The Wolf and the Wanderer
The first night on that alien plain was colder than reason.
I'd spent the hours after sunset pacing circles, trying to figure out how to make a fire from grass that glowed faintly blue. Turns out, it doesn't burn. It hums. Which is lovely, if you're writing poetry — less so if you're freezing to death.
By dawn, I'd settled on the only survival strategy I could think of: keep walking until I found something that could either kill me or help me. Statistically, one of those outcomes would teach me something useful.
The horizon was endless. Twin suns rose slowly, bleeding red and white light over the land.
It was beautiful — the kind of beauty that doesn't care if you're there to see it.
I'd walked maybe an hour before I realized the silence was wrong.
The grass moved, but the air didn't.
Something big was watching me.
I stopped. The hum beneath my boots deepened, faint but deliberate. My hand went to the broken comm device on my belt — like a habit, not a weapon.
Then the wind shifted, and I heard it: the low, rhythmic crunch of footsteps in the grass. Heavy. Confident.
"Alright," I said softly, "if you're another hallucination, please be polite this time."
The figure emerged from the mist like a storm given shape — tall, broad, draped in furs and leather, his shoulders lined with pale gray fur that shimmered in the light. His face was mostly human, but the eyes were pure amber, and his teeth were far too sharp for comfort.
A Beastman.
He carried a spear taller than I was and looked at me like a man appraising a suspicious meal.
"You're a long way from the roads, stranger," he said. His voice was rough, gravel dragged through smoke.
"Yeah, I noticed," I said. "Directions around here are terrible. Is this… local weather?"
He didn't laugh.
Instead, he sniffed the air, brow furrowing. "You smell wrong."
"Right. Not the compliment I was hoping for."
He stepped closer, nostrils flaring. "Metal. Fire. And something else. Old storm scent."
"That'd be… science?"
He blinked slowly. "You talk too much."
"I get that a lot."
He moved faster than anyone that size had a right to — one second he was three steps away, the next the tip of his spear was at my throat.
"Who sent you?"
"Nobody," I said carefully. "Believe me, if someone did, I'd have demanded better transport."
The Beastman stared, eyes narrowing. "You're not one of the Guild."
"I don't even know what that is."
He tilted his head, assessing me with open suspicion. Then, to my surprise, he lowered the spear. "Then you're either mad or lost."
"Statistically, yes."
A grunt that might have been amusement escaped him. He turned, gesturing with the spear. "Come. You'll freeze again once the suns set."
I hesitated. "That's it? No threats, no interrogation?"
He looked over his shoulder. "If you were an enemy, you'd be dead already. I'm just deciding whether you're worth feeding."
"Charming."
He started walking without another word. I followed — mostly because I had no better options and partially because he looked like he could smell hesitation.
We crossed the plains in silence for a while. I tried to keep up, failing miserably. The man — the wolf — moved like part of the land itself.
Finally, I said, "You got a name, or should I keep calling you 'Intimidating'? Because that's getting long."
"Brynjar," he said.
"Renard Vale," I replied.
He glanced back at me, one eyebrow raised. "That's not a hunter's name."
"No. More of a 'scientist who accidentally blew himself across dimensions' kind of name."
He stopped walking. "You what?"
"Long story. Probably concussion-related."
Brynjar stared at me, then barked a short laugh that sounded like a wolf's growl turned human. "You're mad."
"Scientifically verified."
He started walking again. "Good. The mad ones live longer. They don't think — they react."
"That's… comforting, I think."
"You think too much," he said again, with the tone of someone giving sage advice.
We reached a rise in the land — a small ridge overlooking the plains. Below, nestled in a hollow, stood a cluster of rough huts built from wood, bone, and metal plating that shimmered faintly with runes. Smoke curled from a central firepit.
Brynjar gestured with his spear. "My kin. Keep your tongue short and your hands visible."
I nodded. "And if they ask who I am?"
He smirked, baring those sharp teeth. "Tell them you're my mistake."
The village smelled of smoke, leather, and blood. Not fresh blood — the kind that lingers in a place where survival is work, not instinct. Beastmen moved among the huts, some carrying meat, others sharpening blades or tanning hides. Their eyes followed me with the same wary curiosity I'd seen in Brynjar's.
No one spoke. Not yet.
Brynjar led me through the camp, past a ring of low fires where hunters warmed their hands. The air was thick with heat and the low hum of enchantment — subtle, like the ground itself was alive.
A child, barely up to my chest, crept forward. Wolf ears twitched atop her head, silver-gray like Brynjar's. She held out a carved bone charm.
I knelt, careful not to spook her. "What's this?"
"She's giving you a ward," Brynjar said. "Keeps the pack from biting you too soon."
I blinked. "Comforting tradition."
"She likes you. Don't make her regret it."
We reached a large structure at the heart of the camp — a half-cave built into a rise of stone. The entrance was framed by tusks taller than I was, carved with runes that flickered when I drew near.
"Home?" I asked.
"Council hall," Brynjar said. "Don't speak unless you're spoken to."
Inside, the air was heavy and warm. Furs lined the ground, and at the far end sat three figures. The central one was old — his mane white, his left eye covered by a strip of cloth. His hands rested on a staff carved from blackened bone.
Brynjar bowed his head slightly. "Elder Tor."
The elder's voice rasped like dry wood. "You return from the hunt empty-handed, Brynjar."
"Not empty-handed," Brynjar said, stepping aside so they could see me. "Found a wanderer on the plains."
