---

  The Wheel-Trans lurches to a stop, metal groaning beneath me as the hydraulics hiss and whine. The ramp vibrates under my feet as it folds away, sending tremors up through my legs.

  "Twenty-three Oakmont Drive," the driver announces, his voice tinged with the boredom of routine.

  My fingers fumble with my CNIB card, the familiar ridges and indentations guiding me. *Like always, Stone. Just like always.* I pass it forward, feeling the brief tug as he takes it.

  "Need any help getting in?" The question hangs in the November air between us, exactly as it has for three years of weekday commutes.

  "I'm good, thanks." I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile, though God knows why I bother. It's not like I can see if he returns it.

  The folding cane snaps open with a metallic click that echoes in the silence of my empty driveway. Each tap against concrete sends tiny vibrations up my arm, a morse code of familiar territory. *Tap. Crack in the pavement. Tap. That weird dip by the garden. Tap. Patch of ice—shit.*

  My boots slip slightly, and my heart lurches. *Brilliant. Break your neck fifteen feet from your front door. Headline news: Blind Man Dies Stupidly.*

  The wind slices through my jacket, finding every gap, every seam. My breath crystallizes, warming my scarf for a half-second before the cold reclaims it. My nose runs, and I swipe at it with my gloved hand.

  "Three steps up to the porch," I mumble, the words forming tiny clouds. Even after years, I can't shake the habit of narrating my movements. Like some pathetic audiobook of my own life.

  Dawson's bark cuts through the silence, muffled by the window glass. His deep woof—the happy one, not the alert one—means I'm expected, anticipated, *wanted*. At least by someone with four legs and terrible breath.

  My cane swings forward, connecting with something on the first step that isn't wood or concrete. Something that gives slightly, with a yielding resistance that doesn't belong. *The hell?*

  I crouch down, heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. *Probably just an Amazon package. Some idiot courier tossing it on the steps because they can't be bothered to—*

  My fingers brush against something that sends electricity shooting up my spine. Hair. military-short hair, trailing down from what can only be a head. I follow the contours, feeling cold skin stretched over cheekbones, closed eyelids that don't flutter at my touch.

  "Hello?" The word falls from my mouth, pathetically inadequate. I shake a shoulder that feels too light, too fragile beneath what feels like furs.

  No response.

  *Fuck. Fuck. Is she dead? Please don't be dead on my porch.*

  I hold my hand an inch from where I think her mouth should be, and relief floods through me at the faintest whisper of warm breath against my palm. Alive, but barely. Her skin feels like marble left outside in January, though.

  My hands move down her arms, checking for breaks or blood, hating how intimate this feels, how invasive. No obvious fractures under my fingers, but Christ, she's cold. So cold it almost burns to touch her.

  *Hypothermia. Has to be. She'll die out here.*

  I hook my arms beneath hers, surprised when her body rises with almost no resistance. It's like lifting a hollow sculpture—all the shape of a human with half the substance.

  "Come on," I grunt, though she can't hear me. "Let's get you inside before you turn into a popsicle."

  One arm around her waist, I fumble with my keys, metal scraping against metal as I miss the lock once, twice, before the tumbler finally clicks. Dawson's nails scrabble frantically against the hardwood on the other side, his whines high-pitched with excitement or anxiety—I can never tell which.

  The door swings open, and warmth rushes out to meet us, carrying the scent of home—coffee from this morning, the faint smokiness of last night's dinner, Dawson's distinct doggy smell. But as I haul her across the threshold, another scent overpowers everything else.

  Pine. Not the artificial Christmas tree smell, but something wilder. Forest floor after rain. Earth and roots and things that grow in shadow. It emanates from her like a fever, stirring something in my memory, something from this morning's dream that hovers just beyond reach.

  *Focus, Stone. Survival first, weird pine-scented mystery later.*

  "Living room," I tell myself, shuffling forward with my awkward burden. My shoes squeak against the entry mat as I wipe them clean—a ridiculous adherence to routine given the circumstances.

  *Twelve steps to the coffee table. One, two, three...*

  I count silently, each footfall precise despite the added weight. When my knee bumps the edge of the coffee table, I turn left, two more steps bringing me to the couch. I lower her as gently as I can, arranging limbs that feel jointed in all the wrong places.

  My hands retreat to rake through my hair, tugging slightly as if the pain might sharpen my thoughts. *What now, genius?* The situation crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity: strange unconscious woman on my couch, me alone with her. No witnesses except a golden retriever with a brain the size of a walnut.

  "She needs warming up," I say aloud, as if Dawson might offer medical advice. "Her skin is like ice. That's dangerous—fatal if her core temperature has dropped too much."

  I kneel beside the couch, trying to recall first aid training from years ago. My fingers brush something hard at her hip—metal. My hand jerks back instinctively, phantom pain flaring across my abdomen where dream-arrows had punched through me before the dream-knife had plunged in and out, in and out.

