispers,¡± he begins, his voice tight with carefully controlled tension, ¡°of troops massing beyond the border. Not just the usual patrols either¡ªreal armies. The merchants who make it through talk of supply lines being established, of blacksmiths working through the night, of recruiting parties moving through villages.¡± His eyes remain fixed on the map as he speaks, as if he can see these movements playing out across its surface.

    I find myself drawn to the stack of ledgers at the edge of the table, seeing them with new eyes. The careful notes, the symbols I glimpsed in passing¡ªthey weren¡¯t just tracking stolen goods and operations, the results of their thefts and such? They were tracking much more than that: Troop movements, supply chains, the subtle shifts in power that precede a war. My mind races back to all those times I¡¯d seen him hunched over these books, thinking him their strategist. I was dead wrong. He¡¯s not a strategist. He¡¯s a spymaster.

    I scrub my hands over my face, staring at his sunken eyes. ¡°Iain,¡± I finally blurt out, my voice cracking, ¡°you¡¯re fifteen fucking years old.¡± My finger stabs at the map, at his meticulous notes, at the weight of a kingdom¡¯s fate spread across this table. ¡°How in all the hells are you getting this kind of information?¡± For a heartbeat he¡¯s not a boy at all but something ancient and worn, like a soldier who¡¯s seen too many winters at war.

    ¡°There are signals, small arrangements, sometimes chalk marks, laundry lines positioned in specific ways. Messages hidden where anyone could see them¡­ I spotted them ages ago,¡± Iain whispers with an expressive shrug. ¡°It began as a game,¡± he confesses, rubbing his neck. ¡°Breaking codes, finding patterns. It was entertaining, like working out a puzzle. But then¡­¡± He pauses, his face darkening. ¡°Then I began to understand what these messages were really saying. By then, I was in too deep to walk away. Someone needed to monitor it all, to connect the pieces. I never thought it would turn into¡­¡± His voice drifts off as he waves hopelessly at the map between us, at all the meticulously recorded evidence of impending war.

    ¡°So what do you want me to do?¡± I ask. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t it be better to just get out of here right now?¡± I point at the map in front of us. There¡¯s more cities below the one we are in, further away from the High Empire.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± Iain concedes. ¡°But this city, this hideout, is the only thing these kids know.¡±

    ¡°Anyhow,¡± I say sternly. ¡°This is way too big for just us to figure out. Did you tell the others?¡±

    Iain¡¯s face falls, a mix of guilt and anxiety washing over his features. ¡°No, I¡­ I haven¡¯t told anyone yet,¡± he confesses, running his fingers through his dark hair. ¡°I only just pieced it all together last night. The implications, what it could mean for all of us¡ªit hit me like a punch to the gut. I¡¯ve been walking around in a daze ever since, trying to make sense of it all.¡±

    I stare at him in disbelief, my mouth hanging slightly open. ¡°And you came to me first? Not Rhona?¡± The words come out sharper than intended, and Iain visibly flinches, his cheeks flushing with shame. Without another word, I turn and signal to Rhona and Calum, who are across the room sorting through yesterday¡¯s take. They notice the gravity in my expression and quickly make their way over, their usual playful banter quickly falling silent.

    As if drawn by some invisible thread, Mairi appears at my side, her small hand finding its way into mine. I glance around the room at the other older children, all absorbed in their own activities, and marvel at how Mairi alone seems to sense these important moments, these gatherings of the inner circle. She stands there quietly, her presence both comforting and somehow significant, as Iain begins to explain everything again, his voice barely above a whisper.

    The beginnings of a hushed conversation about the brewing conflict dies in our throats as a shrill cry pierces the musty air of their hideout. Malmhin¡¯s small frame appears at the entrance, her usually steady hands trembling as she grips the worn wooden frame. Her eyes, wide with panic, lock onto Rhona¡¯s face, then dart between Calum and Iain as if unable to decide who needs to hear her warning first.

    ¡°There¡¯s¡ªthere¡¯s someone coming!¡± she manages to gasp out between rapid breaths, her thin chest heaving beneath her patched dress. ¡°An older boy, I¡¯ve never seen him before, but he¡¯s heading straight for us!¡± The young childs words tumble out in a rush, her usual composure completely shattered.

    I watch in stunned silence as Calum transforms before my eyes. Gone is the casual stance and lazy smile, replaced by a fluid grace that seems almost supernatural. There¡¯s no trace of doubt or fear in his movements as he strides toward the entrance, his hand resting casually on the worn leather grip of the imperial sword. This is nothing like his training, where there was a certain kind of playfullness to his movements even while teaching me. The sheath at his hip is plain and unmarked, yet somehow that makes it more menacing¡ªlike a snake that doesn¡¯t need bright colors to warn of its danger.

    The rest of us fall in behind him almost instinctively, our footsteps echoing his purpose if not his grace. Mairi¡¯s hand leaves mine, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mairi scaling one of the  walls with an agility that reminds me painfully of Eilidh. The small girl finds a perch above us, melting into the shadows of the weathered stone like she was born to them. It¡¯s strange seeing someone else take on Eilidh¡¯s role as our eyes in the sky, but there¡¯s something fitting about it too¡ªas if the group refuses to leave that tactical advantage unused, even with our assassin gone.

    Through the crumbling alley, a figure comes walking towards us. He moves with a swagger that seems almost choreographed, each step deliberate and unhurried as if he owns the very cobblestones beneath his feet. Despite his ragged clothes and the dirt smudged across his sharp features, there¡¯s something about him that sets him apart from the usual street children¡ªperhaps it¡¯s the way he holds himself, spine straight and chin lifted, or the calculating intelligence behind his half-lidded eyes. He looks to be about seventeen, his frame lean but solid, suggesting regular meals that most street children can only dream of¡ªour own group being a sort of exception. My gaze sweeps over him, searching for hidden weapons, but his threadbare tunic and patched trousers seem to cling too closely to conceal anything deadly. Still, there¡¯s something about his easy confidence that makes my skin prickle with unease.

    When he¡¯s about ten paces away when he halts with a languid grace that seems more suited to a noble¡¯s ballroom than these grimy alleyways. His eyes, dark and shrewd, sweep over our group with the casual dismissal of someone appraising livestock at market. That arrogant assessment raises my hackles, and I have to resist the urge to step forward to smack him in the face. Calum¡¯s voice cuts through the tense silence like a blade, carrying the same deadly promise as the sword at his hip. ¡°One more step,¡± he says, the words falling soft and precise in the still air, ¡°and you¡¯re dead.¡± The stranger¡¯s lips curl into something that might be a smile on another face, but on his, it only emphasizes the predatory gleam in his eyes. He doesn¡¯t retreat, but I notice how carefully he maintains that ten-pace distance, his body somehow managing to look both completely at ease and ready to bolt at a moment¡¯s notice.

    ¡°This is close enough,¡± the stranger drawls, his accent carrying notes of an affected merchant district¡¯s polish with the streets¡¯ rough edges. ¡°My associates and I have decided this territory would serve our interests well. I¡¯m here to extend a¡­ generous offer.¡± His words drip with condescension, but there¡¯s steel beneath the silk of his voice. ¡°You can either join us, leave this city peacefully, or we¡¯ll ensure your little family dies a painful death.¡±

    The weight of the threat settles over our group like a  blanket, and I can feel the shift in energy as the older children exchange meaningful glances. Behind us, the younger ones press closer together, their small hands clutching at worn shirts and threadbare sleeves. One tiny girl, no more than six, peers around Iain¡¯s leg with wide, fearful eyes that remind me of a cornered rabbit. The familiar protective instinct rises in my chest¡ªthese little ones have already lost too much to have their sanctuary threatened by this smooth-talking intruder.

    My feet propel me past Calum¡¯s shoulder before I can think better of it, shrugging off Rhona¡¯s grasping fingers and her sharp intake of breath. My feet carry me forward with a surge of protective fury that drowns out any whisper of caution. My finger shoots out like a dagger, stopping inches from the silk-smooth front he¡¯s putting on. His dark eyes widen, that smug mask slipping for just a heartbeat as I burst through his invisible wall of authority. He takes a half-step back, his practiced stance faltering like a street performer who¡¯s missed his cue. It¡¯s almost funny how his carefully crafted swagger cracks when someone simply refuses to play along with his little show of power.

    ¡°How dare you,¡± I snarl, my voice tight with a maternal rage that surprises even me. "These children sleep in the only corner of safety they¡¯ve managed to scrape together in this piss-stained excuse for a city, and here you come prancing in like some two-bit playhouse villain with your threats?¡± I watch his shoulders tighten, that lordly mask slipping as I push into his space. His foot slides back, just a whisper of movement on the cobblestones, but I catch it.

