James’s awareness returned in fragments, each piece of consciousness drifting through the haze like specks of dust in sunlight. A dull ache hammered in his skull, keeping stubborn time with his heartbeat. He hesitated to open his eyes, half-afraid of what he might see. His last memory was of farmland scorched beyond recognition and that hulking Magma Elemental prowling along Tellemoria’s edges. Whatever he saw when he opened his eyes surely couldn’t be worse than those horrors—still, uncertainty gnawed at him.

Eventually, the urge to look around won out. His eyelids fluttered, stinging as though caked with grit. Dim, shifting colors resolved into shapes, and he squinted into an environment that defied every expectation. The canopy above him was not the open sky he had known in Tellemoria’s fields; instead, enormous branches twisted and forked overhead, their leaves a vibrant shade of emerald that looked strangely luminous. Some branches were so thick they formed natural walkways high above the forest floor, weaving together like a vast living lattice.

And then there was the light itself—an odd, diffused glow that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It lacked the crispness of morning or the molten gold of dusk. Instead, it was a subdued radiance that washed the entire forest in muted, dreamlike color.

He tried to sit up, only to discover a serpentine root curving behind him, functioning like a natural bench. His back pressed against the smooth bark, and his every muscle protested the movement. A hiss of pain escaped his lips. Instinctively, he reached up to rub the base of his neck, which felt stiff and tender. It wasn’t just his neck—his shoulders, legs, even his ribs carried a bone-deep ache. Wherever he was, it seemed at least relatively peaceful compared to Tellemoria’s devastation. Still, he needed answers.

Memories swirled disjointedly: farmland set aflame he recalled Joey—blond hair matted with dirt, prosthetic arm caked in ash—tugging on his sleeve, urging him to fight or run. Then came the moment they’d been blindsided, a blow from behind that rang through his skull like a bell struck too hard. He must have lost consciousness immediately after.

Drawing a shaky breath, James caught the aroma of damp earth, lichen, and rotting leaves—forest scents overlaid with a hint of ozone. The tang reminded him of charged energy, the same tingle he got whenever he used {Essence Sight}. Despite the throbbing in his head, he invoked the skill. His vision shifted, revealing the swirling tapestry of essence that threaded through the very air. Tendrils of dark green essence motes drifted like lazy sparks. The sight was both enchanting and a stark reminder that he was somewhere profoundly saturated with magical energy.

He let the skill dissipate, returning to normal vision. Immediately, gravity seemed to double its pull on him, and his limbs felt impossibly heavy. Soreness radiated from his hips, making even the slightest shift a challenge. Panic fluttered at the edges of his thoughts: Was he too weak to defend himself? What if something dangerous was lurking among these colossal trees?

That was the moment he heard it—a soft crackling that could only be a campfire, accompanied by the muffled hum of low voices. Relief, tentative though it was, brushed aside the worst of his anxiety. At least he wasn’t left alone in an uncharted magical domain. With renewed determination, James pushed himself more upright against the root, scanning for the source of the glow.

Sure enough, some twenty paces away, a modest fire flickered within a circle of stones. Four shapes sat or stood around it, silhouettes cast in the dancing orange light. One figure peeled off from the group, striding briskly in James’s direction. In the wavering firelight, James made out sandy hair and a small frame. His heart gave a weak leap—Joey.

“You’re awake!” Joey exclaimed, his voice low but lined with relief. The boy dropped to a crouch beside James, resting one hand on James’s shoulder. The other arm—the runic prosthetic—caught the forest’s diffuse luminescence, the etched symbols glinting like tiny star maps. “You’ve been out for hours, maybe longer. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got flattened by an ox cart,” James said with a grimace. Even speaking made the ache in his head spike. “Then tossed under the cart’s wheels for good measure.”

Joey nodded, sympathy filling his gaze. “I’m just glad you’re conscious.” He glanced back at the campfire. “These people saved us, apparently. We would have been toast if not for them.”

“Right,” James muttered, swallowing hard. “At least we’re alive and safe.” He forced himself to take another breath. The forest’s air was lush, tinged with an uncanny humidity that pressed gently against his skin. When he exhaled, some fraction of his tension loosened.

A new voice broke into their exchange. “Safer in here than out there, for certain,” came a genial baritone. A tall, powerfully built man approached, arms riddled with pale scars that formed a patchwork of old battles. His leather armor looked well-used, the edges fraying in places, and a broad-bladed sword hung at his belt. He carried himself with the easy confidence of a seasoned warrior. “Of course, ‘safe’ is relative in a domain full of weird plants and unpredictable creatures.”

He flashed a grin that showed more warmth than menace. “I’m Marcus, by the way. Pleased to see you’re up. We weren’t sure how long it’d take you to come around, given the state you were in.”

James mustered a nod. “James,” he replied. He guessed Marcus was the sort of man who fought first to protect, and asked questions later—particularly if children were involved. “Thank you… for saving us.”

Marcus shrugged it off in a kindly way. “You’re welcome, but I’d say luck played a big part.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the fire. “We were passing through Tellemoria ourselves—things got too hot, literally—when Jackson spotted you both. Didn’t have much time to check who you were so he took what he thought of as necessary precautions.”