  *Was I dreaming about her? Is that possible?*

  I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Arms," I decide. "Start with the arms. Less threatening when she wakes up than, say, rubbing her legs. Because nothing says 'I'm just trying to help' like a strange man massaging your thighs when you regain consciousness."

  Dawson's collar jingles as he trots over. His warm breath puffs against my hand before he jumps onto the couch, the springs groaning under his weight. He circles twice, then stretches out across her legs with a contented grumble, his thirty-five pounds of fur an impromptu heating pad.

  "Good job, boy," I murmur, reaching over to find his ears. They're velvet-soft between my fingers as I scratch, earning a thump of his tail. "You warm her up down there."

  I take her left hand in mine, and the cold that radiates from it isn't natural. It's not the cold of someone who's been outside too long; it's deeper, as if the cold originates from within her rather than from exposure. Like holding a hand carved from ice that hasn't begun to melt.

  I rub gently, working from her fingertips upward. Her skin feels wrong under my touch—smooth in places, but marred with raised lines that can only be scars. Small ones, dozens of them, mapping her skin like constellations.

  Her weight settles partially across my lap as I work, giving me better access to both arms. Moving to her right arm, I notice immediately how different it feels—the musculature more developed, particularly around the shoulder and bicep. The asymmetry is pronounced, almost professionally so. Like someone who—

  *An archer. She's an archer.*

  The thought drops into my mind like a stone into still water, ripples spreading outward, connecting to fragments of my fading dream. Snow beneath me. Floating. Cold that burned. Arrows punching through my chest, the shock more than the pain. A woman with a bow, face tight with calculation, eyes assessing even as she loosed another shaft.

  *Jesus, Stone, get a grip. It was just a dream. This is real. This woman needs help, not your weird fantasy projections.*

  But as I continue working her arms, I can't shake the feeling that this isn't coincidence. That this pine-scented, knife-carrying, too-light woman with archer's muscles showing up unconscious on my doorstep somehow connects to the nightmare that had left me gasping awake at 3 a.m.

  Her breathing changes—deepens, steadies. She's warming up, maybe coming around. My heart rate kicks up another notch, and I quickly finish warming her right arm.

  I pull the heavy wool throw from the back of the couch, drape it over her, and tuck it carefully around her shoulders. Better to give her space when she wakes. Better not to be the looming presence of a strange man—blind or not.

  I back away, feeling for the armchair across the room, and lower myself into it. My spine straightens automatically, tension making me sit at attention rather than relax into the cushions.

  "Just don't panic when you wake up," I say into the quiet room, trying to sound more confident than I feel. "I'm just trying to help, and I really prefer not having holes in me outside of my dreams."

  ---Grace---

  #Grace wakes

  I drift toward consciousness through layers of darkness, each one thinner than the last. Warmth seeps into my bones—unfamiliar, encompassing warmth that doesn't fade at the edges like campfires do. This heat surrounds me completely, pressing against my skin from all sides. Only twice before have I felt anything like it: once when fever took me as a child and the clan healers wrapped me in heated stones, and again when I swam in the thermal springs hidden deep in the northern mountains during my first solo hunt.

  Something heavy lies across my legs—a weight that doesn't shift like snow or compress like earth. It pulses with its own heat, with life. My muscles tense fractionally, ready to strike, but ancient memories flicker through me—small bodies curled against mine during the midwinter festival, clan children using my lap as a pillow while elders told stories of the Before Time. The familiar weight stays my hand, though I keep my fingers poised to reach for my blade.

  My eyelids feel sealed with frost. I force them open, blinking away the haze of unconsciousness. The creature sprawled across my thighs isn't human. Black fur with a white blaise, floppy ears that wiggle as I stir, and dark eyes that fix on mine with unnerving intelligence. Its tail begins to move, sweeping rhythmically against the strange surface beneath us.

  *Dog*, my mind supplies, pulling from knowledge I didn't know I possessed. *Domesticated predator. Pack animal. Not threat. Not food.*

  The dog nudges my hand with a cold, wet nose. The gesture feels like a question.

  Without moving my head—*never reveal awareness until terrain is mapped*—I scan my surroundings through narrowed eyes. The space is wrong in every conceivable way. No smoke hole above. No central fire. Walls too straight, too smooth—not hide or wood or stone. Light comes from above without flame, contained in glass bubbles that emit steady illumination without flickering.

  A black rectangle hangs on one wall, reflecting the room back at me like still water, but darker, more perfect in its mimicry. Another strange device lurks in the corner, draped in cloth like the dead awaiting burial. The table before me holds no weapons, no tools, only strange objects of unknown function. Across from me, a figure sits unnaturally still in a chair unlike any I've seen—no furs, no wooden frame, but something that yields to the body's weight.

