The ground beneath her feet pulsed. Roots burst from the soil, writhing like snakes. One lashed out, nearly catching her ankle.
Elira screamed and bolted forward, stumbling over branches and rocks. Lucan was already ahead, sword drawn, slashing through the forest's grasping limbs.
The trees groaned, their trunks splitting open to reveal glowing veins of green light. Shadows poured from them—crawling, living things that slithered across the forest floor.
"Don't stop!" Lucan barked. "Keep moving and don't look back!"
Elira ran, heart pounding, lungs burning. The rope between them stretched and tugged as Lucan led the way, cutting through the chaos with brutal precision.
Behind them, the forest roared—branches clawing, roots chasing, shadows shrieking.
Then, just ahead—a break in the trees. A stone arch, half-buried in moss, glowing faintly with runes.
Lucan grabbed her arm and yanked her through.
The moment they crossed beneath the arch, everything stopped.
Silence.
Stillness.
Elira collapsed to the ground, panting, trembling. "We made it…?"
It was her first time running for her life. Back in her world, she had asthma—limitations that kept her cautious. But this world didn't allow caution. It demanded survival. And being carefree here was a death sentence.
Lucan stood over her, sword still drawn, eyes scanning the quiet grove beyond the arch.
"For now," he said. "The forest doesn't chase beyond its boundary."
Elira lay back, staring at the sky, her chest rising and falling. "I hate this place."
Lucan didn't respond.
But he didn't drag her forward either.
And for the first time since she arrived, Elira felt like she could breathe.
They had come out of the forest—alive, scraped, breathless, but safe.
The twisted trees fell behind them like a bad memory, their branches no longer reaching, their shadows no longer chasing. The enchanted rope between them slackened, and the air shifted from suffocating to still.
Before them, nestled in a mountain valley of mist and morning light, was a small village.
Stone cottages with moss-covered roofs lined a winding dirt path. Smoke curled gently from chimneys. Lanterns flickered on wooden posts, casting a soft amber glow. Chickens clucked lazily in pens, and a few villagers moved about, wrapped in cloaks, their eyes wary but not hostile. It felt like they were the first outsiders to step into this place in years.
Lucan's gaze swept over the scene, calculating.
Elira stared, wide-eyed. "What is this place?"
Lucan answered without looking at her. "This is Virelith—a village that survives by staying forgotten."
She took a step forward, her feet aching but her heart lifting. "It's… peaceful."
"It is," Lucan said. "Because it's hidden in the heart of the Devil's Claw forest."
Elira's stomach growled, loud and unapologetic.
Lucan stepped toward the village, and Elira followed.
The forest had let them go.
But her instincts told her this place wasn't the end of her journey.
Only the next chapter.
The dirt path into Virelith was uneven, lined with moss-covered stones and crooked fences. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the scent of firewood and herbs drifted through the air. Chickens clucked in their pens, and a few villagers paused mid-task to stare as the pair entered—one cloaked in black armor, the other in soaked pajamas, tethered by a glowing rope.
Elira tugged at the leash, whispering, "You could at least untie me. I look like your cursed pet."
Lucan didn't respond. His eyes scanned every rooftop, every shadow.
The villagers didn't speak. They watched. Quiet. Wary.
A hunched old woman near a well narrowed her eyes. "That armor… it hasn't been seen here in years."
Lucan stepped forward. "We need shelter. Somewhere quiet."
The woman spat into the dirt. "You'll find no loyalty here, King."
Elira blinked. They know him?
Lucan didn't flinch. "I don't need loyalty. Just a roof."
A younger man—tall, with soot-stained hands—stepped from a nearby forge. "There's an old chapel at the edge of the village. No one goes there. You won't be disturbed."
Lucan nodded once. "That will do."
"Wait!" Elira blurted, rushing up to the younger man. "Give us food too. I've been starving this whole time and this man didn't even bother feeding me."
The blacksmith blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Uh… I have some bread?"
"Bread is good," Elira said, snatching it like a squirrel hoarding for winter. "Maybe something warm? Soup? Stew? Anything that doesn't taste like regret? And also water!"
Lucan turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "You were not brought here for comfort."
Elira took a dramatic bite of the bread. "Well, you didn't bring me here for hospitality either, so I figured I'd ask. I need to survive."
The blacksmith scratched his head. "I think my aunt has leftover porridge."
"Perfect," Elira said, already halfway to the forge—until Lucan tugged sharply on the leash.
"Where do you think you're going?" he said flatly. "He gave you bread. That's enough."
Elira stumbled back, groaning. "Tell her it's for the hostage! Or the very hungry girl who's trying not to pass out!"
She shouted the last part over her shoulder as Lucan dragged her away, bread still clutched in one hand like a trophy.
As they walked through the village, Elira noticed the signs—runes carved into doorframes, herbs hanging from windows, charms buried in the soil. This place wasn't just forgotten.
It was protected.
And afraid.
Children peeked from behind barrels. Elders whispered behind cloaks. No one approached.
