---Sarah---

  I sit in the plastic chair, the kind that squeaks when you shift your weight and leaves those little indent patterns on the back of your thighs. The fluorescent lights hum overhead—not loud, but persistent, like tinnitus you can't quite ignore. My phone's been dead in my pocket for the last hour, which is probably for the best. Can't obsessively check the time when there's no time to check.

  Medic Alnasl. That's what she called herself when she hustled me back here. Not Doctor Alnasl. Medic. Like she's military or something, though she doesn't move like any soldier I've ever seen. Too smooth. Too deliberate. Every gesture economical, nothing wasted.

  I shouldn't even be here. I mean, technically. I felt off this morning—that weird floaty feeling behind my eyes, a dull ache low in my belly that wasn't quite cramps but wasn't not cramps either. But it's not like I was dying. At least, I didn't think I was dying. I'm not pregnant, thank god. Already peed on that stick last week when my period was late. So, yeah. Probably just stress or something.

  But then an eight-and-a-half-foot man walked into Run Run Run Running Store. With no shoes. In the middle of -15 weather.

  I'm still processing that. Eight and a half feet. Not like "oh he's tall" tall. Like "is that a person or did someone stack two people in a trench coat" tall. Except it was definitely one person. One massive, barefoot person who sniffed at me. Actually sniffed. Like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent. His nostrils flared and everything.

  "Find Dr. Durge," he'd said. Not asked. Said. Voice like rocks tumbling down a mountain.

  "I don't know a Dr. Durge," I'd managed to squeak out, which was honestly impressive because my brain was screaming GIANT GIANT THERE'S A GIANT IN YOUR STORE.

  He'd tilted his head, sniffed again, then grunted. "Find medic."

  So I did. Because when an eight-and-a-half-foot man tells you to find a medic, you don't argue. You find a goddamn medic.

  Alnasl hadn't been surprised by my description. That was the weirdest part. I'd stammered through it—"really tall, barefoot, sniffing, looking for someone named Durge"—and she'd just muttered something that sounded like Arabic. Exasperated Arabic. The kind of tone my mom uses when I've done something predictable and annoying for the fifteenth time, just, again, in arabic.

  Then she'd grabbed my arm—gentle but firm, no room for argument—and marched me to the X-ray machine. Didn't explain. Didn't ask permission. Just positioned me, told me to hold still, and took the images.

  "Sit," she'd said, pointing at this chair. "Wait."

  That was an hour ago.

  The waiting room smells like antiseptic and instant coffee. There's a man three chairs down coughing into his elbow. A woman across from me scrolls through her phone with the brightness turned up so high I can see the reflection in her glasses. CNN or something. I can't quite make out the words.

  I cross my legs. Uncross them. The plastic squeaks.

  My mom told me something last night. About Grace. I'm pretty sure it's the same Grace who came into the store a few days ago now—green eyes, moves like a dancer or a gymnast, that weird quality where she's present but not taking up space. Graceness. Is that a word? It should be.

  Mom said Grace showed up at the library. Just appeared. They talked, and then Grace gave her something. Vigger? Vigor? I couldn't tell from Mom's pronunciation, and when I asked her to spell it she'd just shrugged, like the spelling didn't matter. Like it was more feeling than word.

  "She said it would help," Mom had told me. "It did. For 24 hours, it did."

  Mom's been tired lately. More than usual. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix, though she's been trying to keep it from me.

  I should ask Grace about it. If I ever see her again. If any of this makes sense.

  The door opens and I look up.

  Alnasl.

  She's five-three, maybe five-four in the flat-soled shoes she's wearing. Her head is shaved—not bald, shaved. I can see the shadow of stubble, dark against her brown skin. She moves like water, like someone who's trained in something. Martial arts maybe. Or dance. Her shoulders stay level when she walks, her hips barely shift, and her feet make almost no sound on the linoleum despite the squeaky floor.

  She's wearing scrubs, dark blue, and a white coat that's seen better days. There's a coffee stain near the left pocket. Her eyes are dark brown like her skin,—though almost black in this light—and there's something old in them. Not old like elderly. Old like ancient. Like she's seen things that would break most people and decided to keep going anyway.

  "Sarah Morrison," she says. Not a question.

  "Yeah." I stand up too fast and the chair scrapes. The coughing man glances over.

  Alnasl doesn't smile. Doesn't frown. Just nods once and turns. "Follow me."

  We walk down a hallway that smells more strongly of antiseptic. There's a poster about handwashing. Another about flu shots. A nurse passes us going the other way and nods at Alnasl, who doesn't acknowledge her.

  We stop at a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM B. Alnasl opens it, gestures for me to enter first.

  Conference rooms are never good. Conference rooms mean serious conversations. Bad news. I went to a conference room when my dad died when I was little and the hospital needed to "discuss arrangements."

  My stomach clenches.

  I walk in. It's small—a table that seats maybe six, gray carpet with those dark blue speckles that hide stains, a whiteboard on one wall with some half-erased notes about rotating schedules. There's a window but the blinds are closed.

  Alnasl closes the door. The click is very loud.

  We both sit. She folds her hands on the table. I notice her nails are trimmed short. No polish. Practical.

  "You have uterine cancer."

  The words are clipped. Not cruel. Just matter-of-fact. Like she's telling me the coffee's ready or it's going to rain later.

  I blink.

  I'm twenty-six years old. I don't—I haven't really thought about having kids. Not seriously. It's one of those someday-maybe things, you know? Like buying a house or learning to play guitar. Things you assume you'll have time for.

  But now the door's closing. Or closed. Or—

  "I don't understand," I hear myself say. "I just felt a little off today. I mean, I've been tired, but—"

  "Cancer does not wait for convenience," Alnasl says. There's no sympathy in her voice, but there's no judgment either. Just fact. "The symptoms are often mild until they are not."

  I'm going to throw up. No, I'm not. Yes, I am. No. I press my palms flat on the table. The surface is cool. Smooth. Probably laminate, not real wood. Focus on that. The texture. The temperature.

  "How long?" I ask.

  "If left untreated, metastasis will occur within a year. Death within two."

  Death within two. Death within two years. I'm going to die. I'm going to die before I'm thirty.

  "However," Alnasl continues, and I grab onto that word like a lifeline, "there are three options."

  She pauses. Lets me breathe. I realize I've been holding my breath and force myself to inhale. The air tastes like recycled air, like every conference room in every building everywhere.

  "Option one," Alnasl says. "Do nothing."

  I stare at her.

  "I do not recommend this option," she continues in that same even tone. "But it is an option, and I pride myself on giving all my patients choice. Full autonomy of information and decision. If you choose to do nothing, the cancer will spread as I described. Metastasis. Death. However, as I stated previously, it is an option that you may take."

  "Why would anyone choose that?" The words burst out before I can stop them.

  "Some people have their reasons. Religion. Fear. Fatigue. It is not my place to judge, only to pprovide options. Information. Skill."

  I swallow hard. "Okay. What's option two?"

  "Complete surgical removal of the uterus. It must be removed entirely, without chance of regrowth. Currently."

  Currently. What does currently mean? But she's still talking, so I file it away.

  "I will conduct the surgery myself. I can schedule you for next week. It will be on my own time, which is why the scheduling is flexible. I have never been particularly good at relaxing."

  Next week. Surgery next week. Uterus removed. No kids. Ever. But alive. Alive is good. Alive is—

  The door bangs open. I jump. Alnasl doesn't.

  A woman strides in. She's five-five with a compact, athletic build, pale skin visible under a heavy coat and short black hair framing a face with those high, sharp cheekbones that you see sometimes. She's wearing green scrubs under the coat and moves with that kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly where your body is in space at all times. Athletic. Strong. Her skin has this weird greenish undertone, like sunlight filtered through leaves. Her brown eyes are bright, intense, tracking everything.

  "Durge should be here for this," the woman says without preamble. "Protector asked for Durge specifically."

  Protector? Who the hell is Protector? Also is that a tytle or a name?

  Alnasl's expression doesn't change. "Durge, by his own admission, believed his presence would be counterproductive. Especially as Durge is a man, and this is not a conversation for men, Shaina."

  "Bullshit," Shaina says. "You just wanted to—"

  Movement in the doorway catches my eye.

  Another person. A man.

  No.

  Not a man.