  I breathe deeply, parsing the air through my nose as the druid taught me. The scents assault me in waves: stale food with spices I can't name. The hot metal smell of devices gathering dust. The musk of the dog, sharp but not unpleasant. The salt-sweat scent of the motionless figure. Beneath it all, something else—familiar yet distant, like a childhood memory I can't quite grasp. It smells like... home, but not my home. Someone else's.

  The dog's sudden bark shatters the silence. My hand finds my blade instantly, fingers curling around the familiar bone handle. I draw it with practiced silence, the weight comforting in my palm. The seated figure unfolds itself with surprising fluidity, revealing a man's form.

  "What is it, Dawson?" His voice fills the space between us—a voice that holds no harshness, no commanding edge. He stretches, joints popping softly as he works out stiffness. "Hopefully our blue-haired lady friend wakes up soon. Not sure what the criminal court would say about harboring an unconscious woman with a knife. Probably 'guilty,' knowing my luck."

  He steps forward into a shaft of that strange, unwavering light, and I see him clearly. His height speaks of adequate nutrition, but his frame lacks the density of a warrior. No visible scars mark his face or hands. His clothing makes no sense—no furs, no leather, no woven fibers I recognize. They seem to have no practical purpose, offering neither protection nor carrying capacity.

  His face draws my attention—open, unguarded in a way I've rarely seen except in children too young to know better. His features speak of strength beneath softness, but it's his eyes that unsettle me. Pale blue like the heart of a glacier, they move constantly, sweeping the room—yet never settling on me, never focusing on my blade, never tracking my movements as any sensible person would when a stranger holds steel.

  He advances with surprising confidence, steps measured and precise, as though counting distances. His feet make almost no sound against the floor—a hunter's tread, though nothing else about him suggests such training.

  "Do not come closer," I command, raising my blade to his heart. My voice emerges rough from disuse, the words feeling strange in my mouth, as though I speak a language I've recently learned rather than one I've known all my life.

  He freezes instantly, eyes widening. Not in fear—I know fear, have seen it bloom in the eyes of countless men—but in surprise.

  "You're awake? Thank fuck," he breathes, shoulders slumping as though relieved of some burden. The reaction makes no sense. I'm holding a blade to his chest. The proper response is caution, retreat, or attack—not whatever this is.

  I catalog him more carefully now. His hands draw my eye—long-fingered, almost delicate, with paper-thin skin stretched over visible veins. The hands of a scribe or craftsman, not a fighter. They've never known rope calluses or blade blisters. They twitch slightly at his sides, as though sending messages his mind doesn't fully endorse.

  "Who are you?" I manage to keep my voice level despite the pounding in my chest. "Are you with the Necromancer?" My throat constricts around the next words. "Where am I? What happened to the... druid?" The last word catches, dragging with it a flash of memory—my arrow striking true, the old man's eyes finding mine across an impossible distance, something like forgiveness in his gaze as he fell.

  The unfamiliar twist in my chest returns, sharper this time. I've killed many times before—warriors, hunters, even a mage with fire at his fingertips. None left this... hollowness behind.

  "Uhm, no?" His face contorts in confusion, eyebrows drawing together, head tilting like a bird confronted with something shiny but potentially dangerous. "Necromancy?" The word rolls from his tongue with genuine bafflement, as though I've spoken an unknown language.

  Every emotion passes across his face unchecked—confusion furrowing his brow, concern softening his eyes, fascination parting his lips. He makes no attempt to hide these reactions, to school his features into the blank mask worn by everyone from clan warriors to village traders. He's as readable as a child, yet his eyes remain strangely unfocused, never meeting mine directly.

  I shift my weight, intending to stand, but white-hot pain shoots through my legs. They buckle beneath me, refusing to hold my weight. A sound escapes me—not quite a cry, but close enough to shame me. The dog tumbles from my lap with a startled yelp.

  The man moves faster than I would have thought possible, dropping low and sliding beneath my blade's reach to catch the animal before it hits the floor. My weapon follows him, point never wavering from his vital organs, but he pays it no attention whatsoever. The dog stands and licks his face, drawing a laugh from him—a genuine sound that holds no mockery, no edge.

  He retreats to his chair, still ignoring the deadly weapon in my hand. The carelessness of it burns through me. Does he think me incompetent? Does he not recognize the bone-blade for what it is? Or does he simply not care if he lives or dies?

  I focus inward, channeling vigger to my legs. The familiar cool energy flows through my pathways, pooling where damage has occurred. I direct it with practiced precision, feeling torn muscle fibers knit together, stressed tendons relax, microfractures seal themselves. The pain recedes to a dull ache, manageable now.

  Cautiously, I push aside the heavy blankets and rise to my feet. The dog watches me with those intelligent eyes, head tilted in curiosity. The man remains seated, seemingly unconcerned by my mobility or the weapon still firmly in my grasp.

  My feet touch floor that isn't earth or stone or wood—something smooth and cool that yields slightly with each step. I shift my weight, testing my balance, assessing my readiness for combat should it become necessary.

  "Where," I ask simply, keeping my blade extended between us, "am I?"

