"Move your arse, Baggins. This place feels cursed."
"Hold your horses, you fool. The boy's poorer than a sept rat. Not a single copper star on him. Damnation…"
"Figures."
…
A hiss of pain.
Strength fled my limbs; my body felt shattered. What happened? Did I push my training too far?
Glen heard voices through the fog of consciousness. The agony in his body was a distant echo as he forced his eyes open. Above him, the black tips of trees clawed at a bruised twilight sky.
The voices continued nearby.
"He's got nothing of value. We should leave. Meddlers might be about."
"Waste not, want not. I'll have him for supper."
"Do as you please, but make it quick…"
The voices drew closer, and a bewildering thought struck Glen. Their tongue was strange, with a cadence like the Common Tongue, yet utterly alien. And yet, he understood it.
Supper? Me?
A cold dread seized him. He tried to push himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. The moment his hands and knees found the earth, a brutal kick slammed into his gut.
Agony, sharp and tearing, radiated through his entire frame. He was thrown, tumbling across the damp forest floor.
His body was weak, but his will was iron. He bit down on the pain, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a cry.
"Still alive?" a rough voice grunted.
Glen turned his head. A man with a thick beard and an aquiline nose, dressed in coarse, travel-stained wool, sneered down at him. Behind him, a thinner figure lurked in the shadows, face obscured, but his silhouette spoke of a man of the Free Cities.
Abducted? Impossible. Glen's mind raced. His training, his instincts—they should have screamed danger long before this. He was a man of the sword, forged in the fires of a soldier's life, with blood on his hands and the scent of gunpowder in his memory. This made no sense.
His eyes darted to the man's attire—a tunic of roughspun cloth, a holstered pistol, a dagger at his hip. Everything felt… wrong. Even his own body felt like a stranger's vessel.
A new life? The thought was absurd, yet it was the only explanation that fit. Then, a flood of memories washed over him, dulling the pain and confirming his fears.
This world… magic, dragons, elves, dwarves, steam-powered engines, kingdoms—a litany of a fantasy realm. The memories told him his name was now Dylan Nibanku, son of a wealthy merchant, a wastrel who squandered his family's coin on frivolities.
Fate, it seemed, had its own jest. His father, once immensely rich, had sent a letter declaring bankruptcy, yet secretly leaving a small fortune for his children. The last line was a command: Do not return home.
Dylan had ignored it, rushing back only to learn from his siblings that their parents were dead—murdered, the authorities claimed. After the funeral, the heirs scattered with their shares of the dwindling wealth.
Lost in a haze for months, Dylan finally awoke to the harsh reality of his empty pockets. In a remote corner of the Kingdom of Zeeland, he'd bought a cheap cottage and settled down.
It was a place of deep unease, a town that breathed dread. That morning, while returning from the market in Outer Town, a blow to the back of his head had sent him into darkness.
Until now, when Glen's consciousness took root in this new body.
I have truly crossed over. The realization was instantaneous. Glen had no time to dwell. He steadied his breathing, gritted his teeth, and forced himself to his feet, his gaze locking onto the approaching bearded man.
With his current weakness, fighting two grown men head-on was impossible. But for Glen, the warrior, an opportunity existed. He had executed silent kills in the shadows; he could read the flow of a fight. This was a situation that demanded a single, decisive stroke.
His eyes scanned the two men, calculating angles, distances, weaknesses.
"What? Scared silent? Just lie down and make it easy!" the bearded man bellowed, reaching out to shove him.
As his hand neared, Glen's focus sharpened like a honed blade. His right hand shot forward, fingers curled into a spear-hand, aimed precisely at the man's throat.
The two assailants, dismissing the weakened boy, were caught utterly unprepared. The pressure on his throat made the bearded man gag, his tongue lolling out.
Glen's right hand retracted as his left snatched the dagger from the man's belt. In one fluid motion, he drew the blade across the throat. Blood sprayed.
The shadowy figure reacted, but it was too late. Glen's right hand, now holding the bearded man's pistol, used the body as a shield. He flicked off the safety, aimed, and fired.
BANG!
The shot shattered the forest's silence, scattering birds from the trees. The shadowy man fell backward, a hole in his forehead.
It was all done with the brutal efficiency of a well-rehearsed dance. Glen shoved the dying bearded man aside, the man clutching his throat with a wet, gurgling sound.
A fresh wave of pain from his stomach made him look down. Four recently healed wounds marred his abdomen; one had split open again, blood welling forth. These bastards did this. Glen scowled, tearing a strip from his tunic to press against the wound.
His gaze fell back on the bearded man, who was still twitching. Glen's eyes widened in shock.
The man's face was changing. His jaw elongated, his cheeks sprouting thick, dark fur that spread across his skin.
A werewolf. The memory supplied the term. No hesitation. Glen leveled the pistol at the man's forehead. The transformation was incomplete; he wouldn't get another chance.
He pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing.
He worked the action. Click. Click. Empty.
With a curse, he tossed the pistol, grabbed his dagger, and lunged, pinning the half-transformed head and driving the blade into the still-healing wound on the neck.
The werewolf's strength was immense, and Glen strained to hold it down. The beast's jaws, now lined with jagged fangs, snapped shut on his left wrist. Pain flared, but Glen's right hand never stopped, sawing through muscle and sinew.
Finally, the head came free. The body stilled. Glen ripped his mangled wrist free, gasping, and turned to the other corpse, ensuring its head was severed as well.
Collapsing against a tree, Glen's chest heaved. The Stranger almost took me on my first day. He treated his wounds as best he could, then staggered to his feet, limping toward his new home.
He didn't notice the fingernails on his right hand briefly turning to black, razor-sharp claws before reverting to normal.