When they reached the chapel, it was exactly as described—cracked stone walls, ivy-covered windows, and a heavy wooden door that groaned as Lucan pushed it open.
Inside, dust danced in the light. A few broken pews. A faded tapestry. Silence.
Lucan released the rope from his gauntlet and tossed it aside.
"You're free," he said. "For now. But don't even think about going outside—or escaping."
Elira rubbed her wrist, eyes fixed on him. "How am I supposed to escape when this village is surrounded by a creepy forest? You're funny, you know."
Lucan glared at her.
She sat quickly, facing him.
"How do they know you're a king?" she asked, then casually took a bite of the bread, clearly unfazed by how intimidating he was.
Lucan didn't answer. He walked to the far wall, leaned his sword against it, and sat down without a word.
Elira pouted at the silence.
"You want some bread?" she offered, holding out the half-eaten loaf.
He didn't respond.
Didn't even glance her way.
Elira sighed, her gaze drifting around the chapel, heart still pounding. This village was quiet and peaceful—but it felt like a place hiding something. How did they know him? Had he conquered this place before? Or was his reputation simply that vast?
She shrugged the questions away.
I don't belong here.
But she was here. She need to find a chance to ask for help.
But for now, she had shelter.
And questions.
The chapel was quiet, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the distant chirp of morning birds. Lucan sat against the far wall, unmoving, his sword resting across his lap. He looked asleep. Whether he was truly resting or simply meditating, Elira couldn't tell—and she wasn't about to ask.
She peeked through the broken window, briefly.
Her eyes fell to the enchanted rope lying limp beside her.
He hadn't reattached it.
Now or never.
Elira slipped silently to her feet, tiptoeing across the dusty floor. She pushed open the chapel door with slow, deliberate pressure, wincing at the groan of the hinges.
Lucan didn't stir.
Outside, the village of Virelith was waking.
Smoke curled from chimneys. A few villagers swept their porches. Chickens pecked at the dirt. But the moment Elira stepped into view, heads turned. Conversations stopped.
She offered a nervous wave. "Hi. Um… morning."
No one responded.
She approached a group of children nearby, but they scattered like startled birds, vanishing behind barrels and doorframes.
She stared at the villagers—and they stared back.
"Um… I'm not here to hurt you. Just…" She trailed off, watching their wary faces.
Elira sighed.
She walked toward the well, where the old woman from earlier was filling a bucket. Her eyes narrowed as Elira approached.
"You shouldn't be out here," the woman said. "He'll notice."
Elira glanced back at the chapel. "He's… resting. I just wanted to talk. I need answers. Or help."
The woman snorted. "Answers don't come free in Virelith. And help is far more dangerous."
"I'm not from here," Elira said quickly. "I swear, I don't know what a Saintess is or why that ruthless king thinks I'm her. I was just reading a novel on my phone and then—poof—I woke up in this world. I don't know how or why."
The woman's eyes narrowed, then softened—just slightly. "Books are dangerous things. Especially ones that speak of kings and prophecies."
"What?" Elira leaned in. "Do you know anything about the prophecy? About how someone like me could end up here?"
Before the woman could answer, a younger villager stepped forward—a boy no older than sixteen, with wide eyes and a satchel of herbs.
"She looks like the girl in the old mural," he whispered. "The one in the ruined temple."
Elira's heart skipped. "What mural?"
The old woman shot the boy a warning look. "Enough."
But Elira stepped closer. "Please. I need to know. If there's a way back to my world, or if I'm really part of this prophecy, I need to understand."
The woman hesitated, then sighed. "There's a seer. Lives beyond the ridge. She doesn't speak to outsiders. But if anyone knows why the forest let you live, it's her. A seer could help you with what you're facing."
Elira nodded, heart pounding. "Thank you."
But before she could ask more, a shadow fell across the well.
Lucan.
He stood there, silent, unreadable.
"You were warned," he said coldly.
Elira swallowed hard. "Wait! I just needed answers."
Lucan's eyes flicked to the villagers, who had already begun to scatter. "And you think they'll give you truth?"
He stepped forward, retying the rope to his gauntlet with a sharp tug.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "don't ever do this. I have a short temper. Cross it, and your life is forfeit."
Elira didn't respond.
But as they walked back toward the chapel, her mind buzzed with new questions.
A mural. A seer. A prophecy.
And maybe—just maybe—a way home.
But… does going back even feel right?
Elira shook off the thought. No. She needs to go back.
Back inside the chapel, the air was thick with dust and silence. Elira paced near the broken pews, her voice rising with urgency.
"We need to find the seer," she said, eyes locked on Lucan. "The villagers said she might know why I'm here. And I can prove to you that I'm not the Saintess you've been looking to kill."
Lucan didn't look up. He sat against the wall, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
"She could know how to send me back," Elira pressed. "Don't you care about that? About finding the truth?"
Lucan paused, then resumed sharpening. "The truth is rarely worth chasing. It tends to bleed."
Elira threw her hands up. "You can't just ignore this! I'm not from here! I don't belong in your world, your war, or your prophecy!"
