The forest stretched endlessly, a maze of twisted trees and whispering shadows. Moonlight barely pierced the canopy, casting silver streaks across the damp earth. Every step crunched with fallen leaves, and the air smelled of moss, bark, and distant danger.
Elira trudged behind the tyrant king—her sworn enemy, her accidental savior, and currently the only person who wasn't trying to eat her. She stumbled over a root for the third time in five minutes.
"I swear," she muttered, brushing dirt off her soaked pajamas, "if I trip one more time, I'm going to sue gravity."
Lucan didn't respond.
He walked ahead, silent and sharp, his black armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. His sword hung at his side, always ready. Always threatening.
Elira jogged to catch up, panting. "Do tyrant kings not believe in breaks? Or snacks? Or basic human decency?"
Still no answer.
It had been hours since they started walking through this creepy forest, and they still hadn't found a way out. The trees looked the same. The fog never lifted. And something kept hissing at her from the underbrush.
She groaned dramatically. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. My feet are wet. My soul is damp. And I'm ninety percent sure I just stepped on something that hissed at me."
Lucan stopped.
Elira bumped into his back. "Ow. Okay, rude."
He turned slowly, his glowing red eyes narrowing. "You complain more than a dying bard. I hate noise. Minimize it—unless you want me to pull this sword, kill you instantly, and leave your corpse here to feed that creature we fought."
"I'm not dying," she snapped. "I'm just emotionally unstable and underfed. I'm wet, covered in dirt, and my tummy is staging a rebellion."
Lucan's gaze lingered on her face, unreadable. "You speak as if I owe you comfort. I am not someone you should expect kindness from."
"You dragged me into this forest," she said, arms crossed. "You threatened to kill me. The least you could do is offer a granola bar."
Lucan blinked. "A what?"
She sighed. "Never mind. It's food. Delicious. Portable. Not made of moss."
Lucan furrowed his brows, his gaze trailing after her. He couldn't decipher her. She was weird. Irritating. And somehow still alive.
They resumed walking, the silence stretching between them like vines—tangled and tense.
After a while, Elira spoke again, softer this time. "Are we going to rest soon? Or do I have to collapse dramatically and hope you feel guilty? My feet are numbing."
Lucan didn't stop walking, but his voice came low and cold. "You may rest when I decide it's safe. And if you collapse, I'll leave you for the wolves."
Elira rolled her eyes. "Charming. Truly. You should put that on a dating profile."
Lucan didn't respond.
But she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
Despite her sarcasm, Elira's steps had slowed.
Her legs ached.
Her stomach growled.
And though she hated to admit it, the fear never left her—not with Lucan so close, not with his sword always within reach, gleaming like a threat with every step.
Still, she kept walking.
Because if she stopped, she wasn't sure she'd ever get up again.
"Ugh! How the hell did I end up in this mess?!" she muttered, voice cracking with frustration. "Did someone wish me dead and toss me into fantasy hell?! I swear, I'm gonna sue the universe, the author, and whoever cursed me with this plot!"
Lucan heard it.
Of course he did.
The path narrowed, winding between crooked trees that looked more like claws than branches. Fog slithered along the ground like living mist. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a long, mournful cry that made Elira's spine stiffen.
She glanced nervously at Lucan.
He didn't flinch.
Of course he didn't. He was built for this kind of nightmare. She wasn't.
She looked around the forest, heart pounding as the howling continued—closer now, layered with growls and rustling leaves.
"I'm starting to think you want me to collapse," she muttered, half-joking, half-serious.
Lucan stopped.
This time, he turned fully toward her.
His silver eyes gleamed beneath the moonlight—sharp, cold, and blazing with suppressed fury.
Elira froze.
Without a word, Lucan reached into his cloak and pulled out a length of enchanted rope—dark, braided, and pulsing faintly with runes that shimmered like embers.
"What's that for?" she asked, voice tight.
Lucan didn't answer.
He stepped forward, the rope coiling in his hand like a living thing.
Elira took a step back. "Okay, listen. If this is some medieval version of a leash, I'm gonna scream."
Lucan's voice was low, dangerous. "You wander. You complain. You slow us down. This will ensure you stay close."
Her jaw dropped. "You're going to tie me up?!"
Lucan raised a brow. "Would you prefer I drag your corpse instead?"
Elira blinked. "You know, for someone who's technically my bodyguard right now, your customer service is terrible."
Lucan smirked faintly. "I'm not your guard. I'm your executioner—on hold."
The rope pulsed once, glowing brighter.
And Elira realized—he wasn't bluffing.