    The stranger¡¯s spine stiffens, his mask of indifference snapping back into place, but not before his dark eyes flick up and down my frame, drinking in every inch with fresh caution. Gone is the lazy swagger of a bully toying with helpless children - his weight shifts to the balls of his feet, muscles coiling like a cat preparing to pounce. A muscle jumps in his clenched jaw, and his fingers twitch toward the suspicious bulge beneath his tunic¡¯s hem.

    ¡°You misunderstand the situation,¡± he says, his voice harder now, stripped of its earlier theatrical flair, the reality of his native street accent on full display. ¡°Our backers,¡± he spits the words like they should make me tremble, ¡°have connections that reach into every shadow of this city.¡± He takes a half-step closer, voice dropping to a growl that¡¯s meant for my ears alone. ¡°Your little display of motherly courage won¡¯t mean shit when they decide to move. Take the deal while you still can, before someone gets hurt.¡± The warning hangs between us, raw and honest in a way his earlier threats weren¡¯t.

    A flicker of movement catches my eye, and my heart nearly stops as I spot Mairi¡¯s small form materializing behind the stranger like a vengeful shadow. Her face is eerily calm, a mask of cold determination that belongs on no child. The crude shiv in her hand,  fashioned from a long curved piece of broken glass and cloth, presses upward with practiced precision against the man¡¯s back, positioned perfectly to slip between his ribs and into his heart.

    The stranger¡¯s words die in his throat as he feels the pressure of the point beneath his breastbone, his entire body going rigid with the sudden realization of his vulnerability. His hands freeze. Stopping their slow inching towards whatever he¡¯s hidden below the tunic. I lock eyes with Mairi across his frozen form, shaking my head in tiny, frantic motions. My heart hammers against my ribs as I recognize that hollow, distant look in her eyes¡ªthe same emptiness that haunted her when asking me if it was bad she¡¯d killed people. The glass shard in her small hand doesn¡¯t waver; she holds it steady, ready to plunge it home, just as she¡¯s done before. Just as she¡¯ll do again if anyone threatens our family.

    My muscles tense as Rhona¡¯s familiar form slides up beside me, her quiet exhale whispering against my ear. Her calloused fingers wrap around my arm, their gentle pressure pulling me back with the same quiet strength she uses to herd her wayward flock of street children. The fire in my gut still rages as I lock eyes with her, but the set of her dirty, but still beautiful face ¡ªdouses my anger like a bucket of cold water. I yield to her guidance, my boots scraping against the cobbles as I retreat. These aren¡¯t my streets, aren¡¯t my battles, aren¡¯t my children¡ªno matter how my heart screams otherwise. Every scar Rhona¡¯s bears, every calculating glance she casts, speaks of lessons bought in blood and pain. Lessons that have kept these little ones breathing when so many others stopped.

    The weariness in her eyes hardens into something dangerous, a look I¡¯ve only seen on her young face once before. I¡¯m very happy that this time I¡¯m not on the receiving end of it. ¡°Listen well,¡± she says, her voice carrying the weight of someone who¡¯s survived far worse threats than this, ¡°I don¡¯t give a fuck about your backers or their resources. This is our home, these are my people, and if you or anyone else thinks they can waltz in here making threats¡­¡± She lets out a short, harsh laugh that holds no humor. ¡°Well, let¡¯s just say we¡¯ve buried better men than you. Now get the fuck out.¡± The words aren¡¯t delivered with theatrical menace or posturing¡ªjust the cold, matter-of-fact tone of someone stating an absolute truth.

    A mirthless smile plays across Rhona¡¯s features as she takes another measured step forward, her fingers idly tracing the worn leather of her belt. ¡°You know,¡± she muses, her voice carrying that dangerous lilt that makes my skin prickle with recognition, ¡°you should count yourself fortunate you came alone.¡± Her eyes flick meaningfully to Mairi¡¯s steady hand, still pressing the makeshift blade against his back. ¡°It means you get to be the messenger.¡± The words trigger an unexpected memory in my mind¡ªa half-remembered scene from an old animated film where a fearsome warrior spares a single soldier to carry tales of destruction back to his emperor. The parallel sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, especially given how perfectly it fits this moment, how naturally Rhona wears that same aura of calculated mercy that serves as its own kind of threat.

    The boy¡¯s complexion has gone ashen, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning dew under a harsh sun. I can practically see the thoughts racing behind his wide eyes as reality crashes down around him¡ªhow his employers had likely painted this as a simple intimidation job, probably describing us as nothing more than a raggedy band of helpless children. Now here he stands, at the mercy of a girl who barely reaches his chest, yet holds herself with the bone-chilling confidence of someone intimate with violence. The tremor in his hands betrays his dawning comprehension that he¡¯s stumbled into something far more dangerous than he¡¯d bargained for.

    I press my lips together, fighting the completely inappropriate urge to laugh at his expression. It¡¯s terrible timing for humor, given the gravity of the situation, but there¡¯s something almost comical about watching his face cycle through shock, disbelief, and the slow-dawning horror of his predicament. The way his mouth keeps opening and closing reminds me of a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to maintain my composure. Even as my heart pounds with the very real tension of the moment, a hysterical little voice in my head can¡¯t help but appreciate the irony of this would-be tough guy being thoroughly cowed by someone who probably weighs half what he does.

    Rhona¡¯s lips curve into a predatory smile as she tilts her head, studying him with the calculated interest of a cat watching a cornered mouse. ¡°Although,¡± she drawls, her lilting accent taking on an almost musical quality that somehow makes her words more threatening, ¡°I suppose you only need to be able to carry the message, aye?¡± Her eyes flick briefly to the side, and Mairi responds to the silent command with practiced efficiency, her grip on the makeshift blade never wavering as she begins steering their unwanted guest around the corner of the tannery, Calum smoothly following after.

    The moment they¡¯re out of sight of the younger children, Calum moves  to block any potential escape route while Mairi¡¯s blade finds its mark with surgical precision. The stranger¡¯s shocked gasp cuts through the air as crimson blooms across his thigh, the wound deep enough to ensure he won¡¯t be running anywhere anytime soon, but carefully placed to avoid any major arteries. His legs buckle beneath him as Mairi steps back, wiping her blade clean on a scrap of cloth that Calum hands her, with the casual air of someone who¡¯s done this many times before. He gives her a small nod of approval, as if to say she¡¯s performed her role perfectly.

    I¡¯ve seen glimpses of their harder edges before¡ªin the way they move, how they handle weapons, their wariness of strangers¡ªbut this is different. This is the first time I¡¯ve witnessed them shift so completely from the children I know into something else entirely. The transformation is jarring, like watching a familiar painting suddenly reveal hidden depths in different lighting. Of course they did something similar when I first arrived, but I never received the full brunt of suspicion due to arriving with Mairi. Yet here they stand, deliberately maiming a young man without so much as a moments hesitation. My stomach churns as I realize I¡¯ve been naively viewing them through the lens of my own sheltered childhood, unconsciously softening their edges to fit my comfortable assumptions. But there¡¯s nothing soft about the clinical efficiency with which they¡¯re handling this situation, and I¡¯m forced to wonder just how many times they¡¯ve done this before. Did I just find this group after they¡¯d already claimed dominance over this part of the city?

    The boy lurches away, his uneven footsteps scraping against the cobblestones as blood continues to seep through his trousers. His breathing comes in ragged gasps, a mixture of pain and fear driving him forward despite his injury. I watch as he stumbles once, catching himself against a wall with trembling hands before pushing onward with renewed desperation.

    Mairi¡¯s voice cuts through the heavy silence, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather. ¡°You know,¡± she muses, absently trying to wipe a speck of blood from her sleeve, ¡°we could skip the whole message bit entirely. When he doesn¡¯t show up again¡­¡± She lets the sentence drift off with a small shrug, but the implication is crystal clear. The effect is immediate¡ªour unwanted guest¡¯s pace suddenly quickens, his injured leg dragging behind him as he practically throws himself around the corner, leaving nothing but a trail of blood  and the echo of his panicked movements in his wake.

    Mairi breaks into a fit of uncontrollable giggles, her small frame shaking with genuine mirth as she watches the blood trail disappear around the corner. Her laughter, high and clear like wind chimes in a summer breeze, seems jarringly out of place after the violence we just witnessed. Yet there¡¯s something almost infectious about her joy, a child¡¯s pure delight in successfully playing a role.

    Her brown eyes sparkle with satisfaction as she turns to me, still fighting back residual giggles. ¡°Did you see how fast he ran?¡± she manages between breaths, clearly pleased with herself. There¡¯s pride in her voice as she straightens up, trying and failing to maintain a serious expression. Unlike Rhona¡¯s towering presence and intimidating glares, Mairi¡¯s particular brand of menace comes from the unsettling contrast between her innocent appearance and her casual brutality¡ªand she knows it. The way she transitions so effortlessly between playful child and dangerous predator makes her threats all the more effective, a fact she clearly relishes.

    I glance at Calum, who seems entirely unfazed by Mairi¡¯s display of childlike glee in the aftermath of violence. His expression remains neutral, almost bored, as if this is just another Tuesday afternoon for him. Perhaps it is.