  ---Jason---

  Dawson's yelp sends me lurching forward before I can think better of it, hands outstretched to catch his stumbling weight. His furry body collides with my palms, warm and solid, his heart hammering against my fingers. Relief floods through me as his tongue darts out to lick my cheek, leaving a wet stripe from chin to temple.

  "You're fine, aren't you? Drama queen," I murmur against his curly fur. The familiar smell of him—dog shampoo with undertones of whatever he rolled in last week—grounds me in normalcy while everything else tilts sideways.

  I retreat to my chair, counting steps backward. *Eleven, twelve, chair edge against my calves.* I sink into it, deliberately making myself smaller in the space. The woman—Grace, apparently—is short. I could tell when I carried her, when her head tucked beneath my chin without effort. The last thing I need is to loom over her like some horror movie villain, especially when she's armed with what felt like a small machete.

  Dawson's nails click across the hardwood as he follows, settling against my feet with a contented sigh. His mini Bernedoodle weight—all thirty pounds of him—presses against my ankles, a warm anchor in this increasingly bizarre situation.

  "You know naught of necromancy?" Her voice cuts through the silence, genuinely perplexed rather than accusatory. Each word emerges precisely formed, like she's tasting them before releasing them into the air. "How can you not know of necromancy? Where do you live that you know not of necromancy?"

  She pauses, and I hear the subtle shift of fabric as she moves. "Not the deserts or the mudlands, not with those clothes, and you look nothing like one of the Jade Empire, not the bearing when looking upon one how I look."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  A laugh bubbles up my throat, but I swallow it back. *Way to make friends, Stone. Mock the knife-wielding woman in your living room.* "I mean, you see it in movies and that, but in RL?" I wave my hand dismissively in what I hope is her general direction, pretty sure I'm missing by at least three feet. "Also, we're in Canada and I'm Canadian. No idea what this 'Jade Empire' is, though it sounds cool? Like the name does, anyway."

  Curiosity gets the better of me. "Also, how does you looking different change things if I was of this empire thingy?"

  "R.L?" The syllables hang between us, each one carefully formed as though she's handling something fragile. "What is, R.L?" A beat of silence follows, filled only by the soft whuff of Dawson's breathing. Her voice returns, tight as a bowstring. "I have never heard of a... Canada, and it matters as they dislike those with my pale flesh, though I know naught why."

  The floorboards creak slightly as she shifts her weight. "I do not care much, either, as if one were to attempt to harm my kin without provocation, they would become the enemy, and the enemy exists only to be destroyed."

  A chill skitters down my spine at her tone—flat, matter-of-fact, like she's discussing laundry detergent instead of destroying people. My throat suddenly feels too dry.

  "Real life," I manage, my voice coming out rougher than intended. I clear my throat. "It's, RL means real life."

  "Aah." The sound is soft, almost thoughtful. "Thank you for explaining that to me."

  Her voice carries strangely in my living room—not particularly loud but somehow filling every corner. It resonates at a frequency that seems to bypass my ears and vibrate directly against my sternum. The subtle accent colors her words like rust on steel, familiar yet impossible to place. Deeper than most women's voices I've heard, but not unnaturally so—just distinctive, like a cello playing among violins.

  Dawson shifts against my feet, his tail thumping once against the floor. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, finding comfort in the normalcy of his silky fur between my fingers.

  "What's your name?" I ask, desperate to get past thinking of her as 'knife-wielding stranger.' "Since I don't want to keep thinking of you as 'the strange woman in my house,' so, yeah." I shrug, wincing internally at my own awkwardness.

  The silence stretches so long I almost think she's vanished somehow. The only evidence of her continued presence is Dawson's occasional glances toward her—his head turning slightly, the subtle shift of his ears tracking her movements.

  "My name is Grace." When she finally speaks, the words emerge carefully, as if granted rather than offered. "Those who are my kin call me Grace, and all I know well are kin, so Grace is my name and I have no other to be called."

  "Jason," I respond, extending my hand toward where I think she is, immediately regretting the gesture. My arm hangs awkwardly in empty space, likely aimed three feet left of her actual position. *Stone, you absolute disaster. What's next, offering to shake hands with the coat rack?*

  I let my arm drop back to my lap, fingers curling into my palm. "Now, how the fuck did you end up half-dead on my porch, Grace? Do you know?"

  Dawson suddenly perks up, his weight leaving my feet as he trots across the room. I hear the soft whuff of his breath as he investigates something—probably Grace's hand or leg—followed by the distinct sound of him flopping dramatically onto his side, likely expecting belly rubs from our visitor.

  "Your small furry companion is most odd," Grace observes, her voice softening fractionally when addressing Dawson. "He shows no fear."

  "He's a mini Bernedoodle," I explain, smiling despite myself. "Thirty pounds of fur and terrible decision-making skills. He once tried to befriend a raccoon. It did not go well for either party involved."