  A wall. A mountain. A—

  He has to duck to get through the door. Duck and turn sideways. His shoulders are so broad they don't fit through the frame straight-on. He's wearing shorts—just shorts, no shirt—and he's covered in dark brown hair. Not just chest hair. Everywhere. Arms, shoulders, back, hands. Like a bear. A man bear.

  He's seven foot two. Nearly five feet across the shoulders. 3 feet thick. Heat radiates off him—actual, physical heat that I can feel from here, making the air shimmer slightly. Brown hair, brown eyes. The eyes are gentle, though. Soft. Doesn't match the rest of him.

  He's only the second-biggest man I've ever seen.

  The thought is absurd and hysterical and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Second-biggest. Because the barefoot sniffing giant from a few days ago is still in first place.

  "Perhaps," Alnasl is saying, and I drag my attention back to her, "if you would read what is sent to you via email, Shaina, you would have known that I took Sarah's case. Also, I was getting to option three."

  "Perhaps if you didn't wallow about—"

  Alnasl moves. Her hand blurs—actually blurs—as it whips out toward the side of Shaina's face.

  Shaina moves. She's fast, stepping back, hands coming up in a guard that's pure instinct, I can tell that much at least.

  The giant man moves. His massive frame shifts faster than anything that size should be able to move as his fingers—thick as my wrists, I'm not exaggerating, actually as thick as my wrists—spread wide as his hand shoots out. That hand could crush my skull like an egg.

  My shadow moves.

  My shadow moves!

  I'm sitting still but my shadow on the wall ripples, bulges, and then something steps out of it.

  A man. Five-ten, slender build. He's wearing dark clothes, everything black or deep charcoal gray. His skin is pale, almost colorless. His eyes—his eyes are pale blue, like frozen ice, completely lifeless. Like looking into them would show you nothing but your own death probability calculated and dismissed in the same instant.

  His fingers are long. Pianist's fingers. Surgeon's fingers. They wrap around Alnasl's wrist mid-strike and stop her hand inches from Shaina's face.

  The entire room freezes.

  "Apologize," the shadow-man says. His voice is quiet. Calm. The kind of calm that's more frightening than shouting. He's looking at Shaina. "You erred, daughter."

  Daughter?

  Shaina takes a long breath. Her shoulders drop half an inch. "I apologize, Alnasl. I guess I still have a problem with—"

  The giant raises one massive hand. "Recording devices." His voice is a low rumble, like rockslides, like ice melting and water moving beneath. Like the sound of spring thaw in the rivers up north. "Government listening."

  The shadow-man nods. "Cortana, please jam all recording devices not located inside people. Then find out why they are inside people and send me a coalated report so I can remove said devices from inside people and deal with those responsible." The way he says that last part makes me think said dealing will involve the shortswords at his hips. The ones with single blades that are dark with shead blood.

  There's a buzzing sound. Electric. Wrong. It makes my teeth ache.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. My dead phone. I pull it out.

  The screen shows a scrolling series of images. Feet. Human feet. With smiley faces. The smiley faces are eating the feet.

  What.

  The.

  Actual.

  Fuck!

  I stare at it. Press the power button. Nothing happens. Press and hold. Still nothing. The feet keep scrolling. The smiley faces keep eating them.

  I look up. The shadow man is nodding, satisfied.

  "Explain your presence here, Durge," Alnasl says to the shadow man, voice flat. Dead. She's looking at him with eyes that have no warmth, no light. Just dark water.

  Durge turns to the giant man. "You would not have won a fight with Alnasl."

  "I would not have harmed Worthy Stone," Alnasl says. "He protects. He brings warmth. I do not harm that."

  Worthy Stone.

  Worthy Stone?

  I know Worthy Stone. He comes into the store sometimes. He's tall, yeah—maybe six feet, six-one—with brown hair and brown eyes. Engineer, been in austrailia for the last 9 months or so according to Jason. Kind. He laughs easily and he always asks how I'm doing like he actually cares about the answer.

  He's not—he's not this. Not seven foot two of hair and muscle and hands that could snap me in half. He's never warn just shorts. Doesn't have what look like scarification that looks like stone fissures across his back, though it's hard to tell with all the hair.

  The giant raises one massive hand again. "I am Worthy," he rumbles. "Just not this Worthy. Different reality. You've got enough shit to worry about though, so I'll explain that clusterfuck when we leave."

  Different reality.

  Different reality. Like quantom physics.

  Magic exists, I think distantly. Magic exists or I'm having a psychotic break.

  "Magic," Alnasl says, like she can hear my thoughts. "The final option is magic. More specifically, to learn of it, and gain the ability, if you choose, to wield it."

  I sit there. My brain is trying to process. Trying to categorize. Trying to make this make sense. Failing. Failing. Really, really failing

  Durge stepped out of my shadow. My shadow. Worthy is Worthy but not Worthy. Not the Worthy from the store. There's another Worthy somewhere, from another reality, and he's the size of a small car and goes around in just shorts in -15 degree weather during a fucking snowstorm that's been going for the last 2 days.

  Grace has something called vigger. Vigor. Whatever. She gave it to my mom that made her feel better for exactly 24 hours.

  Shaina raises her hand. She's looking at me. Her expression is serious but not unkind.

  A fireball appears on her palm.

  Just appears. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like she's holding an orange or a baseball or—

  It's fire. Actual fire. I can see the flicker, the dance of orange and yellow and that deep red at the core. I can feel the heat from here, warm on my face.

  It's not burning her. It's just sitting there. Existing.

  "Primal magic," Shaina says. The fireball vanishes. Doesn't go out. Doesn't get snuffed. Just ceases to be. "You won't turn into Worthy, though. That's a male-only transformation." Before, now glanceing at the giant man: "Also, Worthy's mine."

  "After," the other-Worthy rumbles. His voice vibrates in my chest. He reaches out and pulls Shaina against him—against his bare, incredibly hairy chest—and she goes willingly, melting into him with a pleased hum that's almost a purr.

  Something flashes across Alnasl's face. Fast. There and gone. Pain? Regret? Loss? Something that makes her look briefly, terribly human.

  Then it's gone.

  "You have until next week," Alnasl says. She's not looking at me. She's looking at the table. "I will not contact you, though you may contact me if you wish, until then."

  She stands. Walks to the wall. Steps into a shadow cast by the fluorescent lights and doesn't come out the other side.

  Doesn't.

  Come.

  Out.

  I'm staring at an empty wall that used to have a woman, but the woman entered a shadow and now she's just, gone.

  "Do you know a big guy?" The words tumble out of my mouth. I'm looking at Durge. "Like, 8-and-a-half feet tall? Doesn't wear shoes?"

  "Yes," Durge says. His voice is still that quiet calm. "That is my brother. Sort of."

  Sort of.

  I don't ask. I can't. My brain is full. Overflowing. Like when you try to pour too much water into a glass and it just spills over the sides.

  "Come," Shaina says. She's disentangled from other-Worthy. "We'll walk you to your car, Sarah."

  ---

  We walk through the hospital. People pass us. Nurses. Doctors. Patients with IV poles. No one stares at other-Worthy. No one seems to notice that there's a seven-foot wall of hair and muscle walking down the hallway wearing nothing but shorts.

  How? How is no one staring?

  "Perception filter," Shaina says quietly. She's walking beside me. "Low-level illusion. They see what they expect to see."

  "What do they expect to see?" My voice sounds hoarse.

  "A tall guy. Maybe six-five, six-six. Normal clothes. Nothing remarkable."

  "That's..." I don't finish. Don't know how to finish.

  We push through the doors. The afternoon air hits my face, colder than inside. It's winter. February. Toronto winter. The kind of cold that bites. Minus ten, maybe minus fifteen Celsius. The air smells like car exhaust and lake water and too many people in too small a space, but underneath that is the sharp, clean scent of snow and ice from the on-going, though mild here, snowstorm? Blizard? That's been going for the last 2 days.

  I pull my coat tighter. My breath puffs white in front of my face.

  My car is in the lot. A Honda Civic, ten years old, with a dent in the passenger door from where I backed into a pole in 2019. It is not going to fit other-Worthy.

  That's a problem for future Sarah.

  Magic exists.

  I have cancer.

  My doctor is a vampire.

  The thought surfaces and I stop walking. Turn to Durge, who's drifted along behind us like smoke. "Wait. Alnasl is a what?"

  "Vampire," Durge says. "She requested I inform you after her departure. She finds the reveal less awkward when she is not present. Less wrisk of people concussing themselves against various walls that way."