    I try to summon a smile, to share in Mairi¡¯s earlier enthusiasm, but something heavy settles in my chest instead. The  contrast between her innocent appearance and casual cruelty leaves me feeling hollow, despite understanding its necessity in our world. I want to be happy for her success, to celebrate her masterful manipulation of our unwanted guest, but the echo of his desperate scrambling and the sight of his blood on the cobblestones keeps intruding on any attempt at celebration.

    Calum¡¯s sharp eyes catch my troubled expression, and he gently touches Mairi¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Go on,¡± he says softly. ¡°You can check.¡± There¡¯s a flicker of surprise in her eyes when she looks at Calum. And he gives her a small nod, as if to confirm his earlier statement. She looks between us for a moment, her earlier mirth fading as she picks up on the shift in mood, before nodding and skipping away, her bare feet barely making a sound on the cobblestones.

    Once she¡¯s gone, Calum turns to me with a gravity that seems too old for his young face. ¡°If this is anything like the other times,¡± he murmurs, eyes distant as if watching ghosts. ¡°People, children, are going to die. Potentially quite a few, before they learn it¡¯s not worth the cost." Each word drops like a stone into a deep well, and I catch glimpses of old wounds in his eyes¡ªthe kind that never quite heal right. I find myself counting the invisible tallies in his expression, wondering how many bodies he¡¯s stepped over to gain this particular wisdom.

    The memory of the bandit crashes over me unbidden¡ªthe wet gurgle of his final breath, the shocking amount of blood that had clung to me on the forest floor. The mages on the wagons float through my mind next, their unseeing eyes staring at nothing, crossbow bolts protruding from their gut and head like macabre decorations. The memories of death are still fresh, still raw, but at least those had been adults¡ªpeople who had chosen their paths, who had known the risks they were taking. How many memories like that does Calum have? How many friends, enemies, has he seen dying why screaming for their mothers?

    These are children goddammit. Despite what I just witnessed with Mairi, despite knowing what they¡¯re capable of, I can¡¯t shake the wrongness of it. My throat tightens as I look at Calum, really look at him. He¡¯s just a boy, they¡¯re all just children, and yet here they stand on the precipice of what could become a bloodbath. I want to grab them all and run, to hide them away in some quiet village where their biggest worry should be stealing apples or ducking lessons.

    My mind struggles to process the weight of everything that¡¯s happening. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across his face, making him look older, more weathered than any child should. When he quietly says they could use my help, I feel my entire body go rigid, my breath catching in my throat.

    The rational part of my mind understands the situation¡ªthese children need protection. But Calum¡¯s earlier words echo in my head like a funeral bell: ¡°people are going to die.¡± I can¡¯t shake the horrible thought that he¡¯s asking me to participate in something unthinkable. My hands feel cold, and I stuff them into my pockets to hide their trembling.

    ¡°Are you¡­¡± I start, then falter, the words sticking in my throat like thorns. I swallow hard and try again, forcing myself to meet his eyes. ¡°Calum, are you asking me to help you kill those children?¡± The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and awful, and I hate myself for even having to ask it.

    He looks at me with an expression that¡¯s caught between exasperation and grim understanding. ¡°Yes, children,¡± he says, his voice carrying a hint of bite. ¡°The same children who just made it clear they¡¯d happily wipe us out if we don¡¯t do what they want.¡± There¡¯s something in his tone that makes me wonder how many times he¡¯s had to make these impossible choices.

    Calum leans forward, and there¡¯s a raw edge to his voice I haven¡¯t heard before. His fingers grip the edge of his chair until his knuckles turn white, and in the fading light, I can see the slight tremor in his hands. ¡°They won¡¯t just go away because you don¡¯t want blood on your hands,¡± he says, each word falling like lead between us. ¡°I¡¯ve seen it before. They¡¯ll keep coming, keep pushing, until they either break you or¡­¡± He lets the sentence hang unfinished, but its meaning is clear enough.

    His eyes take on a distant look, as if he¡¯s seeing something far beyond the walls of this room. ¡°Some of them, they¡¯re desperate enough that they can¡¯t see any other way forward. Others?¡± He gives a bitter laugh that sounds wrong coming from someone so young. ¡°Others are so convinced of their own righteousness that they think the world owes them whatever they want to take. Either way, they won¡¯t stop just because we wish they would. They won¡¯t stop until someone makes them.¡±

    I sink back against the wooden wall behind my back, my fingers absently tracing the cracks and crevices that speak of years of wear. The gravity of Calum¡¯s words weighs on me like a physical presence.

    My eyes drift to each face around me, Rhona and Iain having joined us silently. Calum, still tense and coiled like a spring; Rhona, her usual confidence tempered by something that might be uncertainty; and Iain, who is still carrying his ledger but whose quill has remained motionless in midair for the past several minutes. The conspicuous absence of Mairi¡¯s cheerful chatter makes the atmosphere feel even heavier, though perhaps that¡¯s for the best given the nature of our discussion.

    ¡°I understand what you¡¯re saying,¡± I finally manage, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. ¡°But understanding doesn¡¯t make it any easier to¡­¡± I trail off, searching for words that don¡¯t want to come. How do you discuss the logistics of something that shouldn¡¯t even be contemplated? The rational part of my mind - the part that used to solve complex programming problems¡ªtries to approach this like any other puzzle, but my conscience rebels at the very attempt.

    Rhona shifts  ¡°We¡¯re not asking you to make such decision alone,¡± she says, her voice gentle but firm. ¡°But we need to know if you¡¯re with us. Because if you¡¯re not, we can¡¯t have you anywhere we rely on you to¡­¡± She exchanges a look with Calum that speaks volumes about conversations I haven¡¯t been privy to, decisions already half-made.

    I close my eyes for a moment, remembering the comfortable life I¡¯d left behind¡ªmy family, my job, my quiet evenings with books about adventures far less complicated than the one I¡¯m living now. When I open them again, I find myself staring at my hands, wondering if they¡¯ll ever feel clean again after what we¡¯re considering.

    ¡°Nothing will happen to any of you,¡± I say quietly but with a conviction that surprises even me. The words feel like they¡¯re being pulled from somewhere deep inside, somewhere I didn¡¯t even know existed until this moment. It¡¯s strange how protective I¡¯ve become of these people who were strangers not so long ago¡ªthese thieves and outcasts who¡¯ve somehow become more family to me than I ever expected.

    Rhona¡¯s smile is slight but knowing, like she¡¯s seeing straight through to my core. ¡°Then you¡¯ve already made your decision, haven¡¯t you?¡± she says softly, and I realize she¡¯s right. Whatever moral gymnastics I¡¯ve been putting myself through, whatever rationalizations I¡¯ve been trying to construct, they all come down to this simple truth¡ªI won¡¯t let harm come to these kids.

    I lean back my head, letting it rest against the cool wood behind me, the thick clouds of the afternoon sky passing overhead in the thin strip of sky that¡¯s visible between the buildings. I feel like it should start raining now. The enormity of what I¡¯ve just agreed to settles over me like a heavy fog, and I find myself wondering what my parents would think if they could see me now. Their daughter, the programmer who once couldn¡¯t even bring herself to squash a spider,  calmly discussing the possibility of violence against children. Yet  another voice whispers that this isn¡¯t so different from my old worldview¡ªI¡¯ve always believed humanity was beyond saving, that people were fundamentally selfish and cruel. Perhaps all that¡¯s changed is that I¡¯m finally in a position to do something about it, to protect the few people I¡¯ve come to care about from those who would harm them.

    The irony of it all isn¡¯t lost on me. In all those fantasy novels I used to read, the protagonist¡¯s moral choices were always so clear-cut¡ªgood versus evil, right versus wrong. But here I sit, in my very own isekai adventure, and the lines between right and wrong have become so blurred they might as well not exist. There¡¯s no dark lord to defeat, no magical prophecy to fulfill¡ªjust children fighting children in the grimy alleys of a city that¡¯s forgotten they exist. And somehow, I¡¯ve become part of it all, not just as an observer but as someone who¡¯s willing to cross lines I never thought I¡¯d even approach. From one moment to another, the horror and revulsion give way. What remains is only a sort of grim acceptance that settles in the pit of my stomach, a cold certainty that I¡¯ll do whatever needs to be done to protect what¡¯s mine.

 Testing Limits

    Mairi practically slides out of the sky like a shadow, her small frame practically vibrating with contained energy. Her playful demeanor is gone, replaced by a tightly wound tension that immediately draws everyone¡¯s attention. Without preamble, she makes her way to where Rhona, Calum, Iain, and I are still discussing our next moves, her eyes dark with barely suppressed rage.

