Her fingers slipped away from mine slowly, almost unwillingly, like her body hadn’t decided whether to pull back or lean in. Her eyes scanned the flickering display above my palm, where glowing lines of text twisted and reformed like unstable code trying to make sense of something that didn’t belong.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” she whispered, her brow furrowing as her eyes darted across the display. “Your stats… they don’t list a class. It doesn’t even say ‘Human.’ You’re…” she swallowed, voice thin. “You’re broken.” The words struck harder than I expected. Broken. What are you?

  I stared at the flickering data, the way it warped and glitched like a machine trying to solve an equation with no answer.

  “What am I?” I whispered back, the question hollow in my chest. Then, softer, with a crack in my voice: “I’m just a guy.”

  Her breath caught. She stumbled a step back as if distance might shield her. “That can’t be real.”

  “What do you mean? What’s wrong? What’s broken?” My voice rose, sharper than I meant.

  She shook her head, eyes wide. “They’re only in stories. Ghosts. People with no classes.” She snapped her gaze up to mine, panic flooding her voice. “First off, hide that. Now. Just close your hand!”

  Her innocence vanished in an instant, replaced by a raw, desperate edge like someone cornered and fighting the instinct to run. I curled my fingers into a fist. The display folded in on itself, curling like burning parchment until nothing remained. Seraphina’s lips parted, her breathing shallow as she stared at the empty air where it had been.

  “This is beyond me,” she murmured, almost to herself.

  “I don’t understand,” I said, and the truth of it sank like a stone in my gut.

  She turned away and paced, hands fisting at her sides like she was holding something dangerous inside. Then she stopped, fixing me with a sharp, steady look.

  “Listen carefully,” she said. “Don’t display that status again. Not to anyone. Not unless I tell you to. Just say that you’re from another village in the south.”

  “Why?” I blinked, confused.

  “Because if they see it, if they see you, they’ll think I brought you here on purpose.” Her jaw clenched. “And they won’t care what the truth is.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “It won’t matter,” she cut in. “You don’t have a class. You don’t even have a race. That makes you wrong. And wrong things scare people. Scared people lash out.” She looked away again. “At you. And at me. And my family.”

  She didn’t sound afraid for herself. She sounded tired, like someone who had been here before.

  “There’s someone I trust at the church,” she said. “She might be able to help. But it’s too late now. The gates will be locked. We’ll go tomorrow.”

  She took a step into the shadows between the trees. Her voice softened.

  “I gave up everything to be here.” Her gaze lingered on the dirt path ahead. “Didn’t you have your Awakening? At eighteen? It’s supposed to show you who you are, your name, race, stats, and your potential.”

  I nodded slowly.

  She didn’t look back. “Mine was supposed to be my escape. The village celebrated it. When I turned eighteen, I waited to receive my class. My chance to join a guild, make something of myself, and leave this town. But I got this lousy Villager class. It’s less than trash.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Just that. And a prophecy. Like a consolation prize.”

  I swallowed. “What did the prophecy say?”

  Her body stiffened, and her expression grew inward. “That I’d meet someone in the glen. Someone who could help us. Help me,” She stared into the dark trees. “But prophecies lie. Or at best, are just twisted words.”

  “Could that person still be coming?” I offered. “Maybe…”

  She cut me off with a glance. “No. You’re broken.”

  Hearing that still hurt, especially coming from her. We left the clearing in silence.

  She moved like the forest made room for her. Graceful. Balanced. Each step is carefully chosen. I crunched through leaves behind her like I was trying to summon every predator in a ten-mile radius.

  Her back was straight, her steps precise. She belonged here.

  I didn’t.

  And yet, the forest didn’t reject me. The air was crisp, infused with the scent of pine and a subtle floral aroma. My body felt lighter and stronger, as if I’d shed thirty years of wear overnight. But my mind hadn’t caught up. I was a stranger in a familiar shell, carrying fear I didn’t know how to express.

  “You said ‘us’,” I said quietly.

  She didn’t turn. Her voice was tight. “The kingdom. The prophecy said someone with a lost class would appear. That it would wake the old world, bring demons. Shift the balance.”

  I tried to laugh, but it came out brittle, hollow. “Cheerful stuff.”

  “Depends which side you’re on,” she murmured, still staring at the dirt.

  I shook my head. “As you said, I have no class, so I’m not that person. Why are you so frustrated with me?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell slowly and heavily. “I’m not…” she stopped herself, then let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I wasted so many days waiting for nothing. Like I said, prophecies lie. I’m more angry at myself than at you.”

  She scuffed her boot through the gravel, nudging small stones aside, eyes fixed on the road as if it might offer her answers. Then she looked up at me again. For just a moment, the confidence slipped, leaving something more vulnerable behind it, raw, unguarded.

