The morning light spilled gently through the window, touching the edges of the room with gold. Illara stood near the table, tightening the straps on her pack. Her hands moved quickly, but her eyes kept straying to the door. Theo was already there, checking the bag she’d packed the night before.

  “I’ve packed some cheese to go with the bread, as a treat,” he said, his voice soft.

  “Thanks. You always spoil me, Dad.”

  “Your grandma would have done the same, if she were still here.”

  “No,” Illara said with a small smile. “It was always you who did the extras.”

  She hugged him tightly, and he stood still for a moment, his hand resting on her back.

  Ash stepped forward, his quiet presence filling the space between them. He handed Illara a necklace made from wood and twine, the pendant carved in the shape of the sun.

  “That’s amazing, Ash,” she said. “I’ll keep it close. Is it to keep me safe?”

  He nodded once. He still didn’t speak, but Illara seemed to understand him all the same. She wrapped her arms around him, and when he smiled, it felt like the whole room softened.

  “I’m off now,” she said. “I should be back in three days with some meat. I won’t be going too far, so don’t worry.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you to come home. Please be safe,” Theo replied.

  She slung the pack over her shoulder, fixed the quiver and short sword at her belt, and took up her bow. Then she stepped outside into the bright green world.

  I followed her through the village as she walked, her long brown ponytail swaying from side to side. Her boots scuffed lightly against the dry ruts of the path. She wore brown trousers that had been mended many times by Norma, and a green long-sleeved top that blended with the leaves beyond the fields.

  At the edge of the village, Cain, Jenna, and their three children were waiting. The wheat swayed behind them, gold and restless in the wind.

  “Best of luck on your first solo hunt, Illara,” Cain said. “Remember, you can always run if things get difficult.”

  “May Halwen’s grace guide you on your hunt,” Jenna said.

  “You must play with us when you come back!” called the youngest.

  Illara grinned. “Don’t worry about me, I’m nineteen now, I’ll be fine. I’ve been hunting for years, and I’m pretty good with a bow.”

  “Don’t let cockiness get the better of you,” Cain warned.

  “I know, I know. Don’t worry.”

  Illara waved once before setting off across the fields. The wheat brushed against her legs, rippling like water in the sunlight. I followed as she moved along the narrow track, the village sounds fading behind us—soft laughter, the faint ring of tools, the bark of a distant dog.

  The air grew quieter as we left the last cottages behind. Ahead, the trees waited in calm shadow, their edges bright with morning light. Illara walked on, steady and sure, her figure framed against the gold of the fields and the green beyond.

  I kept pace beside her, watching the rhythm of her steps and the easy swing of her bow. The day opened before us like a promise.

  We left the last of the fields behind. The path grew narrow and uneven, roots breaking through the packed earth. Ahead, the trees rose tall and dark, their leaves shifting softly in the wind. The gold of the plains faded behind us until only fragments of light clung to the branches above.

  The forest took us in gently, its air cool and still. Ferns brushed against Illara’s boots, and thin rays of sunlight filtered through the canopy, catching on her bow and hair. The chatter of the village was gone now, replaced by the quiet rhythm of our steps and the distant call of unseen birds.

  Illara’s pace slowed. She studied the ground, her eyes following faint trails in the dirt. I walked just behind her, watching how she moved—steady, confident, alert to every sound. The deeper we went, the thicker the green became, until the world felt wrapped in leaves and shadow.

  As the light began to fade, the trees grew thicker, their trunks dark against the last of the sun. Illara slowed near a clearing where a narrow creek wound through the roots. The water caught what little light was left, glinting between stones. She paused, listening, then nodded as if the forest itself had given permission.

  She set down her pack, bow, and quiver, and took her small hatchet. I followed her as she stepped back among the trees to gather wood. Each strike of the hatchet echoed softly through the still air. She worked with steady rhythm, cutting fallen branches and collecting dry sticks until her arms were full. When she returned to the clearing, the first shadows of evening had settled.