    ¡°It¡¯s much worse than we thought,¡± she says, her voice shaking, but just low enough that the other children won¡¯t hear. ¡°I followed him back to an old warehouse near the tannery district. There¡¯s at least twenty kids in there, maybe more, but they¡¯re not the ones in charge.¡± Her fingers absently trace the outline of her shiv as she continues, a habit I¡¯ve noticed she falls into when particularly upset. ¡°There¡¯s adults running the whole operation¡ªmean-looking ones, with proper weapons. Thieves, mercenaries, or¡­ worse. They¡¯ve got the children organized like some sort of twisted militia, sending them out to take control of every group like ours in the city while they sit back and count their profits.¡±

    The disgust in her voice is palpable as she recounts watching a boy barely older than herself being struck across the face for suggesting they target the merchant district instead of other street children. ¡°They¡¯re not even letting them keep what they steal,¡± she spits out. ¡°Everything goes to the adults, and the kids get whatever scraps they¡¯re deemed worthy of.¡±

    ¡°Some of the kids seem to think they¡¯re part of something special, like they¡¯re going to own the city,¡± she explains, her voice trembling slightly. ¡°They pick out the strongest ones, the smartest ones, and give them special treatment¡ªbetter food, cleaner clothes, maybe even a few coins¡ªbut only as long as they keep the others in line. Those seem almost worse than the adults.¡±

    In the pause as Mairi catches her breath, Rhona whirls on Calum, her face flushing red as blood rushes to her cheeks. ¡°You sent Mairi?!¡±

    Calum plants his feet and meets Rhona¡¯s burning stare head-on, his shoulders squared. ¡°Who should I have sent? Eilidh is otherwise occupied, and Mairi is the next best. I could have sent someone else, but they¡¯d likely just end up dead.¡±

    My eyes track Rhona¡¯s tightening jaw as she wrestles with Calum¡¯s logic. ¡°She¡¯s 8! She¡¯s supposed to be one of those we protect!¡±

    Mairi, feeling ignored, pipes up ¡°Rhona, I¡¯m right here. And I can protect myself. See, I¡¯m still alive.¡± She gestures at her untouched body. Their heads snap toward her, guilt flashing across their faces as they realize they¡¯ve been talking over her head like she¡¯s some village idiot.

    Well, fuck me sideways. That means they¡¯re not some gang of grubby urchins¡ªsome clever bastard¡¯s got himself a proper business going, using street rats to do his bidding. That scrawny little prick who tried threatening us wasn¡¯t working for himself or even represented other hungry kids. No, some grown arsehole sent him our way. Gods below, this is going to be a headache. I thought we were just dealing with some uppity street kids, but no¡ªthat would be too simple, wouldn¡¯t it? Someone¡¯s gone and made things complicated. Again.

    Rhona¡¯s fingers drum against the worn table surface, her intense blue eyes fixed on some distant point as she processes this new information. ¡°This doesn¡¯t really change our end goal,¡± she says, her voice carrying that peculiar mix of youth and weathered experience that still catches me off guard sometimes. ¡°We still need them to leave us alone. But knowing there are adults pulling the strings¡­¡± She trails off, a flash of frustration crossing her features. ¡°I almost wish we hadn¡¯t sent that boy back bleeding. We could have played weak, made them think we weren¡¯t worth the trouble.¡±

    Her jaw sets in that familiar way that tells me she¡¯s formulating a new plan. ¡°But that¡¯s done now,¡± she continues, her voice hardening. ¡°They know we can bite back, and adults won¡¯t just let that slide. They¡¯ll see it as a challenge to their authority, especially coming from street kids.¡± A bitter smile plays across her lips as she adds, ¡°We¡¯ve backed ourselves into a corner where we have to be either strong enough to make them back off, or clever enough to make them think we are.¡± The grin transforms into a small smile. ¡°No more middle ground.¡±

    Mairi shifts uncomfortably beside me, her confident demeanor faltering slightly. ¡°There¡¯s¡­ there¡¯s something else,¡± she says. Her small hands twist in her lap as she continues, ¡°When I was watching their warehouse, I used the juice to get more time, and I saw one of the men doing something. He was making runes appear in the air, just like Emma described seeing at the city gates with those wagon channelers.¡± The revelation hangs heavy in the air between us, and I feel my stomach drop as I realize the implications.

    My mind races through the possibilities, each more alarming than the last. If these people have access to channelers, then Mairi¡¯s indication that it¡¯s much worse than we thought is that much more true.

    They¡¯re not just some opportunistic criminals exploiting street children¡ªthey¡¯re connected to something much bigger, much more dangerous. The timing seems too perfect to be coincidental: troops massing at the border, some channelers randomly appearing in the city, an organized group suddenly trying to establish control over the streets. I exchange a worried glance with Rhona, seeing my own concerns reflected in her eyes. The implications behind having the backing of channelers are too significant to ignore.

    Iain¡¯s quill pauses mid-stroke, his normally confident demeanor giving way to visible confusion. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± he mutters. ¡°Did you see anyone," he turns to Mairi, his voice taking on an urgent edge, ¡°did you see anyone with black hair among them? Someone that looked like they must be from the Empire?¡± When Mairi shakes her head, his frown deepens, and he begins scribbling new notes with increased intensity.

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean anything,¡± Calum scoffs. ¡°Not everyone in the Empire has black hair. It¡¯d be dumb for them to send people that couldn¡¯t possibly blend in.¡± He glances meaningfully at me when he says that.

    My fingers trail through dark strands that now brush past my ears. Each morning I eye the knife on my bedside table, but can¡¯t bring myself to hack away at what¡¯s finally grown back. The scarf still covers everything, so why bother? Stupid to care about something as frivolous as hair length, but here I am, treasuring every inch while trying to forget that day I took the sword to it in a rage.

    Iain flushes red to the tips of his ears, crushing the quill against the parchment hard enough that I¡¯m surprised it doesn¡¯t snap. ¡°Right,¡± he mutters, clearly mortified at missing something so basic. ¡°Of course they wouldn¡¯t¡­¡± He trails off, scratching out whatever he¡¯d just written with quick, aggressive strokes.

    I bite back a smirk. It¡¯s not often our resident strategist gets caught in such an obvious oversight. Usually he¡¯s the one pointing out what everyone else has missed. Still, there¡¯s something endearing about watching him try to recover his dignity while pretending to be deeply absorbed in his notes.

    ¡°It¡¯s just,¡± he starts again, his voice barely above a whisper, ¡°everything¡¯s happening too fast. Too many variables changing at once.¡± He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving it standing up at odd angles. ¡°I don¡¯t like it when things don¡¯t follow the expected pattern.¡±

    Calum¡¯s grows a bit more subdued as he ponders the implications. ¡°Fighting off street kids is one thing,¡± he says, his voice grating, ¡°but trained adults that were possibly sent by the Empire? With weapons and magic?¡± He lets out a shaky breath, and for the first time since I¡¯ve known him, I see genuine fear in his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m good with a blade, I can pretty much guarantee I¡¯m better than anyone else on the streets, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯m professional soldier good.¡± He looks at the entrance to the hideout, as if mentally calculating how an invasion would unfold. ¡°Definitely not against multiple opponents who know what they¡¯re doing.¡±

    Rhona¡¯s expression shifts, a subtle change that draws everyone¡¯s attention. She looks at each of us in turn, her blue eyes bright. ¡°We¡¯re forgetting something important here,¡± she says, her voice taking on that particular tone she uses when she¡¯s about to turn a situation on its head. ¡°They might have a channeler, but they are just as hampered as we are. They really can¡¯t openly use their power. Not without giving their presence away, and informing the League of their plans.¡±

    ¡°That would definitely be something they want to avoid,¡± Iain mutters, as he stares down at his notes, deep in contemplation.

    Her gaze sweeps across our gathered faces, lingering particularly on the younger ones playing in the corner. ¡°Between Emma, myself, Mairi, and those three little ones who¡¯ve had the fruit, we¡¯ve got seven channelers. Seven,¡± she repeats, emphasizing the number. "Even if their channeler is more experienced, they can¡¯t match those numbers. If we practice, we might well overpower them.¡±

    Rhona¡¯s idiocy threatens to make my head explode. I didn¡¯t give them those fruits so that they could turn around and get themselves killed! My hands slice through the air, punctuating each word. ¡°Are you hearing yourself right now? Mairi¡¯s the only one besides me who¡¯s managed to channel a single damn rune, and fingers still twitch from her brush with death right after! Sure, we¡¯ve got eight runes now, but seven of them might as well be chicken scratches for all we know about them. Gods, they could turn us into toads or set our arses on fire! The only thing any of us can reliably do is speed our mind up, and while that¡¯s handy enough, it won¡¯t mean shite when we¡¯re facing proper soldiers who¡¯ve trained since they could lift a sword.¡±

    Iain and Calum stare at me like I¡¯ve grown a second head, clearly not used to such an emotional outburst from the usually sardonic outsider. Their shocked expressions would be comical if the situation wasn¡¯t so damn serious. Calum¡¯s mouth actually hangs open a bit, and Iain¡¯s quill has stopped its constant scratching entirely.

