Around me, ancient trees stretch toward a sky the color of bruised stone. No path. No village. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant, guttural call of something that does not sound like any bird I've ever heard.

I'm not where I was. And I've never felt more awake.

A low growl ripples through the underbrush to my left. Then another, to my right. The shadows between the trees shift, and I catch the glint of yellow eyes—too many to count, spaced like a hunter's net.

My hand moves instinctively to my hip, finding nothing. No blade. No staff. Just the fabric of unfamiliar clothing and the weight of a satchel strapped across my chest.

The growling stops. The eyes don't blink.

Somewhere behind me, a voice—calm, almost amused—cuts through the silence.