  "Vampire."

  "Yes."

  "Like drinks blood vampire."

  "Yes."

  "Is she going to drink my blood?"

  "No. She feeds ethically. Volunteer donors. Blood bank connections. Alnasl is scrupulous about consent." He pauses. "She, furthermore, does not feed on patients. You are now her patient. As such, she will not feed on you."

  Right. Right. Ethical vampire surgeon. That's a thing now.

  "Grace is human, though," Shaina offers. She's pulling keys from her pocket. "Completely normal. Well. Normal-ish. She's got vigger, but she's human."

  Normal. Grace is normal. I'm the one with cancer and a phone full of smiley-face foot-eating images and shadows that birth people and a vampire doctor and...

  "I need help," I say. The words surprise me. But they're true. "I need—Grace needs help. Something. I don't even know what. I'm just—I'm completely and utterly normal."

  "Not for long," Shaina says. She doesn't sound smug. Just factual. "If you choose the third option. If you want it."

  Do I want it? Do I want magic? Do I want to be whatever they are—whatever lets you step out of shadows and throw fireballs and—

  I don't know.

  I don't know anything anymore.

  "See you at home," other-Worthy says. He picks Shaina up like she weighs nothing. She's five-five and athletic and he lifts her like a child. Kisses her. She melts against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, and then she grins—that's the only word for it, grins—and throws him.

  Throws him.

  Toward a tree.

  He's got to weigh, what, 600 pounds? 6-50? And she just hurls him through the air while he makes a high-pitched wheeing sound.

  He hits the tree.

  Doesn't hit. Falls into. His body touches the trunk and keeps going, like the tree is made of water, and then he's gone.

  Gone.

  I stand there. Staring. My mouth open. Been doing a lot of that today.

  Shaina walks around to the passenger side of my car, opens the door, slides in.

  I walk around to the driver's side. Unlock it. Get in. Put the key in the ignition. My hands are shaking.

  The engine starts. The radio comes on—CBC, someone talking about housing prices. I turn it off.

  "You have questions," Shaina says. "Ask them."

  I pull out of the parking spot. Navigate toward the exit. The cold bites at the windshield, frost forming at the edges despite the defroster running full blast. "Is this real?"

  "Yes." Shaina's smiling, warm, not mocking or smug.

  "Am I crazy?"

  "No."

  "Could I be crazy and just not know it?"

  "Technically possible, but unlikely. Also, you have the option to just forget all of this if you want. I wouldn't recommend that, but it is an option."

  Forget. She can make me forget. Magic can make me forget. What has magic made me forget?

  "How?" My voice cracks. "How would I forget?"

  "There are ways. Memory charms. Suppression. You'd go home, wake up tomorrow, remember you got a cancer diagnosis and scheduled surgery for next week with Dr. Alnasl. The rest would be... fuzzy. Dream-like. You'd dismiss it."

  "And Grace?"

  "Would still be Grace. You'd still help her at the store. You just wouldn't know about the magic."

  I turn onto University Avenue. Traffic is starting to build—almost rush hour. The streetcar rails gleam dully in the gray light. My breath still fogs despite the heat blasting from the vents.

  "What if I want to remember?" I ask.

  "Then you remember. And you decide. Next week. Surgery or magic or both."

  "Can I have both?"

  "Yes. The magic would heal you, but learning takes time. Months, maybe years, before you have enough control to direct healing. Surgery is faster. Safer. And Alnasl is very, very good."

  I brake for a red light. A cyclist passes on my right, jacket bright yellow against the gray, breath puffing white clouds.

  "The giant from a few days ago," I say. "Durge's brother. Sort of. What did he want?"

  "He was looking for Durge. Checking on someone. Protector—that's what we call him—is protective. It's his nature."

  "And he could smell that I was sick?"

  "Yes. His senses are... enhanced."

  The light changes. I accelerate.

  "Why me?" The question bursts out. "Why do I get to know about this? Why am I... why?"

  Shaina is quiet for a moment. I glance over. She's looking out the window, watching the city slide past.

  "Because you're part of it now," she finally says. "Because Grace claimed you, in a way. Not possessively. But she sees you. And when Grace sees someone, they tend to get pulled into the current." Before. "Also, because, like a man said once, 'if we don't, then who?' Not quite the direct wording, but close enough. We have the ability to help, so we do."

  "Grace gave my mom vigger."

  "Yes."

  "What is vigger? Actually?"

  "Life energy. Life force. It's what powers magic, sort of. Grace has a lot of it. More than most. And she shares it freely, which is dangerous and beautiful and very Grace, even if Grace herself doesn't know that yet."

  I turn onto College. The university campus spreads out to my left, all Gothic revival architecture and too many undergrads.

  "Does it hurt?" I ask. "Magic. Does it hurt?"

  "Sometimes. Learning hurts. Growth hurts. Using it can hurt if you push too hard. But existing hurts too, doesn't it? At least this way the hurt has purpose."

  I think about that. About the ache in my belly. About the cancer eating away inside me. About the next two years, dying slowly, or the surgery, or—

  Or magic.

  "What's primal magic?" I ask.

  And Shaina starts explaining.

  She talks about primal magic—the connection to nature, to the earth itself. How it's different from elemental magic, which is fire, water, earth, air. The fundamental forces. How some people have affinity, can call it and shape it. How primal magic is about deep communion with natural systems while elemental magic is more direct manipulation.

  She talks about shadow magic, like Durge uses. Stepping through shadows, hiding in darkness, weapons made of solidified dark.

  She talks about blood magic, which is, well, blood, and Alnasl can wield it, and would, probably, teach me if I asked.

  She talks about demonic magic. How it's powerful but will almost certainly put me at odds with people like Shaina specifically unless I take option three—the surgery first, then magic. How it requires contracts and bindings and pieces of your soul.

  She talks about angelic magic. How it's its own issue. How if I take that path I'll almost certainly become a wardkeeper—sniper with an angelic jetpack powered by faith who headshots people. How I'd probably end up fucking a templar, which are weaponmaster angels who were once men. Her tone suggests this is both inevitable and vaguely embarrassing.

  She talks about archonomancy. Science magic. Magic that follows rules and can be studied and replicated. How it's growing more popular as people try to understand the mechanics.

  She talks about how magic does make you immortal, but you have to get to tier three for that, and that takes decades normally unless you have a teacher. How magic is resurgent now, coming back into the world stronger than it's been in centuries.

  She talks about necromancy. How it specifically requires you to have died. How Traveler is a necromancer, a rather powerful one, and how Cortana is actually Traveler's AI daughter that helps him sometimes. How that's not something she'd recommend as a path.

  I ask questions. So many questions.

  How do you learn? (Teachers. Books. Practice. Trial and error and sometimes terror.)

  Can anyone learn? (Most people. Some have more talent in some magic depending on them. Some have specific affinities too, though that's generally to do with nurture and who you are as a person. But almost anyone can learn the basics.)

  What about science? (Magic is science. Different rules, same rigor. Physics still applies, just more physics than humans usually know.)

  Are there dragons? (Yes, but they don't live in Toronto. Zoning issues.)

  She laughs at that. It's a good laugh, warm and genuine.

  Do people die? (Yes. Magic doesn't make you immortal until tier three, and that takes decades. Well, usually. Vampires are complicated.)

  What happened to my phone?

  The phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out while keeping my eyes on the road.

  The screen is normal. No feet. No smiley faces. Just my lock screen.

  And a message: "Sorry about your phone, I recharged it. Also, the book you're reading is shit."

  Below that, a list of books. All porn. Because I was reading porn. Trashy romance with explicit scenes that I definitely didn't want anyone to know about.

  Another message pops up with a smiley face. This one's not eating feet. Just grinning.

  "Cortana has opinions," Shaina says dryly. "And no sense of privacy boundaries."

  Can I fix my phone? is apparently not the right question. The phone fixed itself.

  I'm pulling into the lot behind Run Run Run Running Store when I realize I've been driving on autopilot for the last twenty minutes. My body knew where to go even while my brain was drowning in impossible information.

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  I park. Turn off the engine. Sit there, hands on the wheel.

  The cold seeps in immediately. The heater's off and Toronto winter doesn't wait. My breath starts fogging again within seconds.

  "Sarah," Shaina says quietly. "Breathe."

  I breathe.

  In through the nose. The air smells like parking lot—asphalt and exhaust and the dumpster that needs emptying. Cold. Sharp. Real.