Lucan finally looked at her, his silver eyes cold. "And yet, here you are."
She stepped closer, frustration boiling. "You're not even curious? Not even a little?"
"I don't chase ghosts," he said. "I deal in what's real. And seeing you on that silver lake—that was real."
Elira's voice cracked. "What? Do you still think I might be the Saintess?"
Lucan stood, towering over her. "I told you before. Saintess or not—I don't spare."
She flinched, but didn't back down. "You're cruel."
He turned away. "Yes, I am."
Elira watched him walk to the chapel door, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
And just like that, the conversation was over.
But her questions weren't.
The door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the hollow chapel like a final verdict.
Elira stood frozen, her breath shallow, her heart pounding against her ribs.
She sank onto the nearest pew, hands trembling.
Her thoughts spiraled.
What if I really am the Saintess? No—impossible. What if this world expects me to save it—or destroy it—and I don't even know how I got here?
No. She wasn't going to sit and wait for answers to fall from the sky.
She needed an escape plan.
She stood, fists clenched.
If Lucan wouldn't help her find the seer, she'd find a way herself. She'd sneak out again, talk to the villagers, follow the ridge—whatever it took.
Because if this world had summoned her, it owed her an explanation.
And if Lucan truly intended to kill her…
She'd make damn sure he regretted underestimating her first.
The chapel was quiet, but Elira's thoughts were loud.
It was already nightfall again—her second night in this damned world pulled straight from the pages of a story she hadn't finished reading.
Lucan still hadn't returned since he'd stormed out earlier.
Elira sighed, her breath fogging in the cold air.
She couldn't stay here. Not with Lucan watching her like a hawk. Not with the threat of death hanging over her like a prophecy-shaped noose.
She needed to escape.
That night, as the village slept beneath a blanket of mist, a soft knock tapped against the chapel's side door.
Elira froze.
The door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside—hooded, slender, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. It was the boy from the well. The one who'd mentioned the mural.
"I can help you," he whispered. "I know the path to the ridge. To the seer."
Elira's heart leapt. She hadn't expected anyone to offer help—especially not here, in a village that barely spoke to her.
"Why would you risk it?" she asked, voice low but urgent.
He glanced toward the chapel windows, searching for Lucan's silhouette. "Because you're not meant to die here. You are the Saintess."
"No, I'm not," Elira said firmly, slicing through his hope like a blade.
"But then why does the king—"
"Look," she interrupted, trying to explain, "he just mistook me for the Saintess. I'm not divine. I'm not chosen. I'm just… me."
The boy's expression didn't change. His eyes held doubt—stubborn, searching, quietly haunted.
A thought struck her.
"Here," she said, turning slightly and pulling her tangled hair aside to reveal the back of her neck. "I don't have the mark."
Lucan had mentioned it at the Silver Lake—something about a sacred mark that proved the Saintess's identity. She remembered his words, vague but pointed. A symbol etched by fate, impossible to fake.
If that mark was real, and if it mattered, then maybe this was proof.
Proof she didn't belong.
Proof she wasn't what they feared.
But Lucan… she still didn't know if he truly believed she was the Saintess or if he simply wanted her dead regardless.
"Please," she whispered. "Help me."
The boy didn't speak.
But he didn't argue either.
He simply watched her for a long moment, then nodded once.
They slipped out into the night, weaving through the village's back paths—past the forge, the well, the silent homes. The mist clung to their clothes, curling around their ankles like ghostly fingers.
Elira had shed the remnants of her old world and now wore the garb of a village woman—simple, coarse, and unassuming. A borrowed cloak hung over her shoulders, the hood pulled low to hide her face.
Elira's breath came fast, her heart pounding with hope and fear.
But they didn't get far.
A shadow dropped from the rooftop like a blade.
Lucan.
He landed between them, sword already drawn, eyes burning silver.
"You think I wouldn't notice?" he said, voice like cracking ice.
The boy stepped in front of Elira. "She's not your prisoner. She deserves to choose—"
Lucan didn't let him finish.
His blade flashed.
The boy collapsed, still breathing but barely conscious.
Elira stood frozen, shock coursing through her. The scene before her felt unreal—something she'd only ever seen on television. But now, the blood was real. The fear was real.
Lucan raised his sword again, ready to deliver the killing blow.
Elira snapped back to her senses. She screamed and dropped to her knees beside the boy.
"No—no, please! He was just trying to help!"
Lucan looked down at her, eyes burning. He stood over them, his sword dripping, his face unreadable.
"I warned you, didn't I?" he said coldly. "This world does not forgive weakness. Nor do I."
Elira looked up at him, tears streaking her face, horror twisting in her gut.
"You're a monster."
Lucan didn't flinch. "I'm a king...a ruthless king."
He reached down, grabbed the enchanted rope, and tied it back around her wrist.
"Now walk."
Elira staggered to her feet—numb, broken, and burning with rage.
She had seen the truth.
Lucan wasn't just a tyrant.
He was the prophecy's blade.
And if she didn't find a way to stop him—she would be next.