    Mairi, the little shit, breaks into peals of laughter. ¡°Your face gets all red when you¡¯re angry,¡± she manages between giggles, ¡°just like when Rhona gets mad at Calum for doing something stupid!¡± She clutches her sides, clearly delighting in the tension-breaking moment. ¡°Though you swear a lot more than she does.¡±

    I shoot her a half-hearted glare, but it¡¯s hard to maintain my anger when she¡¯s cackling like that. Still, the reality of our situation weighs heavily on my mind, and I can¡¯t help but think about how quickly things could go wrong if we¡¯re not careful. These kids might be street-smart and tough as nails, but they¡¯re still just that ¨C kids.

    Rhona meets my gaze steadily, that familiar determined glint in her blue eyes refusing to dim. ¡°We still have time,¡± she says, her voice carrying that quiet certainty that usually means she won¡¯t be swayed. ¡°Those adults won¡¯t risk exposing themselves by making any big moves right away¡ªthey¡¯ll want to establish their presence gradually, make it look natural. That gives us a chance to learn, to practice. And seven people who can potentially learn how to use those runes? It¡¯s not nothing, Emma. We just need time to figure out how to use them properly.¡±

    I let out a long breath, my shoulders slumping in defeat. ¡°Maybe," I admit, watching the younger children play in their corner of our hideout. ¡°If we can figure out how to use these abilities effectively, having seven people who can blow shit up with those runes could give us a fighting chance. Even if all we can do is slow things down, that¡¯s still better than what most people have access to.¡±

    ¡°That said,¡± I continue, eyeing the trio of children tossing scraps into the air. Their small hands fumble and grab, competing to snatch the most trinkets mid-flight, their high-pitched laughter echoing across the yard. ¡°Are you really going to pit them against a full mage? Trained soldiers?¡± My finger jabs toward their improvised game, where bits of wood and metal arc through the air between their tiny figures.

    Rhona¡¯s expression softens as she looks at the children, and I can see her maternal instincts warring with her practical side. ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± she says finally, running a hand through her tangled blonde hair. ¡°I won¡¯t put them in direct danger if we can help it. But¡­¡± She trails off, watching as one of the younger ones nearly trips over their own feet while trying to catch a piece of cloth.

    ¡°But you still want them to learn how to use the runes,¡± I finish for her, already knowing where this is going. I¡¯ve seen this protective streak of hers before¡ªit¡¯s what¡¯s kept most of these kids alive this long.

    ¡°They need to be able to defend themselves, Emma. If something goes wrong, if we fail¡­¡± She swallows hard, and I can see the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. ¡°I can¡¯t bear the thought of them being helpless.¡±

    I massage my temples, feeling a headache coming on. "Rhona, we¡¯re talking about giving a five-year-old access to potentially deadly magic. What happens when little Aileen gets angry because someone stole her favorite rock and decides to use it to get back at them?¡± I truly have a headache now. ¡°Kids that age can barely control their emotions, let alone mysterious magical powers we barely understand ourselves.¡± I sigh deeply, trying to meet her halfway somewhere. ¡°I see where you are coming from. You want them able to protect themselves. I just worry that the cure is worse than the disease.¡±

    I rub my face and sigh. Rhona¡¯s got that look in her eyes¡ªthe one that says she¡¯s not backing down, the same she nearly always gets when she¡¯s talking about anything related to keeping these kids safe from the world. Never mind that it doesn¡¯t keep them safe from themselves. It¡¯s the look that usually ends with me conceding because I feel it¡¯s her prerogative to decide these things. I already know I¡¯m going to regret this.

    ¡°Fine,¡± I growl, pointing a finger at her. ¡°But I¡¯m not teaching them anything immediately lethal. Nothing like fire, if that¡¯s a thing.¡± I pause, ¡°The burst is fine I suppose, you need to really put your all in it if you want to hurt someone.¡± I mentally add that that only goes as long as they don¡¯t decide to stick them in the walls around us.

    I watch a grin slowly spread across her face when she realizes I¡¯ve given in, and narrow my eyes. ¡°I mean it, Rhona. Defensive stuff only. Shield runes or something, maybe healing if such a thing exists. The kind of things that¡¯ll keep them alive without turning them into tiny merchants of death.¡±

    She nods eagerly. ¡°They¡¯ll need to start with the basics anyway,¡± she says, trying to sound reasonable. ¡°Just like you did.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, and look how well that turned out,¡± I mutter, remembering my own early disasters with the runes. At least I was old enough to know better than to experiment randomly. I definitely knew better anyway.

    Mairi grabs my hand, and stares up at me in amazement. Something I said before? ¡°There¡¯s runes that make fire?¡± she asks with entirely too much glee in her voice.

    Oh my god. She¡¯s also a little arsonist is she?

    I look sternly at her, and try to imitate Rhona¡¯s tone the time she told Mairi to not take the shinies. Gods that seems like such a long ago. ¡°No, there¡¯s no fire runes.¡± I admonish. Not yet anyway. ¡°And even if we did, I would not teach it to you. Don¡¯t get your hopes up, and definitely don¡¯t set anything on fire!¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s not forget,¡± Iain says with the only sense of humor he has, gesturing at the timber frames looming over us, ¡°we¡¯re essentially living in a massive pile of kindling. One stray spark¡­¡± He trails off meaningfully, his eyes flickering briefly to Mairi, who suddenly finds her feet incredibly interesting.

    ¡°Regardless,¡± Iain¡¯s voice returns to business as usual. ¡°You¡¯re both missing something crucial,¡± he says, his fingers drumming nervously against his ledger. ¡°Every time we use these abilities, we risk exposure. Seven people using juice means seven times the chance of someone noticing something odd, seven times the risk of drawing attention. Since we don¡¯t know if they have a way of detecting it¡¯s usage¡­¡± He lets the implications hang in the air, his expression grim as he stares down at his carefully maintained records.

    Calum shifts his weight, the practice sword hanging loosely at his side as he interrupts. ¡°Let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves there,¡± he says. ¡°In the past month, Emma has been using that who knows how many times, and nobody has come for us. Given how paranoid you said everyone is about channeling, there¡¯s no reason to believe anyone will.¡± There¡¯s a hint of his voice wavering when he says it, but it firms up near the end.

    Iain looks up from his ledger, his quill pausing mid-stroke as he fixes Calum with a stern gaze. ¡°There¡¯s going to be a moment when we slip up,¡± he states flatly, his voice carrying none of its usual hedging. "And when we do, it won¡¯t be some street urchin showing up here.¡±

    ¡°Regardless,¡± he says, ¡°Our channeling won¡¯t help us fight them at all.¡± He taps his pencil against the ledger he¡¯s holding. ¡°They¡¯ll come prepared, probably at night, when visibility is poor and most of us are asleep. That¡¯s what I would do, if I were planning this." The matter-of-fact way he describes our potential doom sends a chill down my spine, especially since I know his tactical assessments are rarely wrong. He raises his head, and his eyes lock onto each of us in turn. ¡°We¡¯ve already proven we¡¯re going to fight back, quite competently too. Why risk losing anyone when you have better options?¡±

    Calum¡¯s face drains of color as the implications of Iain¡¯s words sink in, and I watch a visible shiver run through his body. His fingers tighten around his sword hilt until his knuckles turn white. When he speaks, his voice carries an uncharacteristic tremor. ¡°You really think they¡¯ll go that far?¡± he asks Iain, though his expression suggests he already knows the answer.

    Iain doesn¡¯t even look up from the ledger he¡¯s turned back to as he responds, his voice carrying a cold certainty that makes my blood run cold. "With adults running the show? The Empire? It¡¯s practically guaranteed. They won¡¯t just want to beat us¡ªthey need to make an example of us. Can¡¯t have other kids getting ideas about standing up for themselves, after all.¡±

    Rhona rises from her chair, her posture straightening. ¡°Look,¡± she says, running her fingers through her tangled blonde hair, "I understand the Empire might be involved somehow, but we can¡¯t let that influence us. Whether they¡¯re connected to what¡¯s happening at the border or not, it doesn¡¯t really matter to us. These people are trying to take what¡¯s ours, and we¡¯re going to stop that from happening, whoever they are.¡± Her eyes grow distant for a moment. ¡°What does it matter to us who sits on what throne or rules what city?¡±

    Her blue eyes flash with determination as she places both hands on the worn table, leaning forward to emphasize her point. ¡°We can worry about empires and armies after we¡¯ve made sure these bastards understand that they can¡¯t just walk in here and mess with what we¡¯ve built.¡±

    I can¡¯t help but notice how Iain¡¯s shoulders tense at Rhona¡¯s words. He sets his quill down with deliberate care, the kind of movement that screams ¡®I¡¯m trying very hard not to slam this.¡¯