  “I have an idea,” she said quietly. “But first… at least let me give you a warm meal and a place to sleep tonight.” A faint smile tugged at her lips. “That is, assuming my brother actually cleaned the room like he promised.”

  She hesitated, then added, “If anyone asks, tell them you saved me when the goblin attacked. People don’t like knowing how close the wild really is.”

  “So,” I said carefully, “no ogres? No killer plants? And no chance you’re secretly Xena in disguise?”

  She blinked. “Who’s Xena?”

  I paused, searching for the right words. “A… very capable warrior woman from my home. Extremely good at violence.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She snorted softly. “I’m not a warrior. Just a villager who reads too much.” Then, more seriously, “Remember, your class and title define your limits. Mine places me at the bottom of everything.” She glanced at me sidelong. “But you? You don’t have one at all. That makes us an interesting pair.”

  “If I understand this right,” I said slowly, “status is like a résumé. It shows what you are, not who you could become. What about skills?”

  Her expression brightened slightly, interest overcoming caution. “Skills measure proficiency within your class. Some you’re born with, like cooking or leatherwork, in my case. Others come from skill scrolls.” She grimaced. “Those are expensive. Rare. Not meant for people like me.”

  She sighed, then shrugged. “So my path is simple. Cooking. Sewing satchels. Raising children. That’s it.” A pause. “Boring, isn’t it?”

  She met my gaze then, something sharper in her eyes. “But you, David Robertson? You’re empty. No class. No restrictions.” Her smile returned, slower now. “Like I said, I know someone we should speak to. In a few days.”

  She tilted her head. “Any questions?”

  I blinked, caught between relief and confusion at the sudden shift. But the warmth in her smile lingered, echoing the one I’d seen before in the forest.

  “Let’s go then.” She turned, motioning me to follow, her braid swinging against her back as she started down the road again.

  The forest began to thin, giving way to faint trails, first animal tracks, then the deeper grooves of wagon ruts pressed into the earth over generations. As we walked, I toyed with the trick Seraphina had explained. Summoning the panel. Dismissing it. Summoning it again.

  At first, it felt impossible, like trying to remember the shape of a dream. But now it was easier, almost instinctive. I stretched out my right hand, palm up, and a faint shimmer rippled into place. When I made a fist, it disappeared. When I opened my hand, it reappeared.

  I frowned. What if orientation mattered? I twisted my hand sideways and willed it into position, keeping it in the same place and at the same angle, ignoring my wrist entirely. Palm-down? Same thing. The panel had its own rules, and they weren’t mine.

  “Seraphina,” I called, peering at the strange glow on my skin. “Have you ever tried opening your panel underwater?”

  She stopped dead, her red hair swinging as she turned. The look she gave me could have melted stone. “Under what?”

  “Underwater,” I repeated, a little sheepishly.

  Her glare sharpened. “That panel is a gift from the gods. And you want to go splashing it in a pond like a lantern?”

  “I mean… yeah? Kind of. Don’t you ever wonder?”

  “No.” She stomped forward, muttering under her breath.

  I grinned, jogging to catch up. “Alright, fine. But what about at night? Ever use it as a night-light?”Her only answer was the snap of her boots on the path.

  We crossed a wooden bridge, the boards creaking under our weight. Below, a slow stream wound between mossy stones. I leaned over the rail, watching the water glint in the sunlight, already imagining the panel glowing beneath its surface. The face in the water was mine, but not the one I remembered.

  Gone were the creases and gray. The tired eyes. The thinning hair. What looked back at me appeared fifty years younger, confused yet incredibly healthy. My old, broken nose? Fixed. The weight of that realization sank like a stone. Was this real? A second chance? Or just an elaborate dream I hadn’t woken from? Seraphina grabbed my sleeve to pull me away from the railing so we could continue our journey.

  We crested a hill, and the village came into view, Brackenreach, as she called the town.

  It sat like a massive stone coin on the land, with thick, weathered circular walls, broken only by a wide southern gate where the road spilled into golden fields. The bastions along the walls made it look like a fortress first, a town second, clearly built more for survival than for beauty. From afar, the clustered rooftops inside appeared like red-brown tiles pressed tightly together, all beneath the watchful shadow of the keep at the center.

  Smoke curled from the chimneys, mingling with the smells of bread, iron, and livestock that drifted over the walls. Beyond the stone circle, farmlands stretched in every direction, their patchwork of yellows and greens revealing the town’s lifeblood. The southern approach was open and sunlit, but on the northern side, the wild pressed close. There, a vast forest reached from the town’s edge all the way to the foothills of the distant mountains. From the battlements, the canopy must have looked like a rolling sea of green, its depths full of promise and danger.