  "Mini... Berne..." She struggles with the word, the syllables clumsy in her mouth like unfamiliar tools.

  "Dog," I simplify. "He's just a dog. A very spoiled one who apparently thinks everyone exists to worship him." The familiar territory of discussing Dawson eases some of the tension in my shoulders. "He's also supposed to be my service dog, but as you can tell, he's not exactly the most professional."

  As if to prove my point, Dawson makes the snorting noise that always precedes his most dramatic sighs.

  "Service..." Grace repeats, the word hanging in the air like a question she doesn't quite know how to ask.

  My fingers find the armrest, tracing the familiar worn patch where the fabric has thinned. "He helps me navigate. I'm blind." I gesture vaguely toward my eyes. "Have been since birth. Hence the whole..." I wave my hand in front of my face, "unfocused staring thing I've got going on."

  A soft intake of breath is her only response at first. Then the floorboards creak as she moves—closer, based on Dawson's sudden tail-thumping.

  "You do not see," she states finally. Not a question, but a confirmation.

  "No, I don't see," I confirm, fighting the urge to fill the silence with nervous babble. "Never have. Born this way."

  "And yet you found me. Brought me inside. Prevented my death." Each sentence emerges precise, measured, like she's working through a complex equation. "Why would you do this? What do you gain?"

  The question catches me off-guard—not just the words, but the genuine confusion behind them, as if helping an unconscious person is somehow suspect. "Because you were dying on my porch? In negative twenty-five degree weather? What was I supposed to do, step over you and go make a sandwich?"

  "Yes," she answers simply. "Many would. I would."

  Something in her certainty makes my chest tighten. What kind of life has she led where basic human decency is the exception rather than the rule?

  "Well, I'm not many people," I reply, aiming for levity but landing somewhere closer to defensive. "And speaking of, you still haven't answered my question. How did you end up on my porch in the first place?"

  ---Grace---

  My back presses against the wall's strange smooth surface, a position that gives me clear sightlines to all three exits from this chamber. The small dog—Dawson—watches me with unblinking brown eyes, his curly white and brown fur rising and falling with each breath. The involuntary trembling in my legs has finally ceased, the bone-deep cold receding like tide water pulling back from shore.

  The man—Jason—sits across the room in a cushioned seat unlike any chair I've encountered. He keeps the full width of the chamber between us, a tactical choice I approve of, though I suspect his reasons differ from what mine would be. His movements follow a peculiar pattern—confident when navigating familiar territory, yet uncertain when responding to new stimuli. Those pale blue eyes never quite settle on me, instead drifting slightly above or beside where I stand.

  "You know naught of necromancy?" The question escapes before I can contain it, pushing past my lips like a trapped bird suddenly freed. Each word forms crisp puffs of vapor in the still-cold air around my face. "How can you not know of necromancy? Where do you live that you know not of necromancy?"

  My gaze sweeps his form while I speak, cataloging details my survival-focused mind missed during my half-conscious state. The fabric covering his body holds no practical purpose I can discern—no reinforced seams for protection, no layers for insulation, no pockets for tools or weapons. The surfaces around us emit steady light without flame or apparent fuel source. Heat radiates from metal structures along the walls without visible fire. Each observation adds to the growing certainty that I stand in a place far beyond my experience.

  "Not the deserts or the mudlands, not with those clothes," I continue, my fingers tracing the worn leather of my belt for reassurance. "And you look nothing like one of the Jade Empire, not the bearing when looking upon one how I look."

  "I mean, you see it in movies and that, but in RL?" His hand waves through the air, the gesture dismissive yet oddly graceful. Those long fingers slice through space with unconscious precision. "Also, we're in Canada and I'm Canadian. No idea what this 'Jade Empire' is, though it sounds cool? Like the name does, anyway."

  His head tilts slightly, the movement birdlike. "Also, how does you looking different change things if I was of this empire thingy?"

  His lack of reaction to my earlier drawn blade strikes me as either remarkable courage or profound foolishness. The lack of tension in his shoulders suggests he truly doesn't perceive me as a threat—a novel experience that leaves an unfamiliar taste in my mouth.

  "R.L?" The unfamiliar arrangement of sounds feels strange on my tongue. My fingers press harder against my belt, the worn leather grounding me as my eyes flick again to the strange illumination sources. "What is, R.L?"

  I inhale slowly, sorting through the complex tapestry of scents—the dog's animal musk, the man's sleep-sweat, strange artificial aromas unlike anything in the forests or fields I know. "I have never heard of a... Canada."

  My tongue stumbles slightly over the foreign word, and I straighten my spine in response to this moment of weakness. "And it matters as they dislike those with my pale flesh, though I know naught why."

  The memory of Jade Empire traders averting their eyes from my skin flashes unbidden. My hand drifts closer to my blade's hilt—a reflexive movement. "I do not care much, either, as if one were to attempt to harm my kin without provocation, they would become the enemy, and the enemy exists only to be destroyed."