Lucan stepped closer and tied one end of the rope around her wrist. The knot tightened with a magical hiss, glowing faintly before sealing itself.
"Hey!" Elira yelped, trying to pull away. "You're leashing me?! Like a dog?!"
Lucan wrapped the other end around his gauntlet, the rope pulsing once in eerie agreement. "If you keep being this irritating and noisy, the next thing I'll do is rip your mouth shut."
She gasped. "Ugh! I'm not a pet," she snapped, tugging at the rope. It didn't budge. "This is medieval-level humiliating."
Lucan's voice was calm, almost bored. "You are in a medieval era."
She glared at him. "You know what else is medieval? Manners."
He turned and resumed walking, dragging the rope gently behind him like she was reluctant luggage.
Elira stumbled after him, fuming. "This man…" she muttered, but didn't finish—Lucan's hand brushed the hilt of his sword, a silent warning.
She clenched her fists, briefly gesturing to punch him in the back, but thought better of it.
After a few more minutes of tense silence, Lucan slowed.
Ahead, nestled between two massive trees, was a small clearing. Moonlight spilled into it like silver wine. A fallen log sat near the edge, and the ground was dry—miraculously free of thorns, roots, or anything that hissed.
Lucan gestured toward it. "Rest."
Elira blinked. "Wait… seriously?"
He didn't answer. He simply sat on a nearby rock, sword across his lap, eyes scanning the trees like a predator waiting for movement.
Elira collapsed onto the log like a dying squirrel. "Oh thank the stars. I thought you were going to walk me straight into the afterlife."
Lucan didn't look at her. "You will."
She flopped back dramatically. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all day."
The clearing was still.
No wolves. No monsters. Just the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl that sounded far too judgmental.
Elira sat on the fallen log, arms wrapped around her knees, the enchanted rope still tethered to Lucan's gauntlet like a cruel reminder. He sat nearby, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the trees as if daring them to blink first.
She didn't speak. Neither did he.
And in that silence, her thoughts began to spiral.
How did I get here?
She remembered the book. The one she'd been reading in bed, curled under her blanket, sipping lukewarm tea. It had been about a tyrant king—Lucan. A cruel ruler feared across kingdoms. She hadn't read the full story, but she'd admired him from afar—for his clarity, his power, his unshakable purpose.
And then… the silver lake.
The cold.
The moon.
The sword at her throat.
She shivered, pulling her knees tighter to her chest.
It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination. I'm here. I'm really here.
She glanced at Lucan, who hadn't moved. His armor gleamed faintly in the moonlight, his sword resting across his lap like a sleeping beast.
He was fiction. He was supposed to stay in the pages. So why am I sitting next to him in a cursed forest, tied like a prisoner?
Her heart thudded.
What if I never go back? What if this is it?
She bit her lip, trying to hold back the rising panic.
I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose this. I'm not the Saintess. I'm not anyone.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something older—something ancient.
She looked up at the sky, at the strange purple moon that hung like a watchful eye.
And finally, she whispered the question that had been clawing at her chest since the moment she arrived:
"How do I get back to my world?"
Elira stamped her feet, her soaked pajamas clinging to her legs, her hair tangled with twigs and frustration.
"Is this where I end up?" she snapped, arms flailing as she paced the clearing like a storm in slippers. "Dragged through a cursed forest, leashed like a magical mutt, and babysat by a medieval warlord with zero empathy?"
Lucan didn't respond.
He let out a heavy sigh.
She kept going, talking as if he weren't there—or maybe hoping he wasn't.
"Ugh! Saintess?! Now I'm being treated as the Saintess? I don't glow! I don't summon light! I don't even know how to use a sword! I cry during sad commercials and burn toast! I'm not qualified for divine anything!"
She paused, gathered her remaining strength, and screamed into the trees:
"Why did you drag me into this novel, you damned Author?!"
Lucan finally turned, his reddish eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight.
And then—a sound.
Low.
Horrendous.
It echoed through the trees like a warning from the earth itself.
Elira froze, instantly regretting everything.
She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.
Lucan stepped forward, the rope between them taut.
"You really wish to die, don't you," he warned, voice low and sharp. "You should be thankful that until now, I've been suppressing the urge to kill you with my own sword."
Elira saw it then—through his glowing red eyes—the fury he'd been holding back. The restraint. The danger.
"Saintess," he continued, "I don't feel pity. I don't spare those who test my patience."
Elira froze.
She swallowed hard.
His words hung in the air like frost, chilling her deeper than the night wind.
She looked around—the twisted trees, the endless shadows, the cold that clung to her bones—and suddenly, the weight of it all pressed down on her.
