The Whisperers' retreat leaves an uncomfortable silence that even the creak of cart wheels can't fill, and I realize I've just painted a target on my back in a realm where I'm supposed to be keeping a low profile.
Thorne doesn't say anything for the next hour, but I can feel his eyes flicking to me every few minutes. The old man's weathered hands remain steady on the reins, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before. Great. Less than a day in this realm and I'm already failing at being inconspicuous.
The ring on my finger pulses with warmth, working overtime to maintain the disguise after whatever the hell just happened with those psychic parasites. I can feel the hellfire in my chest trying to burn brighter, responding to my frustration, and I have to consciously force it back down.
"So," Thorne finally says, his voice carefully neutral, "you mentioned you're not from around here."
"That's right," I reply, keeping my own tone level.
"How far 'not from around here' are we talking?"
I consider my options. Lying seems pointless—the man clearly suspects something after watching nightmare creatures flee from my mere presence. But the truth isn't exactly an option either.
"Far," I settle on. "Very far."
Thorne nods slowly, as if this confirms something he was already thinking. "The kind of far that leaves marks on a man's soul?"
The question hits closer to home than I'd like. "You could say that."
"Figured as much." He spits over the side of the cart. "Seen enough travelers from the far places to recognize the signs. Most don't make it past the first night in the Woods."
"And those that do?"
"End up interesting," he says with a grim smile. "The Citadel's got a whole quarter full of interesting folks. Most keep to themselves, cause less trouble that way."
The not-horses suddenly veer left without any command from Thorne, following what appears to be a side path I hadn't noticed before. The main road continues straight ahead, but these creatures seem to know something their driver doesn't.
"Where are they going?" I ask, my hand moving instinctively toward the cold iron knife.
"Shortcut," Thorne explains, though he doesn't look entirely happy about it. "The beasts know these woods better than any human. Sometimes they find paths that cut hours off the journey."
"And sometimes?"
"Sometimes they lead us straight into trouble." He checks his crossbow again. "But after what happened with the Whisperers, I'm thinking you might be the kind of trouble that cancels out other trouble."
The path winds through increasingly dense undergrowth, the twisted trees pressing closer on both sides. I can hear movement in the foliage—not the stealthy approach of predators, but something else. Something that sounds almost like... laughter?
"Thorne," I say quietly, "what exactly laughs in these woods?"
His face goes pale. "Nothing good. Nothing that should be laughing, anyway."
The sound grows louder as we progress, a chittering, giggling noise that seems to come from multiple sources at once. The not-horses pick up their pace, their scaled hides twitching with nervous energy.
Then I see them.
They're about the size of house cats, but that's where any resemblance to normal animals ends. Their bodies are a patchwork of different creatures—bird wings sprouting from reptilian torsos, mammalian fur mixed with insect chitin, eyes that belong on fish staring from distinctly feline faces.
And they're all laughing.
"Chimera sprites," Thorne mutters, raising his crossbow. "Damn things are worse than the Whisperers. They steal pieces."
"Pieces of what?"
"Whatever they can get. Memories, body parts, souls if you're not careful." The old man's hands are shaking slightly. "Don't let them touch you, lad. Whatever you do, don't let them touch you."
The sprites circle the cart like a living whirlwind, their laughter growing more frenzied. I can see the hunger in their mismatched eyes, the way they're evaluating us for the choicest bits to steal.
One of them darts forward, faster than my disguised reflexes should be able to track. But five thousand years in Hell doesn't just disappear because I'm wearing a magic ring. I snatch the creature out of the air before it can reach Thorne, my fingers closing around its bizarre form.
The sprite's laughter cuts off abruptly. It looks up at me with eyes that suddenly show far too much intelligence, far too much recognition of what I really am beneath the illusion.
"Not... food..." it whispers in a voice like breaking glass. "Not... prey..."
The other sprites stop circling, their own laughter dying as they sense something wrong with their packmate's discovery. I can feel the ring straining to maintain the disguise as my true nature bleeds through in response to the threat.
"What are you?" the sprite in my hand asks, its voice filled with a fear I recognize from my time in the Pit.
I lean closer, letting just a hint of hellfire flicker in my eyes. "Something you don't want to steal from."
