The stone beneath my palms is warm.
Not like sunbaked pavement — this heat feels... responsive. It pulses faintly, like a slow heartbeat radiating from the ground up. I push myself upright, wincing as pressure gathers behind my eyes.
My surroundings blur before they sharpen: open air, deep violet sky, trees like cathedral pillars wrapped in mist. The wind smells of woodsmoke and something sharper—ozone laced with crushed leaves. The kind of scent you'd expect right before a thunderstorm, or just after.
I stagger to my feet, one hand on my knee, the other brushing against moss-covered stone. It's smooth and engraved with strange, spiraling markings that shift ever so slightly when I'm not looking directly at them.
Not a dream. Or if it is, it's running at full resolution.
My jeans are intact, my hoodie a little dusty, and my sneakers—still torn at the left sole. No magical outfit swap. No waking up in armor. Just me, Ezrel Park, in all my under-caffeinated Seattle glory.
But everything else?
Unrecognizable.
Ahead, a village unfurls like a painted scroll — curved rooftops made from bark and slate, ivy-draped walls, and floating lanterns that bob in place without strings. They hum gently, as if responding to the breeze.
I step forward, cautious, my eyes scanning the landscape for anything resembling logic. Nothing. Everything here moves like poetry, not engineering.
Okay. Think. Either someone laced my Red Bull with psychedelics, or I've just been runtime-shifted into a world where the rules are built from metaphor.
My fingers twitch. No laptop. No phone. No connection. Just memory — which, thankfully, I have in spades.
A flicker of movement draws my attention.
I turn quickly, shoulders tight.
An older woman stands a short distance away, flanked by two others in layered robes. Her hair is silver, long, braided with threads of bark and what looks like gold filament. She holds herself like the earth bends politely around her when she walks.
"Welcome, traveler," she says, voice even and clear. "You have come to Silverwood."
She steps forward with quiet precision, studying me.
"I am Elder Elara. You are not of us. Your garments... they are strange, flat, lifeless in tone. And your presence—unnatural. By what gate did you arrive?"
I blink. Once. Twice. My lips part, but no words come out.
So I laugh, once—dry, disbelieving.
"I have no idea," I say, rubbing the back of my neck. "One minute I was working. Then my screen flashed, the lights surged, and... now I'm standing in what looks like a fantasy novella."
Elara's brow furrows, and she tilts her head slightly. "You speak oddly. But you seem... coherent."
She raises one hand, palm open toward me.
I instinctively take a half-step back, but she doesn't advance. Instead, the air between us shifts — warping like heated glass.
Symbols blossom around her wrist, faintly glowing, rotating in a slow orbit. Geometric and elegant. Glyphs, maybe. Data? No—something else. Something older.
I stare, frozen in place as the shimmer touches my skin. It's not cold. Not hot. Just... there. Like static you can breathe.
Then it fades.
"No summoning mark," she murmurs. "No blood sigil. No soul-burn or tether threads. You carry nothing, yet you're here."
I swallow and exhale, voice steadier now.
"I wasn't trying to travel anywhere. I was debugging recursive loops. Fixing broken logic trees. I don't even know how I got here."
I shrug, lifting my shoulders slightly as I meet her gaze. "You ever get yanked into a different dimension while running a stress test at 2 a.m.? No? Me neither. First time."
The robed figures behind her exchange wary glances.
Elara regards me with a silence that's almost surgical. She doesn't look confused — just... calculating.
"You speak of patterns," she says quietly. "Structures and logic. Things few here name aloud. What are you, exactly?"
"A systems programmer," I say automatically. Then, realizing that means nothing to her, I soften. "I work with code. I build systems. I find the pieces that don't work and fix them."
She gives a slow nod, though I can't tell if she understands or is just filing the term away for later.
"You will come with us," she says finally. "There are questions. And there are those who will want answers. Myself included."
"Fair," I murmur. "Lead the way."
As we walk, I take mental snapshots of everything I can.
Stone pathways laced with symbols that subtly pulse beneath our feet. Vines that bloom as we pass, curling toward the sound of footsteps. Trees that shimmer faintly with no visible light source. The village breathes in patterns, responds to presence.
Feedback loop. Real-time adjustment. Environment tuned to interaction.
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to touch one of the glowing glyphs etched into a doorway. Not yet. No inputs without knowing the outputs.
Elara walks beside me in silence. I study her gait — deliberate but relaxed. She moves like someone used to being obeyed, but also someone capable of changing course quickly if needed.
Eventually, we arrive at a stone platform in the village center. The circle etched into the stone glows subtly — a deep amber that flickers when we step onto it.
Around us, people begin to gather, forming a loose perimeter. Some curious, some cautious. A few openly hostile.
Elara raises her voice.
"This outsider has crossed into Aethel unmarked, unsummoned, and unbound. The wards held. The gates were closed. And yet, here he stands."
She turns to me, eyes steady.
"You carry no crest. No training. No understanding of the Pattern. And yet the glyphs stirred near you. I do not claim you are a threat... but neither can I call you safe."
The tension tightens in the air. I feel the weight of every gaze.
I exhale slowly, squaring my shoulders.
"I didn't come here by choice. But I'm here now. And I don't plan on being a problem. I just want to understand what happened."
Elara's gaze narrows slightly.
"Then answer this, Ezrel of the otherworld: What do you believe you are?"
I pause.
Not because I don't know — but because I'm realizing the answer matters more than usual here.
So I lift my chin and meet her stare.
"I'm someone who figures things out."