  Out through the mouth.

  "You don't have to decide now," Shaina says. "You have a week. Think about it. Feel it. See what resonates."

  "What would you do?" I ask. "If you were me?"

  Shaina is quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'd choose magic. But I'm not you. I'm someone who was already drowning and magic was the life raft. You're not drowning. Not yet. You have options. Real options. Surgery with Alnasl—you'd live. You'd be fine. You'd have a normal life."

  "But?"

  "But you'd always know. That there's more. That there's this whole other world spinning alongside yours. And you'd wonder. What if. What could I have been."

  I close my eyes. Behind my lids I see fireballs and shadows and men stepping through trees like water.

  I see my mom, tired, getting energy from something Grace gave her.

  I see Grace herself, green eyes and economical movement, that quality of presence. Jason, who she healed and looks at her like she's the best thing that ever happened to him, and Grace looking at him like he's solved a problem that she didn't realize she had till he showed up.

  I see Alnasl's face when she looked at other-Worthy and Shaina together. That flash of pain.

  I see my future. Two years dying. Or surgery and life. Or magic and—

  And what?

  I don't know.

  That's the terrifying part.

  I don't know.

  "Thank you," I say, opening my eyes. "For answering. All of it."

  "Any time." Shaina opens her door. Pauses. "Sarah? Grace is lucky to have you. Whatever you decide."

  She gets out. Closes the door. Walks toward the street and then just—steps into a shadow between two buildings and vanishes.

  I sit in my car in the parking lot behind Run Run Run Running Store, my phone full of Cortana's porn recommendations, my body full of cancer, my head full of magic.

  And I don't know what to do.

  But I have a week to figure it out.

  I take one more breath—deep, grounding, the cold air burning my lungs—and get out of the car.

  The store awaits. Customers await. Normal life awaits.

  For now.

  For one more week.

  I lock the car and head inside, the bell chiming as I push through the door, and try to remember what normal used to feel like.

  ---Jason---

  # Whispers in the Dark

  I wake to the sound of hushed voices, my consciousness surfacing slowly like a diver returning from the deep. The flickering firelight paints dancing shadows on the cabin's rough-hewn ceiling. For a moment, I forget where I am—the unfamiliar wooden beams, the scent of pine and woodsmoke, the distant howl of wind. Then it all rushes back: the lake, the freezing water, Grace pulling me to safety, and the bizarre appearance of people rising through solid floorboards.

  "You don't understand," a voice whispers urgently. Female. The one with the scarred face—Eshen. "The Hollow Protocol is explicitly clear on this. We observe and report. We don't intervene unless a child is in immediate danger."

  "And when has that ever stopped you?" Another voice, deeper. Rolf. "Fifth Corpse has the highest protocol deviation rate of any division except Nineteenth."

  "That's different. That's—"

  I shift slightly, the ancient platform beneath me creaking in protest. The conversation stops abruptly. I open my eyes fully, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep, and find three sets of eyes watching me with varying degrees of interest.

  Grace sits cross-legged on the floor near my makeshift bed, her posture perfect as always, back straight as a ruler. Even in the dim light, I can see the alertness in her eyes—that predatory focus that never quite leaves her. She's watching me with an intensity that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. Nearby, Eshen and Rolf perch on stools that I swear weren't in the cabin before.

  "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," Rolf says with a crooked smile. "Or should I say afternoon? Hard to tell with this storm."

  I push myself to a sitting position with a grunt, running a hand through my hair. It stands up in all directions, I'm sure—my bedhead is legendary even under normal circumstances. "How long was I out?"

  "Four hours, seventeen minutes," Grace answers promptly. Of course she knows to the minute. "Your sleep patterns normalized approximately two hours ago, indicating successful recovery from hypothermia."

  I take stock of my body, surprised to find no lingering chill, no ache in my muscles beyond the usual stiffness from sleeping on a hard surface. "I feel... good. Better than I should."

  "Fifth Corpse broth," Eshen says with a hint of pride. "Ancient recipe. Accelerates healing, restores vigor, tastes slightly better than dirt."

  "It wasn't that bad," I protest, though in truth I barely remember drinking it, too focused on not, you know, dying.

  "Where's your other friend?" I ask, noticing the absence of the third floor-person. "The one with the burn scars."

  An uncomfortable silence falls. Rolf and Eshen exchange a look laden with meaning I can't decipher.

  "Merek is... indisposed," Rolf says carefully.

  "The Spooks took them," Grace adds, her tone matter-of-fact. "Twentieth Corpse. They emerged through a tear in reality and extracted Merek for 'narrative containment.' He was about to reveal restricted information."

  I blink, processing this new bizarre development. "I... have so many questions."

  "Most of which we can't answer," Eshen says with a grimace. "Unless you want the Spooks to come back for seconds."

  My stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, reminding me that near-death experiences build an appetite. Grace immediately reaches for her pack, retrieving a foil-wrapped package.

  "Protein bars," she says, handing me one. "Not optimal nutrition but sufficient for energy restoration."

  I unwrap the bar—some kind of nut and seed concoction—and take a bite. It's dense and not particularly flavorful, but filling. Grace watches me eat with that focused attention she brings to everything, as if my chewing technique might contain vital tactical information. Hell, considering this is Grace, maybee it does? A question to ask her, but later.

  "So," I say between bites, "are we just going to ignore the elephant in the room? Or rather, the interdimensional death children who can walk through solid matter?"

  Rolf snorts with unexpected laughter. "I like this one, Grace. He's direct. You should keep him."

  "Jason often employs humor as a coping mechanism when processing unfamiliar information," Grace explains seriously. "It's tactically inefficient but seems to serve a psychological purpose." Before. "I have come to find it, comforting."

  "Says the woman who introduced herself as a psychopath within five minutes of meeting me," I counter, unable to resist teasing her a little.

  "That was tactically relevant information," she replies, but I catch the slight softening around her eyes that I've come to recognize as her version of amusement. "You deserved to know who, and what, you had brought into you're home."

  "Look," Eshen interrupts, leaning forward. "We can't explain everything, but we can tell you why we're here. This cabin is an observation post. Fifth Corpse monitors areas where children might be at risk and intervenes when necessary."

  "Children?" I glance around the empty cabin. "There aren't any children here."

  "Not now," Rolf clarifies. "This area has seen... incidents in the past. Hunting 'accidents' that weren't accidents. Missing teenagers. We maintain a presence, observe patterns, ensure it doesn't happen again."

  "You protect children," I say, understanding dawning. "That's your purpose."

  "Give the man a prize," Eshen says, but there's no real mockery in her tone. "That's what all Deathborn do, in our various ways. Fifth Corpse specializes in observation and intelligence gathering. We're the eyes and ears. Scouts, a bit like you're ranger Grace there."

  I finish the protein bar, crumpling the wrapper as I try to wrap my head around all this. Outside, the storm continues to howl, snow piling higher against the cabin windows. We're effectively trapped here until it passes—might as well try to make sense of our strange companions.

  "And the marble... thing I saw before falling into the lake?" I ask.

  Grace's attention sharpens even further. "The Legion," she says. "You mentioned it was watching over us."

  Rolf sighs, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "We're really dancing on the edge of Spook territory here, but yes. The Marble Legion observes and occasionally protects certain... individuals of interest across multiple realities."

  "Like us?" I ask skeptically. "Why would interdimensional marble statues care about me falling into a lake?"

  Eshen's expression grows complex. "Let's just say there are... patterns the Legion is tasked with preserving. You two represent one such pattern."

  My eyes meet Grace's, and something unspoken passes between us. There's more here than they're telling us, but I sense pushing further might bring back those "Spooks" Merek encountered, and I don't want to get yeeted, thankyou very much.

  "So we're stuck in this cabin until the storm passes, with interdimensional death children for company," I summarize. "Fantastic. What do we do now?"

  A thought strikes me suddenly—an opportunity born from necessity. I turn to Grace, feeling a new determination rising within me. Or, you know, maybee I just need to beltch since I just ate. Or piss. Speaking of, how the fuck would I even do that?

  "Grace, I need you to teach me to fight."

  She blinks, one of the few times I've seen her genuinely surprised. "Explain."

  "November is coming," I say, the words carrying more weight than they would have mere weeks ago. "The systems apocalypse. Monsters. New rules. I can't just be the guy who makes suggestions or runs spreadsheets. I need to be able to defend myself—and others."