  Brakenreach was a frontier stronghold: a place where farmers, traders, and smiths struggled to make a living under the watch of soldiers and stone walls, where markets echoed with noise by day and the gates were locked tight at night. Civilization within, wilderness outside. And between the two, only the courage of those willing to call Brakenreach home.

  She walked ahead, posture taut. The breeze caught her dress and lifted the hem just slightly, the fabric rippling over her legs. It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was natural, and somehow made it harder not to look.

  Focus.

  Passing through the gates, the buildings were rough but solid, with pale clay walls, hand-hewn beams, and thatched roofs that probably leaked sideways. Most homes lacked chimneys. There were no glass windows. No wiring. No pipes.

  “God,” I muttered. “It’s like walking into a Renaissance fair run by people who’ve never heard of plumbing.”

  Seraphina shot me a confused look. “What’s a renaissance?”

  “Long story.”

  Villagers started noticing us. A woman carrying a woven basket stopped in her tracks. A child paused playing and stared, mouth agape. No hostility, just the kind of wide-eyed caution you see when something doesn’t seem right.

  In the village square, a stone well stood in the center, framed by a wooden winch and rope. Tattered notices clung to a board nearby, some scrawled in angry red.

  “Public quests?” I asked, squinting. “Do I need to roll a die?”

  Seraphina didn’t look at me. “Those are bounty notices.”

  “Oh. So murder flyers.”

  To our left, smoke curled from the chimney of a small tavern. Another building filled with barrels was clearly a cooper’s shop. Genuine handmade tools rested outside, worn, well-used, respected.

  Then a scent hit me, rich, metallic, earthy.

  Forge.

  I turned my head and saw it: an open-beamed structure near the edge of the square. The glow of fire. The rhythm of hammer on steel. My feet moved without permission.

  Inside, a blacksmith hammered at the anvil, thick arms swinging with practiced, if tired, precision. Sparks flew with each impact. I felt something stir.

  “This sound, this smell,” I murmured. “That’s home.”

  Seraphina laid a hand on my arm. Her touch was grounding. “We’re going that way,” she said, gesturing in the opposite direction.

  I didn’t move. I didn’t want her hand to leave. It did.

  “You’re burning too cold,” I said aloud. The blacksmith paused. Turned.

  “What?”

  “You have clinker in your base. It’s blocking the airflow. You’re losing heat. And your hammer arc’s too shallow; you’re wasting force on every swing.”

  He stared.

  “And you are?”

  “David. Son of a smith. Trained since I could lift a hammer.”

  The man grunted and went back to work, but I saw him adjust his grip.

  Behind me, footsteps approached with the slow confidence of someone who owned the ground they walked on.

  The woman who stopped before us looked to be in her late forties. Her hair was a crown of silver threaded into tight braids, her posture iron-straight, her eyes sharper still. She didn’t just see me, she measured, weighed, and filed me away in the space of a heartbeat.

  “You came back,” she said to Seraphina. Her tone wasn’t warm, wasn’t welcoming. It was the kind of voice I’d heard before from privileged supervisors and gatekeepers, a statement sharpened into a judgment.

  Seraphina didn’t smile. “Just passing through.”

  The woman, Elen, whom Seraphina had called, let her gaze slide from Seraphina to me. The scrutiny tightened, like a vise.

  “That prophecy still chasing you?”

  “Not now,” Seraphina said, her voice clipped.

  Elen’s gaze fixed on me. I felt it like a spear point pressing against my chest. “And he is?”

  “Trouble,” Seraphina said flatly.

  “Ouch,” I muttered, lifting a hand to my heart. “Standing right here, you know.”

  Elen didn’t so much as blink. “What’s your class, outsider?”

  I hesitated, then plastered on my cheesiest grin. “Outsider? I’m hurt. Back home, at least, I was a blacksmith.”

  She grunted a sound that carried the weight of disbelief. “We’ll see. Also, Seraphina, you still owe me for Aldo’s treatments.”

  Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, with the crowd instinctively parting before her.

  The blacksmith wiped his hands and approached. “Name’s Garron. You know what you’re talking about. Come by tomorrow. We’ll see if your hands match your mouth.”

  I blinked. “Seriously?”

  “Don’t waste my time.”

  Seraphina nudged me as we moved down the street. “He didn’t throw a hammer at you. That’s high praise.”

  I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “How many people know about your prophecy? From the way that woman spoke, it sounded like half the town does.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Besides you, my family, and the one person we need to talk to tomorrow? No one. Everyone else knows I have a prophecy. Not the details. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Silence lingered between us for a few steps. Then I offered a crooked smile. “Remember, outsider. Outside of me, now Garron, and that charming Elen, who would I tell?”

  Her eyes flicked sideways, suspicious, then softened. A laugh escaped, quick and real, spilling into the air until I echoed it. For a moment, the weight of prophecies and watchful eyes lifted, leaving just us walking and laughing in the late afternoon sun.