  Illara built a small fire ring of stones and laid her kindling in the centre. The spark caught easily, and soon the clearing glowed with soft light. The flames bent and wavered in the wind, painting her face with shifting gold and amber. She sat for a moment watching the fire, quiet and thoughtful, before rising again with her bow.

  I trailed behind her through the undergrowth. Within minutes she stopped, crouching low. A small brown squirrel was on the ground, nibbling at a pine nut, unaware of us. Illara drew her bow, breathed once, and released. The arrow struck cleanly.

  She approached slowly and spoke in a low, calm voice.

  “In Halwen’s name, I thank you for your sacrifice to help maintain my strength.”

  Then she knelt beside the creature and began her careful work.

  By the time she returned, night had settled completely. The firelight flickered over the clearing, the flames whispering as they caught the dry wood. She cleaned and cooked the squirrel, turning it slowly on a stick over the coals. The faint smoke drifted upward, pale against the dark trees. When she had eaten, she tidied her space and set simple traps around the edge of the clearing, each tied with string and a small bell.

  When all was ready, she sat back in the grass and let the fire burn low. Moonlight slipped through the canopy, falling across her face in a soft silver band. She looked peaceful, almost otherworldly.

  From where I watched, I felt the forest grow still around us. She pulled a blanket from her bag and wrapped it around herself, her breathing slowing as sleep came. I spoke softly, knowing she could not hear.

  “Rest now. I’ll keep watch over you. Nothing will harm you tonight.”

  Her face eased into a faint smile as she slept, and the clearing held its breath beneath the stars.

  The night passed without trouble. When the first light reached the clearing, it touched Illara’s face and the grass around her, turning the dew to silver. She stirred and gave a long stretch, her breath white in the cool air. For a moment she stayed still, watching the trees before sitting up.

  She took out a piece of bread and a small wedge of cheese from her bag.

  “Thank you, Dad,” she said softly.

  As she ate, she turned the wooden pendant between her fingers, the carved sun catching the light like a spark of gold.

  When she finished, she rose, took her bow and quiver, and fastened her short sword to her belt. Her bag remained by the firepit, folded blanket on top. The grass was wet, and her boots darkened as she stepped into the ferns. Each leaf she brushed scattered drops of water that caught the morning light.

  The forest was quiet apart from the whisper of leaves high above. She moved carefully, eyes low, tracing the soft marks left by hooves and paws in the mud. Around midday, she stopped beside a fern whose fronds had been neatly grazed. Kneeling, she searched the ground and found a clear hoofprint pressed deep into the damp earth.

  I followed close as she tracked the signs through the undergrowth. The air felt heavy with stillness. After some time, the trees opened slightly ahead, and sunlight spilled into a glade. A small herd stood there: one stag, three does, and two smaller deer, their coats bright in the filtered light.

  Illara crouched, lifted a tuft of moss from a rock, and let it fall. It drifted sideways and landed softly among the ferns. She nodded to herself, then circled wide until she came to stand downwind of the herd.

  She moved like part of the forest, every step quiet and measured. When she was close enough, she drew an arrow, held her breath, and loosed it. The bowstring sang, and the arrow flew straight. It struck the stag clean through the ribs. He staggered once, then fell to his knees and lay still. The rest of the herd scattered, vanishing into the green.

  Illara stood for a moment, watching the stillness settle again. Then she lowered her bow and drew her short sword.

  “May Halwen bless you for your sacrifice today,” she said.

  She knelt beside the fallen stag and began her work, careful and respectful. I stayed near, the only sound the quiet rustle of leaves and the slow, steady rhythm of her task.

  From behind, I noticed three men slipping through the trees with their bows drawn. Illara did not see them. I tried to shout a warning—Illara, watch out!—but she could not hear me, for I was without a body. She was too focused on her work to notice the shapes closing in.

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  They came within fifteen metres before one of them called out.

  “Hey there, little lady. Now don’t you try anything stupid, or one of my friends’ arrows will find your head.”

  Illara looked up and her face went white.