What if this is it? What if I never go back?
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I just want to go home…"
Lucan said nothing.
But his eyes didn't change.
His gaze lingered on her longer than usual. Not with cruelty. Not with suspicion.
Just… silence.
Then, without a word, he turned away.
He walked back to the rock where he'd been sitting, his armor creaking softly with each step. He lowered himself onto it, sword across his lap, and closed his eyes.
Elira watched him, confused.
No threats. No commands. Just quiet.
And for the first time since she'd arrived in this strange, terrifying world, the forest didn't feel like it was closing in—it simply waited.
The forest was quiet.
Until Elira drifted into sleep at last, curled awkwardly on the log, her wrist still tethered to Lucan's enchanted rope. Her breathing slowed, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion. For the first time since arriving in this world, her mind stopped racing.
She dreamed of warmth. Of her bed. Of the soft hum of her fan and the smell of old books.
Then—
Yank.
The rope snapped taut.
Elira jolted awake with a gasp, nearly falling off the log. "Ow—what the—?!"
Lucan stood over her, already armored and alert, his grip firm on the rope.
"Get up," he said flatly.
She blinked, still groggy. "What time is it? Is there even time here? I was literally dreaming about pancakes."
Lucan didn't answer. He turned and began walking, dragging the rope behind him.
Elira stumbled to her feet, nearly tripping over her own exhaustion. "You could've said please. Or maybe good morning. Or hey, I'm about to ruin your life again."
Lucan didn't slow. "We move now. The forest shifts at dawn. If we stay, we'll be hunted."
Elira groaned, rubbing her eyes. "I'm already being hunted. By you."
He glanced back, reddish eyes sharp. "Do you want me to leave you here, tied to a tree?"
She stopped mid-step. "That's somehow worse."
But she followed.
Because the forest was waking too—leaves rustling, shadows stretching, and something distant growling beneath the earth.
And as much as she hated Lucan, she hated the idea of being alone here even more.
He might be a terrifying tyrant king—but this forest, with its whispering shadows and unseen dangers, was worse. For now.
Lucan kept dragging her forward like a tethered animal, the enchanted rope pulling tight every time she slowed. His strides were long, relentless, and utterly indifferent to the fact that she was stumbling behind him in soaked pajamas and aching feet.
"Can you not yank me like a disobedient goat?" Elira snapped, tripping over another root. "I'm a person. A human. Ever heard of treating someone with respect?"
Lucan didn't even glance back. "Respect is earned. And I don't give it freely. They should be the ones respecting me."
She groaned. "Oh, such a respectable king. You kidnapped me! What do I have to do—slay a dragon and bake you a pie?"
He stopped abruptly, turning just enough for his reddish eyes to catch hers.
"I am not interested in pies," he said coldly. "Only eternal power."
Elira recoiled slightly. "Wow. That's... comforting."
Lucan resumed walking, dragging her along once more.
She stumbled again, nearly falling face-first into a patch of thorns. "You know, for someone who thinks I might be a divine Saintess, you treat me like a cursed stray."
Lucan's voice came low and sharp. "If you are the Saintess, then you are a threat. If you are not, then you are a mistake. Either way, I do not coddle."
Elira clenched her fists, breath ragged. "You're a tyrant. A cruel king who desires only blood and power."
Lucan didn't deny it.
He didn't have to.
His silence was confirmation enough.
And yet, despite everything—despite the leash, the threats, the cold—Elira kept walking.
Because somewhere deep inside, she knew: surviving this world meant surviving him first.
The forest had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Elira trudged behind Lucan, her wrist still bound by the enchanted rope, her feet aching, her breath fogging in the cold morning air. The silence between them was thick, broken only by the crunch of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig.
Then the wind shifted.
It wasn't just colder—it was wrong.
It carried no scent, no sound. Just emptiness.
Lucan stopped.
Elira bumped into him again. "Seriously? You need to start announcing when you—"
"Run," he said sharply.
She blinked. "Wait, what?"
Lucan turned, his reddish eyes flashing with urgency. "Run. Now."
Elira's heart jumped. "Wait—can you tell me first why and what's wrong?"
Lucan didn't answer.
But the forest did.
A low, guttural rumble echoed through the trees—like something ancient stirring beneath the earth. The ground trembled faintly. The air grew heavier, thicker, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Lucan's grip on the rope tightened.
His voice dropped to a growl. "It's awake."
Elira's eyes widened. "What's awake?!"
Lucan didn't respond.
He turned and broke into a sprint, dragging her behind him.
And Elira ran—because whatever it was, she didn't want to meet it.