    ¡°That¡¯s exactly the kind of thinking that¡¯ll get us all killed,¡± he says, his voice tight with frustration. ¡°We can¡¯t just pretend the Empire doesn¡¯t matter. If they¡¯re involved, charging in like it¡¯s just another territory dispute would be suicide. We¡¯d need completely different tactics.¡± He picks up his quill again, twirling it between his fingers. ¡°Think about it¡ªif it¡¯s just local thugs, we can intimidate them, maybe bloody a few noses and they¡¯ll back off. But Imperial agents?¡± He shakes his head. ¡°They¡¯ll have resources, training, and they won¡¯t stop until they¡¯ve achieved their objective or we¡¯re all dead.¡±

    ¡°Besides,¡± Iain continues, his voice growing stronger as he warms to his argument, ¡°knowing who we¡¯re really up against might tell us what they¡¯re actually after. The Empire doesn¡¯t waste resources on random street operations¡ªthere has to be a bigger picture.¡±

    I watch the tension build between them, remembering all too well how imperial powers operated back in my world. Different time, different place, same bloody playbook. Efficient, ruthless, and potentially genocidal. The kids might be used to dealing with street toughs and local gangs, but this is a whole different game.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Iain clears his throat and spreads out a fresh page of his ledger, his quill poised with practiced precision. ¡°These people, they¡¯re organized, yes, but that organization is their weakness too. They¡¯ve got a chain of command, schedules to keep, reports to make¡ªand every single one of those things is an opportunity for us to gather information or disrupt their operations.¡±

    The scratching of his quill pauses as he looks up at the group, his eyes bright with calculated intensity. ¡°But the most important thing is understanding their real objective. Adults don¡¯t waste time organizing street kids unless there¡¯s something bigger at stake. Whether it¡¯s connected to the troop movements or not, they¡¯re after something specific¡ªand if we can figure out what that is, we might be able to use it against them. Or at least, make our actions irrelevant to their plans so they leave us alone.¡± His fingers drum against the page as he speaks, a nervous habit that betrays the weight of what he¡¯s thinking about.

    Iain¡¯s methodical mind kicks into gear as he sketches out possibilities in his ledger. ¡°Think about what we know,¡± he says, drawing lines between different points on his rough map. ¡°The Empire is massing troops at the border, and suddenly there¡¯s an organized attempt to control the street children in the city. If they¡¯re planning an invasion, having eyes and ears throughout the city would be invaluable. We¡¯d be perfect for that¡ªchildren are invisible, we can go anywhere without raising suspicion, and no one expects us to understand military matters.¡±

    ¡°Or maybe they¡¯re after something specific,¡± Rhona interjects, her face tight with concentration. ¡°Maybe they are looking for some new recruits? Emma said children seem to have an easier time learning how to channel, and I can guarantee you none of those kids holds any warm feelings towards the League." She glances at me, probably wondering if I have any feelings on it, but I barely know the political unit they¡¯re describing. ¡°It would explain why they¡¯re so interested in organizing us rather than just clearing us out.¡±

    I think that sounds far fetched. If they wanted children they¡¯d just get them from their own cities. Find the ones that are already patriotic, or just indoctrinate them until they are.

    The silence that follows is broken by Calum¡¯s bitter laugh. ¡°Could be simpler than that,¡± he says absently. ¡°Maybe they just want chaos. Think about it¡ªif the street gangs start fighting each other, the city guard will be too busy dealing with it to notice whatever they¡¯re really doing.¡± His words send a chill down my spine, because it makes a horrible kind of sense¡ªeven if they have no other plans, having chaos reign throughout the city could hardly hurt them.

    Iain closes his ledger with a decisive snap, his analytical expression shifting into something more determined. ¡°Whatever their ultimate goal, we need to make our own preparations,¡± he states, scratching out a quick list in fresh ink. ¡°We¡¯ll need constant surveillance of their warehouse, rotating shifts to watch them at night, and most importantly, we need to work on understanding every advantage we can bring to bear.¡± He very deliberately looks at me as he makes this last statement, clearly hinting at the as of yet undeciphered runes. His voice carries the same methodical precision he uses when planning our more elaborate heists, breaking down overwhelming challenges into manageable tasks.

    ¡°I can help test the runes,¡± Mairi pipes up eagerly, her eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. Before she can finish her sentence, four voices ring out in perfect harmony: ¡°No!¡± The force of our unified rejection makes her jump slightly, though the rebellious set of her jaw suggests this won¡¯t be the last time she offers. I fix her with a stern look, remembering all too well how close the girl had come to killing herself with just one rune.

    Rhona runs her fingers through her tangled hair, a habit that surfaces whenever she¡¯s trying to organize her thoughts. ¡°We¡¯ll split into teams,¡± she says, naturally falling into her leadership role. ¡°Calum, you¡¯ll organize the watch¡ªmake sure everyone knows their positions and signals. Iain, keep tracking their movements and patterns. Emma¡­¡± She pauses, meeting my eyes with a mix of trust and concern, ¡°you focus on understanding those runes. Just¡­ please be careful. We can¡¯t afford to lose anyone right now.¡± The unspoken ¡®especially you¡¯ hangs in the air between them, acknowledgment of how much they¡¯ve come to rely on me for this. I may have only a small handful of weeks more experience with the channeling than them, but it¡¯s enough to make a difference.

    Mairi shifts her weight from foot to foot, her small frame practically vibrating with nervous energy as she looks up at Rhona. ¡°I could help watch them,¡± she suggests, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, as if expecting the rejection before it comes. ¡°I already know where their warehouse is, and I¡¯m better at not being seen than anyone else here.¡± Her fingers unconsciously trace the outline of her shiv as she speaks.

    Rhona¡¯s reaction is immediate and fierce, her protective instincts flaring to life. ¡°Absolutely not,¡± she snaps, her blue eyes flashing with barely contained worry. ¡°You¡¯ve already risked yourself once following that boy. I won¡¯t have you-¡± But Calum¡¯s quiet voice cuts through her protest like a blade through butter. ¡°Who else can we send?¡± he asks, his tone carrying the weight of painful practicality. ¡°Eilidh¡¯s gone, and none of the others have Mairi¡¯s experience with staying hidden. We need those eyes, Rhona, and you know it. It might be the difference between life and sudden death.¡±

    The tension builds as Rhona and Calum lock eyes, their silent battle of wills playing out in the space between them. Finally, Rhona¡¯s shoulders slump in defeat, though her face remains tight with worry. ¡°Fine,¡± she concedes, turning back to Mairi with a stern expression. ¡°But you don¡¯t take any unnecessary risks. No getting closer than you need to, no trying to be clever. If anything feels wrong, you get out of there immediately.¡± Mairi¡¯s answering nod is solemn, but I catch the flash of triumph¡ªand something that looks very much like mischief¡ªin her brown eyes as she promises to be careful. Somehow I¡¯m not all that worried though. Mairi might be a little devil, but she would never do anything that could compromise her family.

    The evening light casts long shadows across our hideout as Calum approaches me, practice sword in hand and an expectant look on his face. Despite the exhaustion weighing down my mind after I spent the day trying to figure out the remaining runes, I find myself nodding before he even asks the question. The familiar weight of the wooden blade settles into my palm, and I can¡¯t help but smile¡ªmy thoughts may be sluggish, but there¡¯s something oddly comforting about returning to these precise movements after a day spent wrestling with the unpredictable nature of magical runes.

    As I settle into the basic stance he taught me, I realize I¡¯m actually looking forward to this. My old life was always a juggling act of deadlines, meetings, and personal projects¡ªthis isn¡¯t so different, just trading programming bugs for magical mishaps and code reviews for sword forms. There¡¯s a certain peace in having your day structured by necessity rather than arbitrary office schedules, even if that structure involves dodging Calum¡¯s increasingly creative attacks.

    The practice sword whistles through the air as I attempt to replicate the defensive form he demonstrated earlier, my muscles protesting but my mind clear. Trying to figure out how to teach others how to channel while learning swordplay myself creates a strange symmetry¡ªin both cases, it¡¯s about breaking down complex procedures into manageable pieces, about understanding the underlying patterns that make everything work. The thought makes me snort softly¡ªleave it to me to find parallels between medieval combat and software development.

    The morning sun filters weakly through the perpetual haze of the city as I gather our would-be channelers in the most secluded corner of our hideout. My stomach churns with anxiety as I watch them all settle down¡ªRhona with her characteristic grace, Calum fidgeting with nervous energy, Iain clutching his ever-present ledger, and the three younger ones trying their best to contain their excitement. The gravity of what we¡¯re about to attempt weighs heavily on me, knowing that one mistake could have devastating consequences.

    I start by having them draw the burst rune in the dirt with sticks, correcting their work with the same methodical patience Ronain once showed me when explaining about his herbs. It¡¯s strange being on this side of the teaching process, watching their faces scrunch in concentration as they try to replicate the precise angles and curves of the symbol. The younger ones, surprisingly, seem to grasp it faster than the older kids¡ªtheir minds perhaps more open to accepting new concepts without questioning the underlying logic.