I release the creature, and it flutters backward to rejoin its pack. For a moment, the entire swarm hovers in indecision. Then, as one, they scatter into the forest depths, their retreat accompanied by sounds that might be laughter or might be screaming.
Thorne stares at me for a long moment, his crossbow still raised but no longer pointed at the fleeing sprites.
"Right then," he says finally. "I'm thinking we need to have a proper conversation about just how far away you're really from."
The cart rolls on through the twisted forest, but the comfortable anonymity I was hoping for has officially died. And we still have two and a half days to go.
This is definitely going to be a long journey.
I watch Thorne's weathered face as he processes what just happened, his crossbow still half-raised like he's not sure whether to shoot me or ask for my autograph. The not-horses continue their steady pace down the forest path, apparently unbothered by the fact that their passengers just had a staring contest with nightmare fuel.
"A proper conversation," I repeat, tasting the words. "About how far away I'm from."
"Aye." He finally lowers the crossbow, though I notice he keeps it within easy reach. "See, I've been running supplies through these woods for nigh on twenty years. Seen all manner of strange folk come through the tears. But I've never seen Whisperers flee from someone's thoughts, and I've sure as hell never seen chimera sprites retreat because something *looked* at them wrong."
I lean back against the cart's rough wooden seat, feeling the ring pulse with another wave of heat as it works to maintain my increasingly strained disguise. "Maybe I just have a scary face."
Thorne snorts. "Lad, your face looks about as threatening as warm milk. Which tells me whatever's underneath that pleasant exterior is something the monsters recognize and want no part of."
Smart old man. Too smart for my comfort.
"The question is," he continues, guiding the not-horses around a fallen tree that looks like it grew in the shape of a screaming face, "are you the kind of dangerous that protects, or the kind that destroys?"
I consider this, watching the twisted forest roll by. It's a fair question, honestly. Even I'm not entirely sure of the answer anymore.
"Depends on the day," I admit. "And who's asking."
"Fair enough." He spits over the side of the cart again. "Well, seeing as how you've already scared off two different types of nasties that usually give me considerable trouble, I'm inclined to think you're more protector than destroyer. At least for now."
The path ahead splits into three directions, each one winding off into different sections of the nightmare forest. The not-horses pause, their scaled heads turning as they sniff the air and presumably consult whatever alien instincts guide them through this place.
"They're deciding which route has the least chance of getting us eaten," Thorne explains, noticing my attention. "Smart beasts, even if they do look like something a drunk god cobbled together from spare parts."
After a moment of deliberation, the creatures choose the middle path, which immediately strikes me as either the safest option or the most dangerous, depending on whether they're trying to avoid trouble or find the quickest route through it.
"So," I say, partly to fill the silence and partly because I need information, "tell me about this Citadel. What should I expect when we arrive?"
Thorne's expression grows thoughtful. "Big place. Maybe fifty thousand souls all told, though that number's been growing lately. The Lord Mayor—fellow named Aldric Voss—he's got a particular interest in maintaining order. Keeps the peace between humans and the... other residents."
"Other residents?"
"Aye. The Citadel's got districts for all sorts. Humans in the center, of course, but there's the Scaled Quarter for the lizardfolk, the Twilight District for the night dwellers, even a section called the Menagerie for the really unusual ones."
I file this information away, already calculating which district would be safest for someone trying to blend in. "And where do dimensional refugees usually end up?"
"The Crossroads Quarter," he says immediately. "Named for being where different paths meet, if you catch my meaning. It's where folks from elsewhere tend to gather. Safer that way—less chance of accidentally causing a panic when someone does something that defies local physics."
The cart hits a particularly rough patch of road, and I have to grab the side to keep from being thrown off. The impact sends a jolt through my disguised form, and for just a moment, I feel the ring's suppression waver. The hellfire in my chest flares, and I catch a glimpse of my true reflection in a puddle we splash through—glowing eyes, metallic skin, the face of something forged in cosmic fire.
Thorne doesn't seem to notice, but the not-horses do. Their pace quickens slightly, and I can smell the acrid scent of fear-sweat from their scaled hides.
"Easy there," I mutter, forcing the hellfire back down and feeling the ring's disguise snap back into place. "Just a bump in the road."