  The words exit my mouth with practiced precision, but they ring hollow against these soft walls and cushioned surfaces. The druid's teaching voice echoes in my memory: *Context determines appropriate response. The forest does not use the same language as the mountain.*

  "Real life," he explains, his voice softening. "It's, RL means real life."

  "Aah." I file this information away, one more piece of this strange puzzle. My chin dips in acknowledgment. "Thank you for explaining that to me."

  Something about this man strikes a discordant note against my experience. Most people sense what I am without being told—something in my movements or the flatness behind my eyes triggers an instinctive withdrawal. Even Baldric, who'd trained beside me for three seasons, maintained a careful distance. Yet this Jason speaks directly to me, his words carrying none of the careful neutrality I've come to expect from interactions. The absence of fear creates a strange hollow sensation beneath my ribs, like missing a step when descending a hillside.

  "What's your name?" He shifts in his seat, the cushion sighing beneath his weight. "Since I don't want to keep thinking of you as 'the strange woman in my house,' so, yeah." His shoulders rise and fall in a casual gesture that somehow communicates both apology and resignation.

  My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth. Names hold power where I come from—to give yours freely is to offer a potential weapon. But practical considerations outweigh caution. He's already shown me kindness without apparent motive, and I need something to be called in this strange place.

  "My name is Grace." The syllables hang between us, an offering that can't be retracted. "Those who are my kin call me Grace, and all I know well are kin, so Grace is my name and I have no other to be called."

  "Jason," he responds, extending his hand into the space between us, his arm holding the peculiar angle suggesting he's not quite sure where I am. His eyes drift vaguely leftward of my actual position. "Now, how the fuck did you end up half-dead on my porch, Grace? Do you know?"

  My shoulders drop fractionally before I can control the reaction. His question summons the memory with vivid clarity—my bowstring's tension against my cheek, the perfect arc of my arrow, the sound of impact as it struck the druid's skull with lethal precision. The old man's eyes finding mine across the clearing, not with hatred or surprise but with terrible understanding. Then light erupting from his falling form, swallowing me, followed by endless falling through cold so intense it burned.

  Something constricts in my throat, an unfamiliar pressure building behind my eyes. I've killed so many times—warriors, hunters, a mage whose fingers trailed fire—yet never felt this peculiar hollowness afterward. But the druid was different. While others saw a weapon when they looked at me, he alone saw something worth teaching.

  "I..." The words stick in my throat like pine sap. My nail digs into my palm, the sharp pain focusing my thoughts. "I was... there was a fight. A necromancer. I tried to help someone and failed."

  Sweat beads along my hairline despite the lingering cold. "Then light, and falling. Then waking here."

  My eyes fix on a point beyond his shoulder, unable to maintain even the pretense of meeting his unfocused gaze. "I killed someone I... respected." The admission costs me something vital, though I cannot name what. "Someone important. I think."

  Jason reaches toward me, his hand extending into the space between us. Every muscle in my body tenses, coiling for action. Ancient stories whispered around firelight flood my memory—tales of those who could bind your will with just your name and the touch of skin against skin. My hand flies to where my longbow should rest against my back, finding only empty air.

  Before I can retreat further, Jason lowers his arm, his scent shifting from neutral to something sharper—embarrassment mixed with apology. "Guess you don't want to shake hands, huh? Fair enough, waking up in a strange house with a strange dude probably not... well, I get you might be a bit out of sorts and all."

  He folds his hands in his lap, fingers interlacing with practiced ease. The dog—Dawson—abandons his position near me to press his head against Jason's knee. The man's expression softens instantly, tension melting from his face as his fingers find their way behind the animal's ears. Dawson's eyes close in evident pleasure, and Jason's mouth curves upward, revealing teeth unnaturally straight and white—the kind of dental perfection I've only seen in nobles who can afford specialized healers.

  The corner of my mouth twitches upward without permission, a reflexive response to their obvious bond. I force the expression away before asking, "Shake... hands?" The unfamiliar phrase feels awkward in my mouth. "That is why you had your hand out toward me?"

  "Yes?" Both his tone and the sudden spike of confusion in his scent betray genuine bewilderment. "Why else would I have my hand out when I'm like, this far away?" His finger points vaguely in my direction, missing my actual position by nearly half a meter. "We're across the room from each other, or what did you think I was trying to do, Grace?"

  Heat creeps up my neck at the implication that I've misunderstood a harmless social gesture. Such mistakes can be lethal in unfamiliar territories. I redirect to more practical matters.

  "You put the blankets upon me, yes?" The heavy coverings still lie in a heap where I abandoned them upon waking, their warmth lingering in the fibers.

  "Yeah," Jason shifts his weight, the chair creaking beneath him. "Couldn't think of how to warm you up other than pile a fuck-ton of blankets on you, and try to rub the circulation back into your arms and legs."