    As they practice drawing the rune, I explain the theory as best I understand it¡ªhow you can make the juice bounce around by moving your second body, how this is actually the worst way to use it, and how there¡¯s a second¡­ brain, that governs the usage of magic. It¡¯s not like a separate consciousness, just a different processing unit. This processing unit has to will the juice into the runes to make something happen. Without it the juice will never leave the confines of the body in which it¡¯s stored. I¡¯m really not sure what the meaning of this sensation of a second body and brain is. Maybe it¡¯s like a metaphysical thing you can attack, or see in other people, if you get skilled enough.

    I demonstrate the burst, how the effect radiates outward from the center point, how you can control the amount of power fed into it. I find myself falling into a rhythm reminiscent of my old programming days, mentoring my junior, breaking down complex concepts into digestible chunks, using analogies they can understand. ¡°Think of it like throwing a stone into a pond,¡± I tell them, ¡°you¡¯re controlling how big the ripples are by the force with which you throw it.¡±

    I¡¯m still not sure it¡¯s a good idea to teach them this rune, but we don¡¯t have anything else yet, and it¡¯s safe enough as long as you don¡¯t put the rune in anything solid. After Mairi¡¯s misadventure, I¡¯ve been dying to stick a rune inside a block of stone from a safe distance, but I can¡¯t figure out how to do that without attracting a massive amount of attention, or depleting all my juice in a single go. We don¡¯t have any extra fruits, so we have to be extremely conservative in both training and usage.

    The actual channeling practice is nerve-wracking, each attempt making my heart skip a beat as I watch for signs they are sticking the runes where they¡¯re not supposed to go. We start with the tiniest amounts of power possible, creating bursts no stronger than a gentle breeze. Even these small successes bring grins to their faces. Rhona picks it up the quickest, her natural affinity for the juice evident in how smoothly she channels. Calum struggles with the precision required, while Iain¡¯s analytical mind seems to both help and hinder him¡ªhe understands the theory perfectly but second-guesses his execution. The younger ones alternate between frustrated failures and occasional bursts of surprising competence, their control still raw but promising. None of them show the instinctual understanding that Mairi displayed however.

    Now that there¡¯s so many people channeling in front of me, I have a chance to really see other people¡¯s runes being formed for the first time. There¡¯s a little bit of a blur in the sky, like I saw with the channeler on the wagon at the gate, but everyone is now so close that it doesn¡¯t really hinder me. I can see the runes taking shape in the sky in front of me. Depending on who shapes it, they¡¯re not actually drawn, more like the wavering lines just appear in midair and slowly stabilize. Occasionally it¡¯s immediate, when one of the kids has an unusually clear mental image.

    I really need to get a grasp of how and why this all works the way it does, but the meaning eludes me like the proper usage of the other runes. I attempted to use all the simple ones yesterday. Just to get through them all. Set them somewhere in the sky, and channeling some juice into all of them, but nothing really happened. The only one that did anything at all seemed to just take all the juice I fed into it. That was cool, but I haven¡¯t figured out a way to get it out again. Apparently now that it¡¯s fed with juice, it¡¯s content to just keep hanging there in midair for anyone using juice mode to see¡­

    As I have that thought, I suddenly feel a need to have a better word for all of these things.

    I pause in my instruction, realizing we need better terminology for what we¡¯re doing. ¡°What do you all call it when you drop into that state where everything slows down?¡± I ask, gesturing vaguely with my hands. ¡°It¡¯s not really slowing time, more like speeding up our thoughts, but saying ¡®juice mode¡¯ sounds ridiculous.¡± The younger ones giggle at that, while Rhona and Iain exchange thoughtful glances.

    ¡°Ghost-walking,¡± Iain suggests, his quill hovering over his ledger as if ready to record whatever term we settle on. ¡°Since it¡¯s like we¡¯re moving between moments, like spirits.¡± Calum shakes his head, arguing that it sounds too mystical, while one of the younger ones pipes up with ¡°fast-thinking,¡± which earns several half approving nods. Rhona, however, remains quiet, her brow furrowed in concentration.

    Rhona suddenly sits up straighter, her face taking on a serious cast that immediately draws everyone¡¯s attention. ¡°Wait,¡± she says, holding up her hand. ¡°Before we go naming everything willy-nilly, there¡¯s something you should know.¡± She glances around nervously, an unusual expression for her typically confident demeanor. ¡°My teacher¡­ she always said that it was important to call everything by its proper name because names have power. She never explained exactly why, but she was adamant about it.¡±

    I can¡¯t help but roll my eyes. After everything we¡¯ve been through, mystical naming conventions seem like the least of our worries. ¡°This is the one that could not actually channel herself was it?¡± I ask. ¡°Did anything actually happen when someone used the wrong term?¡± I ask, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice and failing miserably.

    Rhona shifts uncomfortably. ¡°Well¡­ no. But she was very insistent about it.¡±

    Calum snorts, returning to his practice sketching. ¡°Sounds like she just wanted to make it all seem more important than it was. Like those merchants who make up fancy names for regular things to charge more.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Mairi chimes in, bouncing slightly where she sits, ¡°and besides, we¡¯ve been calling it all sorts of things already and nothing bad has happened. Emma calls it ¡®juice,¡¯ and she¡¯s the best at it!¡±

    I watch as Rhona¡¯s concern visibly deflates under the weight of our collective dismissal. She shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. ¡°I suppose you¡¯re right. It does sound a bit silly when you put it that way.¡± She reaches down to draw another practice rune in the dirt. ¡°So, about these names then¡­¡±

    The discussion quickly expands as I bring up the other terms we need. ¡°What about when we place a rune somewhere? Or when we feed juice into it? And this second body and brain we feel¡ªsurely there¡¯s better words for those too?¡± The questions spark a lively debate, with suggestions ranging from the practical to the absurd. Mairi particularly seems to enjoy throwing out increasingly outlandish names, each more colorful than the last.

    Finally, Rhona speaks up, her voice tinged with a hint of regret. ¡°In my lessons, they called it ¡®scribing¡¯ when you place a rune, and ¡®feeding¡¯ when you push juice into it.¡± She pauses, a wistful smile playing across her features as she glances at the various symbols scratched into the dirt. ¡°Though I have to admit, ¡®ghost-walking¡¯ has a certain charm to it that ¡®quickening¡¯ lacks.¡±

    Her fingers trace abstract patterns in the air as she continues, ¡°The second body was called the ¡®vessel,¡¯ and the other mind was the ¡®will.¡¯ Simple, practical terms.¡± She lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head at some private thought. ¡°My teacher would have been horrified at how casual we¡¯re being about all this.¡±

    The memory seems to darken her mood slightly, her blue eyes growing distant. ¡°But then again, she also said that channeling was a gift reserved for the nobility, that common folk couldn¡¯t possibly grasp its complexities.¡± Her lips curve into a defiant smile as she looks around at their makeshift classroom. ¡°I suppose we¡¯re proving her wrong on that count, aren¡¯t we? Maybe we¡¯ve earned the right to name things our own way.¡±

    A wry smile tugs at my lips as I listen to Rhona talk about ¡®scribing¡¯ runes. The term feels absurdly permanent for something that vanishes the moment your concentration wavers¡ªlike calling a shadow puppet a sculpture. These aren¡¯t writings or etchings; they¡¯re more like mental projections that need constant attention to maintain. I¡¯ve lost count of how many times I¡¯ve had to redraw the same rune because I got distracted by something as simple as a sudden noise or movement.

    My eyes drift to the corner where we¡¯ve stacked boxes around that experimental rune from yesterday¡ªthe one that seems to devour any juice fed into it. It¡¯s still there, floating invisibly among the crates and barrels, proving itself to be the exception to every rule I thought I understood about how these things work. The makeshift barrier doesn¡¯t completely hide it from juice-enhanced sight, but it does make it harder to spot, like trying to see a candle flame through frosted glass.

    If one rune can persist without constant attention, what else might be possible? Are there other runes that could stick around indefinitely, or is this juice-eating one unique? And more importantly, if someone else discovered this property before us¡ªthe likelihood I can¡¯t even begin to guess at¡ªhow many permanent runes might be hiding around the city? The thought sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine as I turn back to the question at hand.

    I shake off my wandering thoughts and clear my throat. ¡°What about ¡®holding¡¯?¡± I suggest, gesturing vaguely at the air where we¡¯ve been practicing. ¡°Because that¡¯s really what we¡¯re doing when we maintain these runes¡ªholding them in existence through sheer mental effort. It¡¯s like¡­ juggling, almost. The moment you stop paying attention, everything falls apart.¡± I pause, considering the juice-eating rune hidden behind the crates. ¡°Well, usually anyway. And when we first create them, when we¡¯re picturing them in our minds before they appear, maybe we could call that ¡®forming.¡¯ Simple, descriptive, and it doesn¡¯t sound like we¡¯re trying too hard to be mystical about it.¡±

    Calum nods vigorously at my suggestion. ¡°¡®Holding¡¯ makes sense,¡± he agrees, demonstrating with an outstretched hand as if physically grasping something invisible. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what it feels like¡ªlike you¡¯re trying to keep hold of something that wants to slip away.¡± His enthusiasm draws a small smile from Mairi, who¡¯s been unusually quiet during this discussion, though the gleam in her eyes suggests she¡¯s filing away every word for future reference.