  “I’d suggest you drop that knife now, if you know what’s good for you,” the man said.

  Illara hesitated, then understood how outnumbered she was. She let the short sword slip from her fingers. It hit the ground with a dull thud that seemed to fill the sudden silence.

  “Good girl,” the caller said. “You do realise you are hunting on our turf without our permission?”

  “No, sorry,” Illara began. “I didn’t know. You can have this kill as an apology. I’ve mostly prepared it. Please, just let me go. I can leave straight away.”

  The leader stepped forward. He wore a grey tunic and a black-painted leather vest, and he had a leering smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “I’m not sure that will be enough,” he said. “You killed an animal without permission. That needs suitable punishment, unless you can persuade us otherwise.”

  He closed the last few paces and grabbed her roughly by the throat.

  “Now think what a young thing like you could offer us,” he hissed.

  In my old campaigns, when danger like this happened, I always had someone to send in. Heroes, monsters, villains I had written myself. And among them, one figure stood out—Drisnil. The blade in the dark. The one character I created who never hesitated, never faltered, never showed mercy.

  If only she were real…

  The thought rang through me with a kind of desperate wish, sharper than it should have been.

  Something inside me broke. I wanted to tear them apart for threatening the person I had sworn to protect. I tried to scream for them to stop. I imagined every violent thing I might do to them, and the words I would hurl. I could do nothing but watch.

  Suddenly I was behind the three men, glaring at their backs, a rapier in one hand and a short sword in the other. My chest rose and fell with heavy breaths I could finally feel. The air pressed cold against my skin, and the forest light burned too bright through the edge of my hood. Everything looked sharp, almost unreal. Illara turned toward me, her face frozen in surprise.

  It struck me like lightning. I had a body again.

  And I knew this silhouette. The hood, the stance, the weapons balanced with perfect poise. Recognition struck deeper than the shock of having flesh again.

  This was Drisnil, my own creation. The assassin I had designed in my old world, down to the curve of her blades and the cold precision of her movements.

  Then the flood came. Memories not my own tore through me. Except… some of them were mine. Not lived memories, but written ones. Scenes I had crafted behind a DM screen. Drisnil’s past, her pain, her rage, all of it shaped by my hand, now bleeding into me as if it had always belonged here.

  I saw a stone tower shrouded in storm, a circle of runes burning on the floor, a voice whispering my name. I remembered kneeling before a wizard whose chains I had broken, and the pain that followed when his betrayal cut deeper than any blade. I felt the weight of centuries, and a hatred so old it had become part of my bones. Rage flared, fierce and bright, and yet confusion followed. These were not my memories. I did not know who I was.

  Even as the images blurred and twisted, my body stood poised, waiting for a command I hadn’t given.

  The ringleader saw Illara’s eyes shift and turned.

  “Who the hell are you? Where did you come from?” he shouted.

  The other two spun round, startled. The largest, a heavy man crammed into a cracked set of leather armour, raised his bow. He had only drawn half the string before instinct took over.

  My muscles moved before thought, a pattern remembered from someone else’s life. I lunged forward and drove my rapier through his neck. His breath came out in a wet gasp as he dropped to his knees. Blood spilled in a thick spray across the ferns, and he fell still.

  The second man let his bow fall and dragged an axe from his belt. He came at me roaring, his swing wild. I caught the handle of his axe with the hilt of my short sword and turned it aside. His own weight carried him forward, and I thrust the rapier straight into his chest. He shuddered once, choking.

  The precision startled me; it was perfect, practised, nothing like me. I leaned close and whispered into his filthy ear, “Be glad you die quickly, for if I had a choice I would play music with your cries.”

  The words slid out before I could think about them. They tasted wrong—elegant, cruel, rehearsed.

  He crumpled, and I pulled the blade free.

  The ringleader stumbled back, dragging Illara in front of him, pressing a dagger to her throat.

  “Don’t come any closer, do you hear? Or I’ll cut this pretty lady’s head off!”

  His voice shook. I could almost feel his fear in the air between us, thin and trembling.