  His scent transforms as he speaks, the chemical composition shifting to something I recognize instantly—fear, pure and uncomplicated. The smell triggers an autonomic response in my body, my pupils dilating, muscles tensing for the hunt. I force myself to remain still, recognizing that pursuing this prey would be counterproductive. He possesses knowledge I need, and consumption, while satisfying my immediate hunger, would eliminate a potential resource.

  "Didn't actually touch your legs, just your arms," he adds quickly, the words tumbling over each other in his haste. Dawson nudges his hand again, and Jason's entire demeanor softens as he presses his lips briefly to the top of the dog's head before resuming his gentle scratching between Dawson's ears.

  "Hypothermia?" The clinical term emerges from some buried knowledge I didn't realize I possessed. The syllables feel foreign on my tongue, yet I understand their meaning perfectly—a dangerous lowering of core body temperature leading to death if untreated. I'm attempting to comprehend what happened to me while simultaneously helping him relax. His fear-scent creates an uncomfortable tension in my chest, not because it bothers me directly, but because it reminds me of countless similar reactions to my presence.

  "Yeah," he confirms with a short sound that's half-grunt, half-word. "Fell over you on my front porch a few hours ago. You were about the temperature of the rocks, not even shivering anymore." His voice softens slightly. "Wasn't just going to leave you out to die since I hope I'm a decent human being and all."

  Another shrug lifts his shoulders before he adds, "Even if you're wearing stitched together furs, well..." The sentence trails into silence as he raises those long-fingered hands to rub across his face, palms scraping against stubble with an audible rasp.

  Something in his simple explanation—the matter-of-fact way he describes saving my life as though it were the only reasonable course of action—creates a peculiar sensation in my chest. Not gratitude exactly, which I've been trained to regard as a weakness, but a recognition of a debt that now exists between us.

  "You," I say slowly, needing absolute clarity, "to confirm, brought me into a shelter where I otherwise would have frozen to death, yes?"

  "Well, your skin wasn't much warmer than your clothes like I said, so yeah?" He shifts position again as Dawson settles more fully against his legs, the dog's head coming to rest on his lap. The tension visibly drains from Jason's form as his fingers work their way through Dawson's curly fur, a small smile lifting the corners of his mouth beneath his reddish-blond beard.

  I nod once, decision made. With a single fluid motion, I draw my blade from its sheath, the bone handle cool and familiar against my palm. The edge glints dully in the strange artificial light as I draw it across my palm with practiced precision. Blood wells instantly, but instead of dripping to the floor, it's drawn into the blade itself, absorbed completely without leaving a trace of its passage. The bone knife must taste blood once drawn—it's the price of wielding such weapons, the bargain that keeps them keen.

  I slide the carved bone back into its sheath at my hip, the sound of bone against tanned leather barely audible even to my enhanced hearing.

  "What was that?" Jason's head turns sharply toward the sound, his unseeing eyes widening slightly. "Sounded like bone on leather? That your knife?"

  "Yes," I confirm simply. "I sheathed it."

  "Sheathed it." The muscles across his shoulders and neck visibly tighten as concern replaces the lingering fear in his scent. "So you had it out earlier?"

  "Yes," I state matter-of-factly, seeing no reason to lie. "I had it pointed at you when you moved toward me when I first woke up."

  "Oh." The simple syllable carries complex undertones as the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms flex slightly beneath his strange clothing.

  I change the subject, genuinely curious about the loyal creature that seems to bring him such comfort. "Your companion," I gesture toward Dawson, though I realize immediately Jason cannot see the movement, "what is he? As you said, it is better to have a name, and I do not wish to simply think of him as, to copy you, 'the small furry thing that you pet frequently.'"

  "He's a dog?" Jason's face contorts in obvious confusion, eyebrows drawing together, head tilting slightly. "Where the hell did you come from that you don't recognize a dog, Grace? Even if he's a small one?"

  The question deserves a direct answer. "Dogs pull sleds. They guard and protect campsites, and they hunt prey." I watch Dawson's absolute contentment under Jason's touch, a relationship entirely different from the working partnerships I've observed. "Only packmasters keep them as companions, though you are the strangest packmaster that I have ever laid eyes upon, and all of the packmasters know of the wakeners of the sleepers, yet you said they are not in your real life."

  "Uhm," Jason begins, his tone cautious, uncertainty threading through his scent. "What's a packmaster, exactly? Also, you mean necromancers when you say 'wakeners of the dead,' right?"

  The question's simplicity momentarily throws me off balance. It's like being asked the color of the sky or the wetness of water—so fundamental I've never considered it might need explanation.

  "One who is the master of a pack of beasts. What else would a packmaster be than a master of a pack?" I can hear the slight edge entering my voice and consciously soften it. "Also, yes, that is our name for them, where 'necromancer' is a common name used for reference between far-off clans and hunting packs."

  "Well, I'm not one of them," Jason says with another of his frequent shrugs. "Would be cool if I was, but I'm not part of either lot. I just feed Dawson and pet him. I don't even have a pack, just Dawson?" His voice lifts at the end, making the statement sound almost like a question.