    Rhona lets out an undignified snort at their eager acceptance of the new terminology, but there¡¯s no real opposition in her expression¡ªjust fond exasperation as she watches Calum and Mairi practice ¡®forming¡¯ and ¡®holding¡¯ their runes with renewed vigor. The terms carry a practical simplicity that seems to resonate with everyone. Iain has already started updating his ledger with the new vocabulary, his quill scratching quietly as he makes careful notes in his precise handwriting.

    Mairi wrinkles her nose at both suggestions, her fingers tapping restlessly against her knee. ¡°Ghost-walking sounds like something dead people do,¡± she complains, ¡°and quickening sounds like something fancy people say when they¡¯re trying to sound important.¡± Her brown eyes narrow in thought as she watches Aileen attempting to draw another practice rune in the dirt. ¡°We need something that¡¯s just about our thoughts going faster, yeah? Like when you¡¯re thinking so fast everything else seems slow?¡±

    ¡°Oh!¡± Aileen pipes up, her small face lighting up with sudden inspiration. ¡°What about ¡®thinking-fast¡¯? Because that¡¯s what it really is¡ªwe¡¯re not actually moving faster or anything spooky like that, we¡¯re just thinking faster than everyone else!¡± The simplicity of the suggestion draws appreciative nods from several of the others, and even Mairi tilts her head in consideration, a slow grin spreading across her face as she tests the phrase out under her breath.

    I can¡¯t help but laugh, memories of my own world¡¯s version of ¡°think fast!¡± flooding back¡ªthose moments when someone would toss something at you without warning, usually resulting in fumbled catches and mild embarrassment. The irony isn¡¯t lost on me that we¡¯ve essentially discovered the perfect counter to such pranks. I can just imagine the look on Johan¡¯s face if, instead of dropping whatever he¡¯d thrown at me, I¡¯d simply slipped into this state and plucked it easily from the air. Of course, explaining how I¡¯d managed such superhuman reflexes might have been problematic, but the mental image of his jaw dropping is still immensely satisfying. It¡¯s funny how some things translate so perfectly across worlds, even if the context is completely different.

    ¡°That just leaves ¡®vessel¡¯ and ¡®will¡¯ then,¡± Rhona says, her fingers absently combing through her tangled blonde hair. She glances at Aileen, who¡¯s practically glowing with pride after her ¡®thinking-fast¡¯ suggestion was so well received. The younger girl has been unusually quiet during their lessons, so having her contribute feels like a small victory in itself.

    Rhona wrinkles her nose slightly at the formal terms, shifting her weight on the worn floorboards. ¡°They¡¯re not bad words, exactly, but they sound like something those stuffy nobles would use¡ªall proper and important-like.¡± Her blue eyes scan the group, a familiar spark of mischief dancing in them. ¡°We should come up with something that¡¯s more¡­ us. Something that makes sense to people who actually use these abilities, not just talk about them in fancy rooms.¡±

    The discussion that follows is animated, with suggestions ranging from ¡°ghost-body¡± (quickly vetoed by Mairi as being ¡°too spooky again¡±) to ¡°magic-mind¡± (dismissed by Iain as too simplistic). Finally, we settle on ¡°shadow-self¡± for the second body and ¡°spark¡± for the other mind¡ªterms that feel both descriptive and natural in their mouths. Even Rhona seems satisfied with these choices, though she notes she can¡¯t help but imagine her old teacher¡¯s horrified expression at their casual renaming of such ¡°sacred¡± concepts.

    I lean back against the wall, feeling the rough texture through my worn clothes as I gather my thoughts. ¡°Right, so let¡¯s make sure we¡¯re all clear on these terms,¡± I say, unconsciously falling into my old teaching rhythm from debugging sessions. ¡°When we speed up our thoughts, that¡¯s ¡®thinking-fast.¡¯ When we create a rune with our minds, we¡¯re ¡®forming¡¯ it, and when we maintain it, we¡¯re ¡®holding¡¯ it. The second body we feel is our ¡®shadow-self,¡¯ and that other consciousness that controls the juice is our ¡®spark.¡¯¡± I pause, watching their faces for any sign of confusion. ¡°And when we push juice into a rune, that¡¯s ¡®feeding¡¯ it, though I still think that sounds like we¡¯re trying to raise a particularly hungry pet.¡± This draws a few chuckles, especially from Mairi, whose eyes are practically dancing with amusement at my commentary.

    Despite their best efforts, no one manages to come up with a better alternative to ¡®feeding.¡¯ The suggestions range from ¡®juicing¡¯ (quickly dismissed as sounding ridiculous) to ¡®powering¡¯ (which Iain argues sounds too mechanical) to Mairi¡¯s increasingly creative combinations of ¡®force¡¯ and ¡®push.¡¯ Each new suggestion seems to fall flat, either too fancy or not descriptive enough of what they¡¯re actually doing when they channel juice into a rune.

    Finally, after watching Calum mime increasingly elaborate gestures trying to describe the sensation, Rhona throws up her hands in defeat. ¡°Maybe this is why they kept calling it ¡®feeding,¡¯¡± she admits with a resigned smile. ¡°It really does feel like you¡¯re feeding something, doesn¡¯t it? Like the runes are hungry for the juice, and we¡¯re just¡­ giving them what they want.¡± The others nod in reluctant agreement, and even I have to admit that despite its slightly pretentious origins, the term captures the essence of the action better than anything else we¡¯ve come up with.

    ¡°Right,¡± I say, ¡°Let¡¯s keep trying to form this rune then! No feeding it yet please. Just hold it.¡± I start thinking-fast, and realize that, as much as I want to grant Aileen the win there, it¡¯s missing the crucial component that conveys that you are thereby able to see what other channelers are doing. I also realize that it¡¯s weird they call the people ¡®channelers¡¯, but the process ¡®feeding¡¯. Shouldn¡¯t we channel juice into these runes? Maybe they just figured it would be weird to call the people doing the feeding ¡®feeders¡¯. The reverse could have worked though.

    I consider mentioning my reservations about ¡®thinking-fast¡¯ to the group, not wanting to diminish Aileen¡¯s contribution but feeling the term misses something crucial. The ability to see what other channelers are doing while in that state seems like an important aspect to capture in the terminology. It¡¯s the difference between just having quick thoughts and actually being able to perceive the magical workings around us, but I¡¯m hesitant to point this out after seeing how proud the young girl was of her suggestion.

    ¡°Actually,¡± Aileen pipes up before I can voice my concerns, her earlier pride morphing into a defensive determination, ¡°what about ¡®quick-sight¡¯? Because that¡¯s really what makes it special, isn¡¯t it? We¡¯re not just thinking faster, we¡¯re seeing things nobody else can see¡ªlike Emma¡¯s floating rune over there.¡± She points toward the crates, and I have to admire how quickly she picked up on my hesitation and adapted her suggestion. The girl might be young, but she¡¯s certainly perceptive.

    There¡¯s a general murmur of agreement as ¡®quick-sight¡¯ settles into place, the term capturing both the accelerated thinking and the enhanced perception that comes with it. Even Iain, usually so particular about precise terminology, gives an approving nod as he adds it to his notes. The younger children seem especially pleased with the compromise, proud that their input helped shape something that feels both accurate and uniquely theirs. I have to admit, it¡¯s a good fit¡ªbetter than anything I could have come up with, managing to be both descriptive and simple without sounding pretentious or overly mystical.

    I slip into quick-sight, watching as my impromptu students attempt to form their runes. The familiar sensation of time slowing to a crawl settles over me as I observe their efforts, each ghostly symbol floating in the air before them with varying degrees of stability. My earlier theories about proximity and visibility are proving true¡ªfrom just a few feet away, I can make out the burst runes they¡¯re attempting to create, though they still have that peculiar blurred quality I remember from watching the wagon channelers. It¡¯s like trying to read through a gossamer veil, but far clearer than what I could see from across the street at the gate.

    The clarity of their attempts allows me to better gauge their progress, noting how Rhona¡¯s rune maintains a near-perfect form while Calum¡¯s wavers at the edges like a candle flame in a draft. Iain¡¯s methodical approach shows in the precise, if somewhat rigid, lines of his symbol, while the younger ones¡¯ attempts flicker in and out of existence as their concentration waxes and wanes. It¡¯s fascinating to watch their different approaches manifest in the ethereal shapes before them, each rune bearing subtle marks of its creator¡¯s personality and method.