But I'm starting to realize that maintaining this facade is going to be more difficult than I initially thought. The ring suppresses my power, yes, but it doesn't eliminate the fundamental otherness of what I've become. And in a realm where the very forest tests newcomers according to their nature, hiding that nature might be impossible long-term.
A new sound drifts through the trees—not the chittering of sprites or the psychic whispers of the creatures we encountered earlier, but something that sounds almost... musical. Like a flute, but played with far too many notes at once.
"Now that," Thorne says with obvious relief, "is a good sign."
"Music in a nightmare forest is a good sign?"
"When it's the Melodic Shepherds, aye." He actually smiles for the first time since I climbed aboard his cart. "They keep the really nasty things at bay. Peaceful folk, mostly. Trade songs for safe passage."
As if summoned by his words, figures begin emerging from the trees on both sides of the path. They're humanoid but elongated, with skin that shimmers like oil on water and fingers that are far too long to be natural. Each one carries what looks like a flute carved from some kind of crystalline material, and the music they produce creates harmonies that shouldn't be possible with single instruments.
One of them approaches the cart, its movements flowing like water. When it speaks, its voice carries the same musical quality as its instrument.
"Travelers on the ancient road," it says, the words somehow managing to rhyme with its ongoing melody. "We offer song for silver, harmony for gold."
Thorne reaches into a pouch at his belt and produces a handful of coins that gleam with more than just metallic shine. "The usual arrangement, friend. Safe passage to the forest's edge."
The Melodic Shepherd accepts the payment with a graceful bow, then raises its flute to its lips. The music that emerges wraps around the cart like a protective cocoon, and I can immediately feel the difference. The oppressive weight of the forest's attention lifts, replaced by something that feels almost like... peace.
"They'll escort us for the next several hours," Thorne explains as our cart begins moving again, now accompanied by a dozen of the musical beings. "Their songs create a barrier that most predators won't cross."
I settle back, allowing myself to relax for the first time since arriving in this realm. The Shepherds' music is genuinely beautiful, complex harmonies that seem to tell stories without words. Stories of ancient forests and older magics, of boundaries maintained and bargains kept.
But as I listen, I start to notice something else woven into the melody. A questioning note, repeated with subtle variations. The Shepherds are testing something, probing with their music the same way the Whisperers probed with their psychic attacks.
The difference is that their probe is gentle, curious rather than invasive. And what they find in me seems to confuse them.
The lead Shepherd's melody falters for just a moment, a single discordant note that quickly resolves back into harmony. But in that moment of discord, I hear something that sounds remarkably like surprise.
"They're reading you," Thorne observes quietly. "The Shepherds can sense the true nature of things through their music. Usually helps them determine what kind of protection we need."
"And what are they finding?"
He listens to the ongoing melody for a moment, his weathered face creased in concentration. "That's... odd. Usually their songs are quite clear. But this sounds like they're having trouble categorizing you."
The music grows more complex, layers of harmony building as more Shepherds join the probe. I can feel them searching, trying to understand what I am beneath the ring's disguise. But unlike the Whisperers, they're not trying to steal or consume—just to comprehend.
Finally, the lead Shepherd lowers its flute and approaches the cart again. When it speaks, its voice carries a note of genuine puzzlement.
"Traveler of the ancient road," it says, "you carry echoes of many realms, many forms. We sing of boundaries, but in you, boundaries blur and merge."
I feel the ring grow warm again as it works to maintain the illusion. "I've traveled far."
"Farther than distance," the Shepherd replies. "Deeper than space. Your song is written in languages we do not know, in keys that predate our music."
Thorne is staring at me again, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. The old man's putting pieces together, and I don't like the picture he's forming.
"But," the Shepherd continues, "your melody carries no malice toward those who mean no harm. Our protection remains, traveler of far places."
With that, it rejoins its companions, and the protective music resumes. But now I can hear a new element in the harmony—a watchful note, as if the Shepherds are keeping one musical eye on me while they escort us through their territory.
"Right then," Thorne says once we're moving again. "Care to explain how you've managed to confuse beings that have been reading souls through music for longer than the Citadel has existed?"