  So the dog is called Dawson. I catalog this information alongside the growing list of peculiarities. My gaze lingers on the animal's behavior—the way he leans into Jason's touch, the absolute trust in his posture. This bond speaks of something deeper than utility, a connection I've witnessed only between the most skilled rangers and their animal companions after years of working together.

  A new understanding forms. "You were concerned," I say carefully, testing this theory, "that I would harm your companion with my blade earlier. Yes? That is why you rushed forward to assist him?"

  "Something like that," Jason admits, his voice softening. "He's part of the family, and, well—" His mouth closes suddenly, though the aborted sentence hangs in the air between us.

  His evident care for the animal touches something unfamiliar within me—perhaps a recognition of what it means to protect those in your care, a responsibility I understand even if my methods differ from his.

  "I," I say, deliberately softening my tone, "have no desire to harm this Dawson. Dogs are friends, and those who harm friends without provocation are the enemy, and the enemy exists only to be destroyed."

  I inwardly wince at my phrasing, hearing how it must sound to him. Threatening one whose shelter I currently occupy, without having established any tactical advantage, violates basic survival principles. But to my surprise, Jason's expression clears, tension dissolving from his features.

  "So, limbs not tingly anymore? Legs or arms?" he asks, smoothly changing the subject.

  "No," I reply, grateful for the redirection. My fingers flex experimentally, confirming what I already know. "My vigger has fixed any issues from being almost frozen." I find myself adding, to my own surprise, "Although I thank you for asking, and for assisting in my recovery."

  The gratitude feels foreign on my tongue, but not entirely unpleasant.

  "Vigger?" Jason's head tilts to one side, curiosity evident in every line of his body. "What's, well, that? Also I see a pattern here, and don't know if I like it."

  "Pattern?" My brow furrows slightly. "Of what pattern do you mean?"

  "I keep asking what stuff is," Jason grumbles, running a hand through his hair in evident frustration. "And, well, don't want to look stupid."

  His concern strikes an unexpected chord of recognition. I too have found myself in situations where my lack of understanding marked me as vulnerable, where others possessed knowledge I lacked. The memory of my first days with the druid surfaces—how many questions I asked, how patient he remained through each one.

  "Questions are not stupid, as you put it," I tell him, my voice firm but not unkind. "If you just pushed forward without asking what you were getting into like a child who knows no better, however, then I would consider you, to take your words, stupid."

  Jason laughs then—a sharp, sudden sound that transforms his entire face. The noise startles Dawson, whose head jerks up momentarily before settling back onto Jason's lap. The laughter fades as quickly as it appeared, but something of its warmth remains in his expression.

  "Okay, fair enough." He nods once, decisively. "Now, the hell is Vigger?"

  "Vigger is Vigger," I respond automatically, then realize the circular explanation helps nothing. I try again, searching for terms he might understand. "It is physical energy that can be used to heal the flesh, give strength and speed, and other physical benefits."

  My fingers trace the now-healed cut on my palm, where not even a scar remains. "Now, how have you not heard of it? All use vigger, or vigger by another name, though Vigger is the common name for it."

  "So, like chi?" Jason asks, his eyes widening with sudden interest. Even unfocused as they are, they seem to brighten with excitement, pupils dilating as his scent shifts to something sharper, more alert.

  I blink slowly, reassessing my assumptions about his origins. I have never heard of this "Canada" before, though my knowledge of distant lands is limited. I've never traveled more than 200 kilometers from my birthplace in all my twenty-one summers.

  "What is Chi?" I probe, testing boundaries. "It sounds like something the people of the Empire of Jade would use, though I know little of the internal workings of that realm."

  "It's pretty much what you said about Vigger," Jason responds, his face scrunching in concentration, forehead creasing with the effort of translation. "Though Chi is... Okay, do you know what a webnovel is? If not, going to have to explain a bunch of foundational stuff before I can actually answer your question."

  My gaze sweeps the room again, cataloging details I'd noted earlier but now view through a different lens. The persistent warmth without visible fire source. The steady illumination without flame. The absence of familiar tools and presence of objects whose function I cannot begin to guess. Jason's confusion about concepts fundamental to my existence. The strange clothes, strange speech patterns, strange everything.

  Fragments of memory surface—the druid speaking of realms beyond our own, of worlds that mirror ours but follow different rules. Of barriers that sometimes thin enough to allow passage. My mind works methodically through the implications, integrating observation with training. Either I've somehow crossed into a realm beyond my previous knowledge, or the arrow that struck the druid did more than simply end his life. Perhaps both.

  Whatever has happened, survival dictates I learn as much as possible about this place. And this strange man—who cannot see properly yet saved me from freezing—might be my only guide.

  "I do not know what a webnovel is," I admit, letting my hands fall open in a gesture of deliberate vulnerability. "But I am willing to learn."