  I glance at our strange companions before returning my gaze to Grace. "If there are beings like the Legion and the... Deathborn out there, I need more than basic vigger control. I need to know how to fight. Which, currently, I don't."

  Grace studies me with that intense focus, her green eyes calculating, assessing. I can almost see the tactical equations running behind them.

  "Your physical condition has improved significantly since beginning vigger training," she acknowledges. "And combat capabilities would increase your survival probability during system transition events."

  I wait, knowing there's more coming.

  "However," she continues, "combat training typically requires extensive preparation and controlled environments. This cabin offers limited space and no proper equipment."

  "We're literally trapped here for at least another day," I counter. "What better time to start? We have no distractions, plenty of time, and—" I gesture to Rolf and Eshen "—apparently experienced fighters who might have insights to offer."

  Grace considers this, her head tilting slightly in that way she has when processing new information. Finally, she nods once, decisively.

  "Basic defensive techniques would be tactically advantageous," she concedes. "We will begin with fundamental positioning and evasion."

  Rolf and Eshen exchange glances again, some silent communication passing between them.

  "We'll, uh, give you some space," Rolf offers, already moving toward a corner of the cabin.

  "No need," Grace says, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. "Observation may provide additional tactical perspectives."

  She begins rearranging the cabin's sparse furniture, creating a small open area near the fire. The light dances across her face as she works, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw. Not for the first time, I'm struck by her strange, predatory beauty—like a wolf or a falcon or a large cat, magnificent precisely because of its dangerous capability.

  "Stand here," she instructs, pointing to the center of the cleared space.

  I obey, feeling suddenly self-conscious under the watchful eyes of our unusual audience. Grace circles me slowly, her gaze analytical, assessing.

  "Combat effectiveness begins with proper stance," she explains, her voice shifting into what I've come to think of as her "ranger instructor" tone. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight centered."

  She demonstrates, her body flowing into the position with practiced ease. I try to mimic her, feeling awkward and uncoordinated and like a particularly punch-drunk duck in comparison. Also. Punch-drunk duck. I like that word.

  "No," she says immediately. "Your weight distribution is incorrect. You're leaning forward, compromising stability."

  She moves behind me, her hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders. The touch sends warmth through me despite its clinical nature.

  "Feel the ground through your feet," she instructs, her voice close to my ear. "Imagine roots extending downward, anchoring you. Your center of gravity should be here—" her hand moves to my lower abdomen, the touch brief but precise, "—not in your chest or head."

  I focus on the sensation, trying to shift my weight as directed. There's a subtle difference, a feeling of greater stability when I get it right. Then again, punch-drunk duck.

  "Better," Grace acknowledges. "Before we continue with standard combat training, I believe we should integrate blindfighting techniques," Grace's tone is more thoughtful, now.

  I blink in surprise. "Blindfighting? Like fighting while blind?"

  "Affirmative. You spent twenty-eight years developing non-visual sensory acuity that would be tactically advantageous to maintain and enhance." Her head tilts slightly. "Additionally, in combat situations, visibility can be compromised. Smoke, darkness, temporary flash blindness—all potential scenarios where your previous adaptations would provide significant advantages."

  "Huh." I consider this, oddly touched that she sees my lifetime of being blind as an asset rather than a limitation. "That... actually makes a lot of sense."

  "Of course it does," Eshen pipes up from her corner, swinging her legs like the child she keeps saying she is but also isn't? That's still, I'm still getting used to dead children. "You already know how to navigate without sight. Why throw away perfectly good skills?"

  Grace nods, then removes a strip of cloth from her pack. "We will alternate between sighted and blindfolded training. First, I will demonstrate the fundamental principle of the unbroken circle."

  She moves to stand before me, her stance perfectly balanced. "Combat is not about strength but about balance—both maintaining your own and disrupting your opponent's. In ranger training, we begin with the concept of the unbroken circle. Your body creates a boundary that must remain intact while you work to break your opponent's."

  Without warning, she steps forward and places her palm flat against my chest, applying gentle but firm pressure. Despite my attempt to maintain position, I find myself stepping backward to avoid falling.

  "Your circle is broken," she observes. "You yielded to direct pressure rather than redirecting it."

  "I didn't want to fall over," I protest.

  "Exactly. Self-preservation is natural, but tactically limiting. Now, try this instead." She resumes her starting position. "When I push, don't resist directly or yield completely. Instead, turn slightly—"

  She demonstrates with her own body, showing how a simple quarter turn can transform direct pressure into a glancing force.

  We try again. And again. And again. Each time, I find myself either resisting too strongly or yielding completely. The frustration builds as I fail to grasp what should be a simple concept.

  "I don't get it," I finally admit, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I'm fighting myself here. For twenty-eight years, if something was coming at me that I couldn't see, I had to stop it directly or it would hit me before I could react. There was no time for redirection, and even if I could, it would just hit me later, so back to the same problem.

  Grace pauses, considering me with that intense focus she brings to everything. "Your observation is tactically sound," she acknowledges. "Your previous survival adaptations are interfering with new pattern formation." She thinks for a moment, then nods decisively. "We will approach this differently."

  She puts the blindfold over my eyes, tying it securely. The nothing is immediately familiar—my home for most of my life. Strangely, I feel my body relax slightly, old patterns reasserting themselves. I consider turning back on my sight. Don't.

  "Now," Grace says, her voice somehow clearer without visual distractions, "feel the air currents. When I move toward you, the air will shift before contact is made."

  She's right. Without focusing on my still new sight, my other senses, I can detect subtle changes in the air around me—the slight pressure wave that precedes her approach, the whisper of fabric as she moves.

  "Now, turn into the pressure, not away from it," she instructs.

  When she pushes this time, I sense it coming a fraction earlier than before. Instead of bracing or stepping back, I pivot slightly, allowing her hand to slide past me rather than connect fully. The force dissipates, and I remain stable. Then I almost fall because of a knot on the floor.

  "Yes," Grace says, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Perfect execution." As she says this, her hand grips my shirt, steadying me before letting go.

  The blindfold transforms my experience. What was frustrating becomes almost intuitive. We continue practicing, my body finding the patterns more naturally without visual input. Also, it helps that I know it's Grace, and Grace wouldn't do anything without a good reason. I also trust her, which. That's a different thing. After twenty minutes, Grace removes the blindfold, and we try again with sight restored.

  "The principle applies to all combat encounters," she continues. "Direct opposition requires greater strength. Redirection requires only proper positioning and timing."

  This time, I find I can integrate the lesson even with my vision, though it takes conscious effort to override my initial instincts that I developt without it.

  "Your adaptability is impressive," Grace notes after I successfully redirect a more forceful push. "Most beginners instinctively attempt to match force with force."

  "I spent twenty-eight years navigating a world I couldn't see," I remind her, surprised by the lack of bitterness in my own voice. "I'm pretty good at adapting. Also, I did try force with force, remember?"

  A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Yes. You are, and yes, you did. However, you do not do so anymore, which is the point. I did. I do not. You did. You do not."

  She steps back, reassessing. "Next, we will address basic defensive movements. The primary objective in any combat situation is to avoid injury. Effective evasion is more valuable than any offensive capability. If you win an encounter but are injured, you have lost. Injury is death. Remember this."

  "Ranger wisdom at its finest," Eshen comments from her corner. "Fifth Corpse has a similar philosophy—can't gather intelligence if you're dead."

  Grace acknowledges this with a nod before returning her attention to me. "There are five primary attack vectors an opponent might use—high center, low center, left, right, and rear. Each requires a specific evasive response."

  She demonstrates each potential attack in slow motion, then shows the corresponding defensive movement. There's a mathematical precision to her instruction, breaking down complex movements into their component parts, then reassembling them into fluid sequences.

  "Now we will practice," she says. "I will simulate attacks at quarter speed. You will execute the appropriate defense."

  What follows is both exhausting and exhilarating. Grace moves with controlled precision, her strikes slowed down but still carrying an intimidating intensity. I fumble through the first several attempts, my responses too slow or imprecise.

  "Your mind is overanalyzing," Grace observes. "Combat happens faster than conscious thought. You must train your body to respond without deliberation."

  She repositions me, her touches brief and clinical as she adjusts my stance. "We will begin with the five foundational evasions. First position—high center attack."

  She demonstrates an overhead strike, moving with deliberate slowness. "The proper response is lateral displacement combined with downward redirection."