I sigh, feeling the weight of accumulated questions and suspicions. "It's complicated."
"I've got time," he says dryly. "And seeing as how we're stuck together for the next two days, I'd prefer to know whether my traveling companion is likely to accidentally end the world or just frighten small children."
I look at the old man—really look at him. Despite his obvious fear and confusion, he's still here. Still offering passage to a stranger who scares nightmare creatures and confuses ancient musical beings. Either he's incredibly brave, incredibly stupid, or incredibly desperate for company.
Maybe all three.
"Alright," I decide, the words coming out before I can second-guess myself. "But you're not going to like the answer."
"Lad," Thorne says with a grim smile, "I've been hauling supplies through a forest full of monsters for twenty years. My standards for 'things I don't like' are fairly high at this point."
I take a deep breath, tasting the alien air of this realm and feeling the Shepherds' music wash over us in protective waves.
Time to find out just how flexible those standards really are.
"I've spent five thousand years in Hell," I say, the words hanging in the air between us like a confession at a funeral.
Thorne's weathered hands tighten on the reins, but to his credit, he doesn't immediately leap off the cart or reach for his crossbow. The not-horses continue their steady pace, apparently unbothered by revelations that would send most sane people screaming into the forest.
"Hell," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the word. "As in fire and brimstone and eternal torment Hell?"
"The very same." I flex my fingers, feeling the ring pulse with heat as it works to suppress the claws that want to extend. "Though it's less fire and brimstone, more creative psychological torture with occasional dismemberment breaks."
The Shepherds' music shifts slightly, a minor key threading through the harmony that suggests they're listening to our conversation with interest. Great. Even the musical forest guardians are taking notes.
"Five thousand years," Thorne muses, apparently working through the implications. "That would make you... what, older than the Citadel itself?"
"Older than this realm, probably." I watch his face for signs of impending panic. "I was a professor before my imprisonment. Taught barrier mechanics and cross-realm theory. Turns out the cosmic establishment doesn't appreciate educators who challenge artificial divisions between different types of beings."
"Professor," he says, and I catch something that might be relief in his voice. "That explains the way you talk. All proper-like, even when you're threatening chimera sprites."
I laugh, the sound carrying more bitter edge than I intended. "Yeah, well, five millennia of torture doesn't completely erase good diction. Though it does wonders for your intimidation factor."
The lead Shepherd glances back at us, its crystalline flute catching the filtered sunlight that manages to penetrate the twisted canopy. I can hear questioning notes weaving through its melody, as if it's trying to reconcile the concept of an academic with the soul-deep scars it's detecting.
"So what brought you here?" Thorne asks. "Don't imagine Hell has a regular parole system."
"I escaped. Recently." I don't mention the part about becoming something that exists beyond normal classification, or the massacre at the Nexus, or the fact that I was in the middle of nearly killing a teenager when reality decided to eat me. Some details are better saved for later. "Ended up teaching at an academy for enhanced individuals, but that... didn't work out."
"Enhanced individuals?"
"Teenagers with supernatural abilities. Think of it as a school for people who can accidentally level buildings when they sneeze."
Thorne nods as if this makes perfect sense. "Aye, we've got a few of those in the Citadel. The Guild of Unintended Consequences keeps them busy with controlled demolition work."
The casual acceptance in his voice catches me off guard. After spending so much time in realms where power is either feared or weaponized, hearing someone discuss enhanced abilities like they're just another trade skill is... refreshing.
"And the ring?" he asks, nodding toward my hand where the disguise-maintaining jewelry catches the light. "That's what's keeping you looking human?"
I nod. "Gift from someone who thought it might help me blend in. Apparently, my natural appearance tends to frighten people."
"Can't imagine why," Thorne says dryly. "What with you being a Hell-forged professor who scares nightmare creatures."
The music around us shifts again, and I realize the Shepherds are adjusting their protective harmonies based on what they're learning about me. Instead of the generic warding they started with, they're weaving something more specific—protection that accounts for the fact that their charge might be more dangerous than anything in the forest.
"They're changing their song," I observe.
"Aye," Thorne confirms. "The Shepherds adapt their protection to match the traveler. Someone carrying valuable goods gets different coverage than someone who's just passing through."