The other elders murmured. One of them, a scarred woman with raven-black fur, leaned forward. "A human?"
"So it seems," Tor said. His one good eye fixed on me. "Speak, stranger. What are you?"
"Confused," I said. "And possibly frostbitten."
The silence that followed was long enough for me to regret my mouth. Then Tor chuckled — a dry, dangerous sound. "Bold tongue. Dangerous in Aetheria."
"Habit," I said. "I'm not from here. I don't know how I got here."
"You reek of stormfire," said the black-furred woman. "Guild magic."
"I don't even know what that is."
The third elder — a younger male with silver rings in his fur — tilted his head. "Perhaps he speaks truth. His scent is foreign."
Tor's gaze stayed on me. "Lost or liar, both are perilous."
Brynjar crossed his arms. "He's no threat. Just loud."
"Loud things attract teeth," the woman growled.
Tor raised a clawed hand. "Enough. The plains are restless. If fate throws us a stray, we will see whether he brings storm or shelter."
I hesitated. "That… sounds like a maybe?"
Tor's grin showed old fangs. "It means you live. For now."
Brynjar nudged me toward the exit. "See? That went well."
Outside, the suns were dipping low. Shadows stretched long across the camp. Beastmen lit more fires, and a low chant rose with the smoke — something old and rhythmic that vibrated in the air.
I sat by one of the fires, the bone charm still in my hand. Brynjar handed me a rough wooden bowl filled with something that might once have been stew.
"Eat," he said.
"What's in it?"
He shrugged. "Meat."
"Of what?"
He met my eyes, unblinking. "Don't ask."
I decided not to.
The stew was hot, smoky, and surprisingly edible. Around us, the pack laughed, fought, lived. For the first time since I'd landed on this cursed world, I felt something like warmth.
Brynjar watched the fire, his expression unreadable. "Tomorrow, the elders will test you."
"Test me how?"
He bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. "If you live, I'll tell you."
Morning came red. The twin suns clawed their way over the horizon like bleeding eyes, and the plains steamed with mist. Brynjar kicked me awake before the light had fully burned through it.
"Up," he said. "You've got a trial to fail."
I rubbed grit from my eyes. "Good morning to you too."
He tossed me a piece of leather armor that smelled like someone else's bad day. "Put that on. You'll need it."
"For what exactly? A spelling test?"
He grinned, sharp and wolfish. "Something like that."
The entire village gathered at the edge of a pit carved into the earth — wide, circular, rimmed with sharpened stakes. Smoke rose from the depths, carrying the copper tang of blood and the wet stench of beasts. I peered down and immediately regretted it.
Something moved below. Big. Breathing.
"Tell me that's not—"
"It is," Brynjar said. "A fangback."
"A what now?"
"Old beast. Smart enough to hate everything. Strong enough to prove if you're worth keeping around."
I laughed, though it came out thin. "Oh good. A personality test with teeth."
The crowd roared as two warriors rolled aside a stone gate, and the thing inside let out a sound that belonged somewhere between thunder and a scream. It lunged into view — a boar the size of a wagon, hide covered in metal-like scales, tusks like curved swords.
"Fantastic," I muttered. "Do I at least get a stick?"
Brynjar tossed me a spear. Half-rotted wood, blunt point.
"Generous," I said.
He clapped my shoulder. "Try not to die stupid."
Then he shoved me in.
The fall wasn't far, but I landed hard, dust choking my lungs. The fangback snorted and turned, eyes glowing ember-red. I could feel the heat radiating from its breath.
My hands trembled. Not fear, exactly. More like my brain was frantically reminding me that this wasn't a video game. One mistake and I'd decorate the dirt.
The beast charged.
I dove aside, rolling over broken bones and ash. The ground shook as tusks slammed where I'd been standing. My borrowed spear snapped in half from the shockwave.
"Right," I said, coughing. "That's fair."
It came again. I ducked under a swing of its head and jammed the broken spear into the soft place under its jaw. It roared, tossing me like a ragdoll. My back hit the wall of the pit — stars flashed behind my eyes.
I spat blood. "Alright, plan B: don't die."
When it turned again, I saw the shimmer — a faint distortion around its body, like heat waves. Magic. That same energy I'd seen when I first arrived. It clung to the beast's skin like armor.
I reached for it. Not physically — something else. Instinct, maybe. The air buzzed against my fingers, and the world seemed to bend for a heartbeat.
Light flared.
The beast screamed — a raw, cracking sound — as its shimmer faltered. I didn't think, just moved. Grabbed the jagged spear tip and drove it into the exposed flesh at its throat.
It staggered, bellowed once more, then fell.
Silence.
Then the cheering hit like a storm.
I stood there, panting, blood on my hands that wasn't mine. Brynjar leapt down into the pit, grinning wide enough to show every tooth.
"You fight ugly," he said, "but you fight."
"I was going for not dead," I said, trying to keep my legs from shaking.
He offered me his hand. "Good start."
The elders approached the rim of the pit. Tor looked down at me with that same single, burning eye.
"The stormfire answers him," the old wolf said. "He is marked."
Marked. I didn't like the sound of that, but I was too exhausted to argue.
Later, by the fires, the pack celebrated. Meat roasted. Drums pounded. Someone shoved a mug into my hand that tasted like smoke and regret.
Brynjar raised his own. "To the human fool who killed a fangback!"
"To bad luck," I said. "And worse decisions."
The camp roared in laughter.
And for the first time since waking in this strange, impossible world, I laughed too.