  She shows me how to step diagonally forward while bringing my forearms up in a V-shape, catching the imaginary strike and guiding it past my shoulder.

  "Second position—low center attack." She mimes a straight punch toward my solar plexus. "Triangular deflection with weight transfer."

  This time, I need to bring my hands down in a triangular formation, deflecting the blow downward while shifting my weight to the opposite foot.

  "Third position—left side attack." A horizontal strike toward my left flank. "Cross-body interception with rotational evasion."

  She demonstrates how my right arm should cross my body to meet the blow while my torso rotates counterclockwise, allowing the force to slide past me.

  "Fourth position—right side attack." The mirror image of the previous strike. "Same principle, reversed mechanics."

  For this, my left arm crosses to intercept while my body rotates clockwise.

  "Fifth position—rear attack. Most dangerous due to limited sensory input." She moves behind me. "Forward displacement with immediate counter-positioning."

  This requires a quick step forward while pivoting 180 degrees to face the threat, hands already in a defensive position.

  We practice each position individually, Grace throwing controlled strikes from each angle while I attempt the proper response. The movements feel awkward, my body struggling to match the precision I see in Grace's demonstrations. Once again, punch-drunk duck.

  "Observe how each response contains three essential elements," Grace explains between repetitions. "Displacement of body mass, redirection of incoming force, and positional advantage for counter-offensive. These principles remain constant regardless of attack vector."

  After drilling each position separately, Grace begins throwing random combinations, calling out the position number as she strikes.

  "Two!" A low center attack that I barely deflect.

  "Four!" A right side strike that clips my shoulder as I rotate too slowly.

  "One!" A high attack that I manage to evade properly, earning a nod of approval.

  "Easy for you to say," I pant, wiping sweat from my forehead after a particularly fast sequence. "You've been doing this your whole life."

  "Correct," she acknowledges without a hint of arrogance. "But every ranger begins as a novice. Improvement comes through repetition and application."

  She introduces new variables, changing the speed and intensity of her attacks, sometimes pausing mid-strike to correct my positioning.

  "Your elbow must remain closer to your center line," she instructs, adjusting my arm position during a third position defense. "Extended limbs create vulnerability points."

  She demonstrates proper limb placement—arms never fully extended, elbows kept near the torso when possible, hands positioned to protect vital areas.

  "Combat effectiveness is dependent on energy conservation," she continues, repositioning my stance yet again. "Each movement should serve multiple purposes simultaneously. Defense becomes offensive positioning. Retreat becomes tactical advantage."

  We continue the drills, and gradually—frustratingly slowly—I begin to improve. My responses become more fluid, less hesitant. The movements start to make a kind of physical sense, like my body is learning a new language.

  "Now we will integrate offensive counterstrikes," Grace announces after I successfully evade a complicated sequence. "Each defensive position creates natural opportunities for counterattack."

  She demonstrates how each of the five defensive positions naturally flows into a corresponding strike:

  "From first position—overhead deflection transitions to throat strike." She shows how the arms, after deflecting downward, can reverse direction in an upward strike toward an opponent's throat.

  "From second position—low defense creates opening for a solar plexus strike." The triangular hand formation that deflected the low attack can thrust forward into the attacker's midsection.

  "From third and fourth positions—rotational momentum generates power for horizontal strikes." The body rotation used to evade side attacks naturally loads potential energy for powerful counter-blows.

  "From fifth position—full pivot provides maximum force generation for straight strike." The 180-degree turn places the entire body's weight behind a potential counter.

  "Each counterstrike must flow from defensive movement," Grace emphasizes. "Separation creates delay. Delay creates vulnerability."

  She guides me through slow-motion sequences—defend, counter, reset. Defend, counter, reset. The movements gradually becoming more connected, less staccato.

  "Incorporate vigger circulation," Grace instructs after we've been at it for nearly an hour. "Direct energy to enhance reaction time and sensory awareness."

  I focus inward, finding the now-familiar pathways of energy that Grace has taught me to recognize. With conscious effort, I direct the vigger toward my limbs, feeling the subtle enhancement as the energy flows.

  The difference is immediate. My reactions sharpen, movements becoming more precise. When Grace throws her next controlled strike, I slip past it with unexpected smoothness, my body responding almost before my mind registers the attack.

  "Good," Grace says, and the simple approval sends a ridiculous surge of pride through me. "Your vigger control is improving significantly."

  She increases the complexity, now incorporating unpredictable combinations of attacks. The vigger helps me track her movements, sensing the subtle shifts in air pressure and the minute tensions in her body that telegraph her intentions.

  "Combat is conversation," Grace explains as we move through increasingly complex exchanges. "Every action invites response. Every response creates opportunity. Listen with your body, not your mind."

  We begin to flow—attack, defend, counter, reset—in patterns that gradually become less rehearsed and more intuitive. Grace never strikes with full force, but I can feel the controlled power behind each movement, the precision with which she could land a devastating blow if she chose to.

  "In real combat," she cautions during a brief pause, "an opponent will not telegraph intentions or control impact force. Your margin for error will be non-existent. This is why foundational movements must become reflexive."

  "You're a natural," Rolf comments, watching with evident interest. "Most people take months to integrate energy work with physical responses."

  "He has exceptional adaptability," Grace states matter-of-factly. "And significant untapped potential."

  Eshen has been watching our training with unusual intensity, her small form perched on a stool that's too tall for her. During a brief pause, she hops down and approaches me directly.

  "I'm going to give you headpats now," she announces with the solemn gravity of a judge delivering a verdict.

  I blink, thrown by the abrupt declaration. "You're... what?"

  "Headpats," she repeats, as if I might not have heard properly. "I'm going to pat your head. You'll enjoy it."

  Grace shifts slightly, her attention sharpening with what might be concern.

  "Um, may I ask why?" I manage.

  Eshen's expression doesn't change, those unsettling dead eyes studying me with clinical detachment. "Because you want to give me headpats. You think I'm adorable, apart from my eyes." She states this as simple fact, not accusation.

  Heat rushes to my face. It's true—despite the unnerving emptiness of her eyes, there is something undeniably childlike about Eshen that triggers a protective instinct. The impulse to ruffle her hair had crossed my mind, though I'd never have admitted it aloud.

  "I, uh—that's—" I stammer, mortified and wondering if I should just hide behind Grace.

  "You're not incorrect," Eshen says with a shrug. "I do look adorable. It's tactically advantageous. Makes people underestimate me." Without further preamble, she reaches up and pats my head with surprising gentleness, her small hand ruffling my hair in a gesture that feels surreally normal amid all the strangeness.

  "There," she says, stepping back. "Reciprocity established. We can continue now."

  I stand frozen, caught between embarrassment and a bizarre urge to laugh. Grace watches the interaction with that absolute focus she brings to everything, as if filing away Eshen's behavior for future tactical assessments. Maybee she is.

  We continue training, moving from pure defensive techniques to simple counterstrikes—how to create openings, when to exploit them, how to maintain balance while transitioning from defense to offense. Throughout it all, Grace maintains that perfect balance of challenge and instruction, pushing me just to the edge of my capabilities without quite crossing into frustration.

  After what must be two hours, though it feels both longer and shorter somehow, Grace calls a halt. "Sufficient for initial session," she declares. "Further training without adequate recovery risks improper pattern formation."

  I collapse onto a nearby stool, muscles trembling with exertion, sweat plastering my shirt to my skin despite the cabin's chill. I've never felt so completely drained yet strangely invigorated. Something fundamental has shifted—not just in my body but in my understanding of what I might be capable of. Still am probably a punch-drunk duck, though. Happy duck, but still. Duck.

  "You did well," Grace says, handing me a water bottle from her pack. "Your progress exceeds baseline expectations for initial combat instruction."

  Coming from Grace, this is practically effusive praise. I gulp the water gratefully, watching as she moves to check the cabin windows, assessing the storm's progress with that tactical attention she brings to everything.

  "The storm intensified through the night," she reports. "Snow accumulation now exceeds 80 centimeters with continued heavy precipitation. Wind patterns suggest blizzard conditions will persist for approximately twelve more hours."

  "So we're still stuck," I translate, recapping the water bottle. "Perfect time for more training, once I can feel my arms again."

  "Adequate rest periods are necessary for skill integration," Grace reminds me. "We will resume in two hours."

  The cabin door bursts open with sudden violence, snow swirling in like angry ghosts.

  Except there is no movement at the door.