"And someone who spent five thousand years in Hell?"
"Gets the kind of protection usually reserved for visiting dignitaries from very dangerous places." He glances at me sideways. "The kind that keeps other people safe from you as much as it keeps you safe from them."
The implications of that hit me harder than I expected. Even here, in a realm that seems more accepting of differences than most, I'm still seen as a potential threat that needs to be contained. The ring isn't just a disguise—it's a leash.
"Bothers you, does it?" Thorne asks, reading my expression with the accuracy of someone who's spent decades dealing with dangerous cargo.
"I spent five millennia refusing to bow to cosmic authority," I admit. "The idea of being managed, even benevolently, doesn't sit well."
"Fair enough. But consider this—the Shepherds aren't trying to control you. They're trying to make sure you can exist alongside others without anyone getting hurt. There's a difference."
I think about that as we continue down the forest path, the protective music weaving around us like a cocoon of crystalline sound. Maybe he's right. Maybe what I'm interpreting as containment is actually accommodation—a way for something like me to function in a world not designed for beings of my particular nature.
The thought is both comforting and terrifying.
"What happens when we reach the Citadel?" I ask. "Will they try to lock me up? Study me? Add me to their collection of interesting specimens?"
Thorne considers this. "Depends on what you do once you're there. The Lord Mayor's got rules about causing trouble, but he's also got a practical streak. You keep your head down, don't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, and contribute something useful to society, he'll likely leave you alone."
"And if I can't keep my head down?"
The old man's smile is grim. "Then you'll find out why the Citadel has lasted as long as it has in a realm full of monsters."
The cart hits another rough patch, and this time I'm ready for it. I brace myself against the impact, keeping the ring's disguise stable through sheer force of will. But I can feel the strain building. Every emotional spike, every moment of stress, every reminder of what I really am beneath this facade makes it harder to maintain the illusion.
"How long do these disguise rings usually last?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
"Depends on what they're hiding," Thorne replies. "Simple stuff—scars, unusual coloring, minor deformities—they can maintain for months. More complex illusions, especially ones covering fundamental nature rather than just appearance..." He shrugs. "Days, maybe weeks if you're careful."
Days. I've been wearing this thing for less than twenty-four hours and it's already straining. At this rate, I'll be lucky if it lasts until we reach the Citadel.
"There are other options," Thorne continues, apparently reading my concern. "The Crossroads Quarter has specialists who deal with identity issues. Folks who can help you find ways to exist as yourself without terrifying the neighbors."
"Specialists in what, exactly?"
"Integration. Adaptation. Teaching people how to be monsters without being monstrous, if you catch my meaning."
I do catch his meaning, and the fact that such specialists exist suggests I'm not the first powerful being to find refuge in this realm. The thought is oddly comforting—maybe there's a place for something like me after all.
The Shepherds' music grows more complex as we progress, layers of harmony building into something that sounds almost like a symphony. I can hear individual instruments now, each one contributing to the overall protection while maintaining its own melodic line.
"They're beautiful," I say, watching the musical beings glide through the forest around us.
"Aye," Thorne agrees. "Been making this run for twenty years, and their songs never get old. Always something new to hear, some harmony you missed before."
"How long have they been in these woods?"
"Longer than anyone remembers. The old stories say they were here when the first humans arrived, already singing their protective songs. Some think they're what keeps the really ancient evils from waking up."
Ancient evils. Because apparently nightmare rabbits and psychic parasites aren't enough for one forest.
"What kind of ancient evils?" I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
Thorne's expression darkens. "The kind that make everything else in these woods look like harmless pets. Things that predate the current age, that remember when the world was different. The Shepherds' music keeps them sleeping, and everyone's happier that way."
I process this information, adding it to my growing understanding of this realm's power structure. The Shepherds aren't just providing protection for travelers—they're maintaining a delicate balance that keeps far worse things from stirring.
"And if something were to disrupt that balance?" I ask.
"Then we'd all be in considerably more trouble than we are now," he says grimly. "Which is why the Shepherds are so careful about who they escort and what kind of protection they provide."
The implication is clear—they're not just protecting us from the forest. They're protecting the forest from us. From me, specifically.