  I smiled. “Oops, sorry, I slipped,” I said lightly, flicking the rapier forward to nick his hand. “I’ll drop my weapons now.”

  I let the blades fall as I stepped back. His smirk returned, full of greedy triumph.

  “An elf will be mighty valuable…”

  The words broke off as his knees buckled and he dropped like a sack of grain.

  I looked down at the faint black sheen on the rapier’s point. Sleeping poison—potent and sure. I could not remember coating the blade, yet it felt right, as if it had always been there. My heart was steady, my breathing even. The body didn’t know fear, only efficiency.

  I picked up my weapons from the crushed ferns and studied the bodies. Blood pooled beneath them, seeping into the soil. For a moment I stood still, the forest silent except for Illara’s shallow breathing. A strange calm spread through me, thin and cold. Satisfaction, and something darker beneath it. I knew I should feel horror, but the body only felt balance—the kind that comes after violence well executed.

  Illara’s hand shook as she picked up her short sword from the ground. She held it out in my direction, the blade trembling like a leaf. Her eyes were wide, the fear bright in them.

  “Hey now,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I would not have killed them if I had not intended to save you, would I?”

  My voice sounded too steady, each word measured. I could feel her fear but not share it.

  She moved without sound, lips forming words I could not hear. She cast a spell as she had done before. The feeling of it slid over my skin. I recognised the tug of it now—detect good and evil—and I let it pass. I did not resist. I wanted to see what she would find.

  She began to back away, never lowering the sword. Terror made her small. I sighed, half amusement, half impatience.

  “I do not have time for this,” I said.

  I closed the distance. My legs carried me forward before I meant to move; the stride was smooth, predatory.

  She lunged at me in desperation. Her blade found my short sword and I parried, steel ringing. My rapier glanced across her cheek and left a thin line of blood that traced a pale cut. The strike was precise, deliberate. I hadn’t meant to be that exact.

  She staggered, then dropped forward and slid into unconsciousness before she hit the ground.

  Good. That would make things simpler.

  The thought came without emotion, and only afterward did I realise how little mercy it held.

  Illara stirred faintly but did not wake. Her hand trembled, still clutching the sword that had fallen beside her. I watched her for a long moment, then turned my eyes back to the men. The forest had grown quiet again, save for the low hiss of wind through the leaves.

  “I don’t kill for free,” I muttered.

  The phrase felt strange in my mouth, as though it belonged to someone else’s memory. Yet it steadied me. The sound of my own voice was unfamiliar, too calm, too certain.

  I moved first to the ringleader. He was still breathing, shallow and ragged. From my bag I took a small glass flask, the liquid inside pale and viscous. I uncorked it and let three drops fall into his mouth. My hands did not shake. They should have.

  While the draught spread through his body, I took trophies—the ears of the other men—and wrapped them carefully in torn cloth. They went into my bag, payment for the work I had done. The task felt methodical, detached, like skinning game, not men.

  When I returned, I tied a rope around the ringleader’s wrists and threw it over a sturdy branch. I hauled him up until he hung, half supported by the tree.

  Once he was high enough I tied off the end of the rope and pulled out iron spikes and a hammer from my bag.

  “Time to see how paralysed you are,” I said.

  The words came easily, almost rehearsed. They weren’t mine.

  I started driving an iron spike through his wrist into the tree. The man woke up screaming, but unmoving. A smile crossed my face. The smile frightened me more than his screams.

  “Great. I see that my potion works on you,” I said softly, “but don’t worry. This is only a precursor to the true pain you will feel soon.”

  Once I had deemed the spike sufficiently deep, I worked on his next wrist.

  “Please have mercy! I’m sorry for what I did!” the ringleader squealed.

  “Do you think I’m doing this because of what you did?” I asked. “This is for my pleasure, sir. I’ve been unable to interact with this world for so long, so I need to let off some steam.”

  Next I started working on his feet. The ringleader passed out from the pain.