  I whirl around, confused, only to see the shadows near the chimney warping and stretching in impossible ways. The darkness itself seems to coalesce, thickening into solid forms.

  Two figures emerge from these chimney shadows—though "emerge" feels too gentle a word for their manifestation. They don't simply appear; they extract themselves from darkness, commanding the space with a presence that seems to compress the air in the room. As in, they pull themselves out of the shadows and seem to take up space.

  The first is a man standing nearly seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe. Unlike the big guy from run run running store, with his casual demeanor, this man radiates calculated violence. His eyes sweep the cabin with cold precision, cataloging threats and escape routes in seconds.

  Beside him stands a girl who can't be older than thirteen, but something about her eyes negates all childish impressions. They're unnaturally cold, black pools that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. Her slight frame and short dark hair should make her appear vulnerable, but instead, she projects a predatory stillness that turns my blood to ice.

  Grace moves instantly, placing herself between me and the newcomers, knife already in hand. Her reaction time is astonishing, but something tells me these visitors are still faster.

  "At ease, Ranger," the tall man says, his voice surprisingly gentle for his intimidating presence. "We're not here for you."

  The small girl's gaze fixes on Eshen and Rolf, who have gone utterly still. "You took our names," she says, her voice soft yet somehow sharper than Grace's blade. "Time to return them."

  Eshen and Rolf, who might not actually be Eshen and Rolfexchange glances, tension evident in their postures.

  "Something's changed," Grace observes, her knife still ready. "Explain."

  "They're not who they claimed to be," the tall newcomer says, his eyes never leaving our companions. "They're Fifth Corpse deserters. Runners who took names that weren't theirs."

  The child-like girl steps forward, and despite her small stature, Eshen and Rolf, who aren't Eshen and Rolf take an instinctive step back. "I am Eshen of the First Corpse, Hollow division," she states with deadly precision. "The one who wears my name is an imposter." Before. "I did, however, just give you headpats, Jason. I was scouting."

  The tall man nods. "And I'm Rolf of the Twelfth Corpse, Slaughterhound division. We've come to reclaim what's ours."

  I look between the two sets of people sharing names, trying to process this bizarre development and, I'll not think about the girl with empty eyes giveing me headpats before she showed up. "I... don't understand."

  —Not-Eshen—sighs dramatically. "Fine. Yes. We ran before final processing. We're still Fifth Corpse, but... incomplete."

  "Incomplete how?" Grace asks, her knife still ready.

  "The height alteration surgery," not-Rolf explains with a grimace. "It's standard procedure for all Deathborn. Each corpse has specific physical parameters. First Corpse are all between 5 feet and 5'3". Twelfth are all between 6'8" and 7 feet."

  "It's not that we objected to the surgery itself," not-Eshen adds hastily. "Physical alteration is totally normal. Everyday procedure. But the height changer..."

  "It was wet," not-Rolf says with visible disgust. "And smelly. Like, really smelly."

  "You deserted because the equipment was... Smelly?" I ask, not sure what to do with this information.

  "You would too if you'd smelled it," not-Eshen insists. "It was like a combination of wet dog and expired yogurt."

  The real Eshen—the small, terrifying girl with dead eyes who emerged from the shadows—steps closer. "Your desertion embarrassed us. Worse, your use of our names compromised operational security."

  "So now we're here to collect," the real Rolf adds, his massive hand starting to shift and twist as claws punch through his fingertips with painful claw-noises. "The names. And you."

  The imposters exchange another glance, their expressions resigned.

  "Fine," not-Rolf says finally. "We surrender our borrowed identities."

  "My actual name is Tanner," he admits. "I was born in 1987, died in 2001 from neglect."

  "And I'm Melissa," the female imposter says. "1992 to 2005, parental abuse. We meant no disrespect. The Fifth needed presence here, but no one would volunteer after the string of disappearances."

  The real Eshen's expression doesn't change, but something in her posture relaxes marginally. "Your intentions are noted. Return to Fifth Corpse headquarters for proper processing. Someone will take your statements."

  "And the height changer has been replaced," real Rolf adds with the barest hint of amusement. "New model. Completely dry. Smells like lavender and hugs now."

  Relief washes over Tanner and Melissa's faces. "We'll go," Tanner says, nodding respectfully to Grace and me. "Sorry for the deception. The Fifth really does just observe and report—we don't take aggressive action."

  "What about Merek?" I ask. "Your friend the Spooks took?"

  Melissa's expression darkens. "Fifth Corpse too. Real name Tyler. He'll be dead by now. Twentieth doesn't tolerate information breaches."

  The casual way she mentions their colleague's probable death sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with my recent hypothermia.

  "Our business here is solely to reclaim our names and collect the deserters," the real Eshen says, her dead eyes fixing on Grace. "We have no interest in you or your companion beyond that."

  "You're not part of our operation," the real Rolf adds. "The Legion's interest in you is noted but not our concern," before: "they, however, will not return. The Hatefather was displeased."

  The two imposters—Tanner and Melissa now—look genuinely relieved. "They're telling the truth," Melissa says. "First and Twelfth are here for us, not you."

  "And to prevent further confusion," the real Eshen says, "we will depart immediately after collecting what's ours. Your activities here are sanctioned under the Non-Interference Protocol as long as they don't endanger children."

  Grace studies them, her expression calculating. "Your arrival during this specific timeframe suggests deliberate timing rather than coincidence."

  Real Rolf shrugs his massive shoulders. "The storm provides cover. Less chance of civilian observation."

  "Makes sense," I murmur, still trying to process everything. "Interdimensional death children probably don't want to be seen by hikers."

  The real Eshen's mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. "Precisely." Her attention returns to the imposters. "You will accompany us now."

  Tanner and Melissa nod, gathering their minimal belongings.

  "What about Merek?" Melissa asks. "Tyler, I mean. Can you...?"

  "Beyond our jurisdiction," real Rolf says with finality. "Twentieth Corpse answers to no one but Primary Command and the man in bunny slippers."

  Melissa's expression falls, but she nods in resignation. "Worth asking."

  They move toward the door, the deserters flanked by their captors. At the threshold, the real Eshen pauses, glancing back at me with those unsettling black eyes.

  "Your training is progressing well," she observes. "The blind fighting techniques are particularly appropriate given your history. Continue developing those skills."

  With that cryptic parting comment, they vanish into the swirling snow, the door slamming shut behind them with a finality that seems to echo in the sudden silence.

  Grace immediately moves to secure the entrance, checking that it's properly latched.

  "What just happened?" I ask, my voice sounding slightly dazed even to my own ears.

  "Interdimensional entities reclaimed their identities from deserters who had appropriated them," Grace summarizes succinctly, moving to check the windows as well. "Their purpose appears unrelated to our presence here."

  "That's... good, right? They're not here for us."

  Grace's expression remains thoughtful. "Tactical assessment suggests this is positive. However, the existence of multiple interdimensional organizations with awareness of our presence remains concerning."

  I stand in the middle of the cabin, trying to process everything that just happened. "So those were... the real Eshen and Rolf? And our Eshen and Rolf—I mean Melissa and Tanner—were just using their names?"

  "That appears to be the case," Grace confirms, still checking the perimeter with methodical precision. "The Deathborn organization seems to have strict protocols regarding identity and physical parameters."

  "And they just... walked into a blizzard. All four of them." I move to one of the frost-covered windows, trying to peer out through the seem between the window and the frame. The storm has intensified, visibility reduced to swirling white nothingness.

  "Bodies that are technically dead likely have different environmental tolerances," Grace observes, finishing her security check. "Temperature extremes would pose minimal threat."

  I turn away from the window, shaking my head in disbelief. "Every time I think I'm getting used to all this interdimensional weirdness, something even stranger happens."

  Grace regards me thoughtfully. "The increased frequency of anomalous encounters suggests accelerating timeline destabilization. The Druid mentioned reality fragmentation intensifying as November approaches."

  "Great," I mutter. "So things are going to get even weirder?"

  "Most likely," she confirms with characteristic directness.

  I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "At least these ones weren't here for us. Just interdimensional bureaucracy, apparently."

  "Their limited interest is tactically fortunate," Grace agrees. "However, the confirmation of multiple organized dimensional entities with awareness of our existence remains concerning."

  "Do you think they could still hear us?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

  Grace considers this. "Unknown. Their capabilities exceed standard parameters. We should assume potential surveillance."