The music shifts again, and I hear something new in the harmony. A questioning phrase, repeated with subtle variations, as if the Shepherds are trying to decide something important.
"They're debating," Thorne observes, his weathered face creased with concern.
"About what?"
"Whether you're safe to bring to the forest's edge, or whether they should redirect us somewhere more... contained."
I feel the hellfire in my chest flicker with irritation. Even here, surrounded by protective music and traveling with someone who seems genuinely accepting of my nature, I'm still being judged. Still being evaluated for my potential threat level.
The ring grows hot against my finger as my emotions spike, and I have to consciously force myself to calm down. Getting angry won't help anyone, least of all me.
"What would 'somewhere more contained' look like?" I ask through gritted teeth.
"There's a waystation about half a day south of here," Thorne explains reluctantly. "Place where they keep travelers who need... special handling. Not a prison, exactly, but not a luxury inn either."
A waystation for dangerous travelers. Of course there is.
The lead Shepherd approaches the cart again, its crystalline flute silent for the moment. When it speaks, its voice carries harmonics that make my bones ache.
"Traveler of far places," it says, "your song grows discord. The old melodies stir in response to your presence."
"I'm not doing anything," I protest, though even as I say it I can feel the truth of the Shepherd's words. Something in the forest is responding to me, recognizing what I am despite the ring's disguise.
"Not doing," the Shepherd agrees. "But being. Your nature calls to sleeping things, ancient harmonies that should remain silent."
"So what are you saying? That I'm too dangerous to reach the Citadel?"
The Shepherd considers this, its head tilted at an angle that would be impossible for a human neck. "Dangerous, yes. But not malicious. Your discord comes from pain, not malice. We will continue our escort, but with... modifications."
Before I can ask what kind of modifications, the music around us changes dramatically. Where before it was protective and peaceful, now it carries undertones of binding and constraint. Not imprisonment, exactly, but definite limitation.
I can feel it settling over me like a second skin, reinforcing the ring's disguise while adding layers of suppression I didn't know were possible. A sigh escapes my lips. "I shouldn't do this, but you deserve to know what I really look like, I'm going to take the ring off and I dont want you to freak out."
Thorne's eyes widen, and I can see him tightening his grip on the crossbow. "Lad, I'm not sure that's—"
"It's the only way we're going to get through this," I say, cutting him off. "If they're going to modify their protection based on what I am, they should at least know what they're dealing with."
The lead Shepherd tilts its head further, interest rippling through its shimmering skin. "We would see your true melody, traveler of far places."
I take a deep breath, feeling the ring's warmth against my finger. The hellfire in my chest pulses in anticipation, eager to be unleashed after being suppressed since my arrival. With deliberate slowness, I slide the ring off.
The change is immediate and overwhelming. The disguise falls away like water, revealing what five thousand years in Hell truly created. My skin hardens into metallic plates that shift with each breath, hellfire bleeding through the seams between them. My fingers extend into obsidian claws sharp enough to tear through dimensional barriers. My eyes burn with infernal light, casting crimson shadows across the cart.
Thorne makes a strangled sound and nearly falls off his seat. The not-horses rear up, their alien eyes rolling in terror as they sense what's now sitting behind them. Only the Shepherds seem unafraid, their music faltering only briefly before resuming with new complexity.
"This is what I really am," I say, my voice carrying that metallic resonance that makes reality vibrate. "This is what Hell forged me into."
The lead Shepherd approaches, seemingly unperturbed by my transformation. It circles the cart slowly, its crystalline flute playing a melody that sounds like it's trying to map every aspect of my being.
"Ancient fire," it says finally. "Older than this realm's conception. You carry echoes of creation and destruction in equal measure."
"Is that going to be a problem?" I ask, acutely aware of Thorne's rapid breathing beside me.
"Not a problem," the Shepherd replies. "A complexity. Your true melody changes what we must sing."
The music around us shifts again, becoming something so complex I can barely comprehend it. Harmonies that shouldn't be possible weave through dissonance that somehow resolves into beauty. It's like they're creating a musical structure specifically designed to accommodate what I am without allowing it to affect the forest's deeper balances.