  When it was done, I stood back and looked at what remained of my work. The forest air felt colder now. Shadows stretched longer between the trees, and even the creek nearby seemed to run quieter. The ringleader hung limply against the trunk, his head bowed.

  “Just because I’m kind,” I said softly, “I’ll let you live for now. If your friends find you quickly, you might survive. If not, the forest will finish what I started.”

  “But first I need proof that I bested you.”

  I started to cut off his ears. As I worked on the second one, he woke up screaming. The sound tasted bright against the dark trees and for a heartbeat it pleased me. I told myself it was the body’s reaction, not mine, but I wasn’t sure I believed that.

  I tore off some of his cloak and wrapped the ears, placing them in my bag.

  When I turned back to Illara, she was still lying where she had fallen, her cheek faintly marked where my blade had caught her. A thread of sunlight touched her face, bright against the green around us. I knelt beside her and smoothed a stray lock of hair from her brow, my hands steady now. Too steady. Drisnil’s steadiness.

  For the first time since regaining flesh, I felt the weight of what I had done—not regret, but awareness.

  The forest held its silence. Somewhere above, a bird called once and was still.

  “Next thing to do,” I muttered, “is get Illara somewhere safe. I did swear to protect her, after all.”

  The words felt like mine, but the calm in my voice didn’t.

  I found a few sturdy branches and some rope from my pack and fashioned a makeshift stretcher. My hands moved with an ease that didn’t feel like my own, guided by memory that belonged to someone else. When it was ready, I lifted Illara carefully onto it.

  Her breathing was shallow but steady, her face peaceful beneath the fading light. I gathered her bow and short sword, slinging them over my shoulder, and began the long walk back toward the old campsite.

  Somehow, I knew exactly where to go. The forest darkened around us, but my steps didn’t falter. Even under the canopy, my eyes caught every detail: the silver lines of roots across the path, the faint shimmer of insects in the dusk. The Nhalyri’s vision, I realised. Useful, if unnerving.

  By the time we reached the clearing, night had fallen. The patch of grass lay pale under the moon, a green carpet washed in silver. I lowered Illara gently, then sat beside her, exhaustion finally catching up with me. The air was cool and still, filled with the distant hum of crickets and the slow whisper of the creek nearby.

  The calm that followed wasn’t human. It felt clean, precise. I realised, with a hollow sort of dread, that Drisnil’s composure had become mine.

  For the first time since waking in this body, I had space to think.

  I’d never been cruel. In my old life, I could barely bring myself to kill even for food. Yet today, I’d ended lives without hesitation—and worse, felt satisfaction in it. I looked down at my hands: black skin, smooth and dark as obsidian, glimmering faintly in the moonlight.

  A strand of white hair fell forward. I brushed it aside, the motion too graceful, too precise. My arms and shoulders moved differently—slimmer, lighter, unfamiliar. Even breathing felt strange, deeper in the chest, quieter somehow. The face I glimpsed reflected in my blade was not mine: pale violet eyes beneath a shadowed hood, white hair framing skin dark as night.

  This wasn’t me. It was her.

  Drisnil. The name came with weight. Her body, her instincts, her memories. I remembered the endless caverns of the Nethershade, the shimmer of fungus on stone, the smell of metal and damp air. I remembered serving a mage, freeing him from hell, and his betrayal that followed. I remembered the burning hatred that led her to defy Vorlith and flee to the surface.

  The flood of images left me still. Were they hers, or had they become mine too?

  I pressed a hand to my temple. I was Geoff, wasn’t I?

  But the body didn’t care who I was. It breathed evenly, its heartbeat slow, patient. Drisnil’s habits were written into its flesh.

  Who was steering whom?

  I turned to Illara. She slept soundly, the moonlight tracing her face in silver. The small cut on her cheek caught the light, sharp and clean. She looked fragile, human, untouched by the things now crawling through my mind.

  I leaned back against the grass and watched her breathe. The night was silent but for her soft breaths and the low pulse of the forest. Whatever I had become, at least for now, she was safe.