  We stand in silence for a moment, the only sounds the crackling fire and the relentless howl of the wind outside. Finally, I sink back onto the stool, my legs suddenly feeling like overcooked noodles as the adrenaline ebbs.

  "So," I say with forced lightness, "just another normal day with Grace, huh?"

  To my surprise, the corner of her mouth twitches upward—a barely perceptible smile, but definitely there. "Our experiences do seem to consistently exceed standard parameters."

  "That's one way of putting it." I run my hands through my sweat-dampened hair, trying to organize my thoughts. "What do you make of all this? The Deathborn, the Legion, their interest in us?"

  Grace moves to sit on a nearby stool, her posture perfect despite hours of physical exertion. "The appearance of multiple interdimensional entities suggests significant disruption patterns. The Druid mentioned reality fragmentation as November approaches."

  "But why us specifically?" I press. "I'm nobody special, and while you're obviously extraordinary, you're just one ranger from your world."

  Grace's eyes meet mine, something unreadable flickering in their green depths. "Perhaps it is not who we are individually, but what we represent together."

  The statement hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us seems ready to explore fully. My heart does a strange little skip in my chest.

  "So what do we do now?" I ask, deliberately changing the subject. "About their offer?"

  Grace considers this, her expression thoughtful. "Tactical assessment suggests conditional cooperation may provide advantage. Their knowledge of interdimensional threats would supplement our current preparation efforts."

  "But can we trust them?"

  "Trust is irrelevant," she says automatically, then pauses, seeming to reconsider. "No. That's inaccurate. Trust is... tactically relevant in this situation. But trust may be established through progressive verification rather than assumed initially."

  I can't help smiling at this very Grace-like amendment. She's changing, evolving in subtle ways that most wouldn't notice but that stand out dramatically to me. Questioning her own tactical assessments, acknowledging emotional factors, considering variables beyond pure survival mechanics.

  "So we cautiously cooperate," I summarize. "Learn what we can, share what we must, keep our guard up."

  She nods once, decisively. "A reasonable approach."

  "And in the meantime," I add, pushing myself to my feet despite protesting muscles, "we continue my training. If interdimensional death assassins and marble statues are taking an interest in us, I definitely need to learn how to fight."

  Grace rises as well, her movements fluid and economical where mine are stiff and awkward. Once again, punch-drunk duck. "Yes. Your combat capabilities require significant development."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I say dryly.

  "It is not a criticism," she clarifies, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Your progress is remarkable given your starting parameters. With continued training, you will become formidable."

  Coming from Grace, this is high praise indeed. I feel a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the cabin's fire.

  "Well then, Ranger Grace," I say, assuming what I hope is a proper stance in our makeshift training area, "teach me to be formidable."

  She considers me for a moment, then retrieves the blindfold. "We should continue alternating between sighted and blind training. Your progress was significantly enhanced when utilizing non-visual sensory pathways."

  I nod, accepting the blindfold. "Makes sense. Those skills already exist—they're just being repurposed."

  "Precisely." She moves behind me, securing the blindfold with practiced efficiency. "We will begin with advanced sensory expansion techniques, then progress to evasive counter-striking."

  As darkness envelops me, I feel an unexpected sense of familiarity—like returning to a childhood home. This was my world for twenty-eight years, after all. The sounds of the cabin sharpen immediately—the crackle of the fire, the whistle of wind through tiny gaps in the window frames, the subtle shifts of Grace's clothing as she moves around me.

  "The fundamental challenge of blind combat," Grace explains, her voice clearer without visual distractions, "is developing what rangers call 'second sight'—the ability to construct spatial awareness without visual input."

  I hear her circling me slowly, her footsteps deliberately audible. "Your first task is to track my position continuously. Point to me as I move."

  I focus on the sounds—the subtle creak of floorboards, the whisper of fabric, the almost imperceptible changes in how her voice reflects off different surfaces. I extend my arm, pointing toward where I believe she stands.

  "Good," she says. "Now I will move silently. You must sense my presence through air displacement and thermal variation."

  Sure enough, her footsteps vanish. The challenge increases exponentially. I strain my senses, feeling for the slightest changes in the air around me—the subtle pressure wave of a body moving through space, the minute temperature differences as she passes between me and the fire.

  I turn slowly, extending my arm again, less certain this time.

  "Eight degrees too far left," Grace corrects. "You're relying on hearing echo-shadows. Feel the air molecules instead."

  This continues for nearly thirty minutes—Grace moving with increasing stealth while I struggle to track her. Gradually, something begins to shift in my perception. It's not quite seeing, but something adjacent to it—an awareness of space and movement that transcends individual senses. Or, that's the best I can explain it. Also because saying 'I can just know where Grace is' sounds. Possessive, and regardless of her character claiming mine at the game. Well. She's Grace. She's her own person, and as such, Grace is not mine.

  "What you're beginning to experience," Grace explains when I successfully track her through three consecutive movements, "is integrated sensory perception. Your brain is combining multiple sensory inputs into a unified spatial model in-order to detect you're environment. Most people require being beaten half conscious in-order to do this. Those who survive, at least." Before. "I would not do such in you're case."

  She moves closer, her voice dropping. "Now we add defensive response. I will initiate contact from various angles. You will detect, evade, and counter. Begin with quarter-speed."

  What follows is a complex dance of subtle cues and responses. The whisper of movement through air. The faint pressure wave preceding contact. The almost imperceptible vibration of floorboards transmitting movement patterns.

  Grace touches my shoulder lightly. I pivot away from the contact, sweeping my arm in the defensive pattern she taught me earlier, following through with a controlled counter-strike that stops just short of where I sense her position.

  "Good," she approves. "Your timing is improving. Now we increase difficulty."

  The touches come faster, from unpredictable angles. I miss several, feeling the light tap of her fingers against my ribs or back, indicating successful hits.

  "Don't anticipate," Grace cautions. "React to what is, not what you expect. Feel the present moment completely."

  Something clicks—a mental shift that's difficult to articulate. Suddenly I'm not thinking about individual movements or techniques. My body responds to Grace's approaching presence without conscious direction, flowing around her attacks like water around stones.

  "Yes," Grace says, satisfaction evident in her voice as I successfully evade and counter a complicated sequence. "This is ranger awareness. Not seeing, but knowing."

  We continue drilling, the movements becoming more complex, the speed gradually increasing. Grace introduces new variables—multiple consecutive attacks, feints, combination strikes. Through it all, I find my responses becoming more fluid, more instinctive.

  "The blindfold is both limitation and advantage," Grace explains during a brief pause. "It forces reliance on senses most ignore. These same skills apply in full visibility, creating cumulative awareness."

  When she finally removes the blindfold, the visual information feels almost overwhelming for a moment—too bright, too detailed. But as my eyes adjust, I notice something unexpected: visual input seems to integrate with the other sensory awareness I've been developing, creating a more complete perception than either alone. Also. Does this mean I'm no-longer a punch-drunk duck?

  "Your adaptability continues to exceed baseline expectations," Grace observes, studying me with that focused intensity. "Most students require significantly longer to develop integrated awareness."

  As we fall back into the rhythm of training, I find myself strangely at peace despite everything—the storm raging outside, interdimensional beings taking an interest in us, the looming apocalypse just months away. Here in this moment, moving through space Grace has defined, learning to inhabit my body in ways I never imagined possible, I feel something I haven't experienced in years: hope.

  Not just for survival, but for becoming something more than I was—someone who can stand beside Grace when November comes, not just as a responsibility she must protect, but as a partner who might actually be of use and not just get people killed. Which, well. That's nice. Really, really nice.

  "Focus, Jason," Grace instructs, her voice pulling me back to the present. "Combat effectiveness requires complete attention."

  "Sorry," I say, realigning my stance. "Just thinking about November."

  Grace pauses, studying me with that penetrating gaze that always makes me feel she can see straight through to my soul. "November is still distant. This moment—this training—is what will determine our readiness when it arrives."

  She's right, of course. Grace is almost always right. I center myself, finding the vigger pathways she's taught me to recognize, feeling the energy flow through my body like liquid light.

  "Ready," I tell her, meaning it.

  Grace nods, satisfaction flickering across her features. "Then we continue."

  And as she begins the next sequence of movements, I follow, letting my body learn what my mind cannot yet comprehend—how to move through a world that wants to harm me, how to stand my ground without breaking, how to become someone worthy of standing beside the extraordinary woman teaching me.

  One step at a time. One movement at a time. Preparing for whatever November might bring.