Thorne finally finds his voice, though it comes out strained and higher than before. "Well," he says, swallowing hard. "That's... quite a transformation."
"This is why I needed the ring," I explain, holding up the magical jewelry that now sits in my palm. "Not many people react well to... this."
"Can't imagine why," he says with a weak attempt at humor. "You look like someone took a demon and dipped it in molten metal."
"Close enough," I admit. "Five thousand years of hellfire does things to a person that can't be undone."
The Shepherds continue their modified protection, their music creating a barrier between my true nature and the forest's response to it. I can feel the difference—where before there was a constant pressure from the ring suppressing what I am, now there's a more nuanced containment that allows me to exist as myself without affecting my surroundings.
"You should probably put that back on before we reach the Citadel," Thorne suggests, nodding toward the ring. "Unless you fancy causing a mass panic."
"Good point." I slip the ring back on, feeling the disguise settle over me once more. My skin softens back to human appearance, the hellfire recedes, and my claws retract into normal fingers. The weight of suppression returns, but it's somehow easier to bear now that I've had a moment of freedom.
"Thank you," I tell the Shepherds. "For not... overreacting."
The lead Shepherd makes a sound that might be laughter. "We have sung to beings ancient when stars were young, traveler. Your melody is unique but not unprecedented."
That's interesting. I file away the implication that this realm has hosted other beings of cosmic significance. Perhaps the Citadel's libraries will have records of these previous visitors and what became of them.
"So," Thorne says after we've traveled in silence for a while, "a professor, you said?"
I laugh, the sound almost normal now that the ring's disguise is back in place. "That's what you want to focus on? Not the metal skin or the hellfire?"
"Figure those parts speak for themselves," he replies with a shrug that's only slightly forced. "But a professor who spent five millennia in Hell and came out looking like that? That's a story worth hearing."
So I tell him. Not everything—there are parts of my imprisonment that I can't put into words, and the massacre at the Nexus is still too raw to discuss—but enough. I tell him about teaching barrier mechanics at an interdimensional university, about challenging the artificial separations between realms, about being imprisoned for promoting cross-realm understanding.
Thorne listens without interruption, his weathered face thoughtful. The Shepherds' music provides a haunting soundtrack to my story, their harmonies shifting to match the emotional tenor of each chapter in my long existence.
"And now you're here," he says when I finally fall silent. "A professor-turned-monster looking for a way back to a place that might not even exist in relation to this realm."
"That's about the size of it," I agree. "Though I prefer 'transformed being' to 'monster.' Sounds more dignified."
"Fair enough." He spits over the side of the cart. "Well, professor, I reckon the Citadel's libraries might be your best bet. They've got records going back to the first settlement, including accounts of other travelers who came through tears in reality."
"And these specialists you mentioned? The ones who help with integration?"
"The Adaptation Guild," he nods. "Based in the Crossroads Quarter. They help newcomers adjust, find ways to exist in society without causing problems. Even for folks with... unusual appearances or abilities."
Hope flickers in my chest—not the hellfire kind, but something more human. The possibility of finding a place where I might belong, at least temporarily. Where I might find information about dimensional travel that could eventually lead me back to Caleif and the Academy.
"Thank you," I tell him, genuinely grateful. "For not throwing me off your cart when you realized what I am."
Thorne's laugh is more genuine this time. "Lad, I've been hauling supplies through a nightmare forest for twenty years. My standards for traveling companions are pretty low. Besides," he adds with a wink, "having someone who terrifies the local monsters makes my job considerably easier."
The Shepherds' music continues to weave around us as we travel deeper into the forest, their modified protection allowing me to exist as myself—even if that self is currently disguised—without disrupting the delicate balance they maintain. For the first time since arriving in this realm, I feel something like peace.
It won't last, of course. Nothing ever does. But for now, rolling through a nightmare forest in a cart pulled by six-legged not-horses, accompanied by musical beings who sing reality into compliance, I allow myself to hope.
Maybe, just maybe, there's a place for me in this strange new world. And if not—well, I've survived worse. Much worse.
The Citadel awaits, with its libraries and specialists and unknown possibilities. Two more days of travel through this twisted forest, and then I'll face whatever comes next.
"This is gonna fucking suck i just know it." I mutter to myself.