James’s memory twitched at the mention of Jackson, conjuring the jarring blow he’d taken in the farmland ruins. “Jackson…” he began, but trailed off. He wasn’t fully certain he wanted to dwell on that moment yet. His head pounded just recalling it.

Marcus must have noticed the uncertain tone, because he dipped his head in understanding. “He can be, uh, enthusiastic about identifying threats. Don’t hold it against him; shapechangers are real enough, and we were on high alert. Come on. Let’s get you closer to the fire.”

Joey offered James his normal arm to lean on and between the two of them, James managed to stand. Lightfooted as Joey was, James felt like he was stumbling. His legs wobbled as if every bit of muscle had been turned into slush. Still, he managed a few halting steps.

The forest they were in had an otherworldly hush about it, as though the massive trees were slumbering giants, content to watch quietly over this domain. The faint luminescence of drifting motes gave the air a crystalline clarity, and James had the odd impression that time itself might flow differently here. As they approached the campfire, the flicker of flames lent a comforting warmth. A handful of simple bedrolls were laid out, along with a circle of sharpened stakes hammered into the ground to form a basic defensive perimeter. James noted a pot suspended over the flames, from which rose tendrils of savory steam.

Three figures ringed the fire. One was a petite blonde woman gently stirring the pot, her expression cool and detached. Another stood just outside the circle of light, half in shadow—a lean, hawk-eyed man with twin daggers at his waist. The last was a broad-shouldered, silver-haired man wearing an assortment of dented plate and chain. The older man’s gray eyes shone with the calm focus of a veteran, and something in his stance suggested leadership.

The blonde woman was first to acknowledge James. “Glad to see you’re up, kid,” she said, not unkindly but with a brusqueness that came from experience. “I’m Elia. You’ll probably be sore for a while, but the worst is behind you. Sit down before you topple.”

James eased onto a small stump near the fire. Each step still brought a lance of pain, but it was more bearable now that he was upright and moving. He ventured a tentative smile in Elia’s direction, though she had already turned back to her pot.

“Stew’s almost ready,” she muttered, rummaging through her satchel and emerging with small vials of herbs or spices. “I’m hoping these mushrooms Marcus gathered won’t kill us. Then again, if they do, at least we’ll die warm.”

Marcus let out a short, hearty laugh. “They’re perfectly safe,” he insisted. “You’re never going to let me live that one incident down, are you?”

Before Elia could retort, the man half-hidden by the fire’s shadows stepped forward. “Jackson,” he said tersely, addressing James directly. A pair of daggers gleamed at his belt, their curved blades decorated with minute runes. Up close, the man had sharp cheekbones and a grin that could easily morph into a sneer if provoked. “I’m the one who knocked you out back there. You’ll have to forgive me. We got jumpy thinking you might be a shapechanger.”

James’s brow furrowed. “It’s… fine,” he said, swallowing his frustration. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help. They had saved him and Joey, after all.

Jackson produced a waterskin from inside his cloak and handed it over. “Consider this a truce,” he added, the grin returning. “You’re definitely not a shapechanger—at least not anymore,” he joked, though there was a tension in his eyes that made James wonder how serious he was.

The water felt like a gift from the fates on James’s parched throat. The dryness he’d woken with seemed to cling to every cell in his body. After a few sips, he found his voice again. “Thanks,” he said softly.

At last, the silver-haired man spoke, his voice low and measured, carrying the faint accent of nobility or perhaps knightly training. “James,” he said, inclining his head. “You likely don’t remember me, but I recognized you the moment I saw your face. I’m Ser Loran—your parents, Ariebel and Anthonellis, aided me once, many years ago.”

James felt a jolt of emotion well up, mixing equal parts sorrow and hope. “You know them? They left a note saying they are with a caravan going to the capital. Are they…?” He couldn’t finish the question. Couldn’t voice the fear that had been living like a parasite in his gut.

Ser Loran’s expression softened. “I don’t know their current status, I’m afraid. But they’re strong, resourceful people. Whatever happened in Tellemoria, I suspect they found a way to survive.” He paused, glancing around the forest with a cautious air. “The farmland was in ruins when we arrived—lots of scorched earth, beast tide surging in. We decided to retreat into this wave rift until conditions calm. Forest-type domains can be tricky, but it’s definitely more manageable than the chaos outside.”

James nodded, trying to absorb it all. “A wave rift,” he echoed. “It doesn’t feel… normal,” James admitted, looking around at the ghostly lights drifting through the air. “Like we’re caught in a bubble of time.”

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Elia snorted softly. “That’s wave rifts for you. They come and go, sometimes stable for days, sometimes spitting you out with no warning.” She used a wooden ladle to scoop stew into crude bowls and handed them out. “Eat up while you can. We might have to move on short notice.”

Marcus chuckled as he accepted his portion, giving Elia a playful nudge. “You worry too much. Worst case, we get ejected near the farmland or somewhere else. It’s not like we have a good alternative right now.”

From where he sat, James could see how the party’s belongings were arranged: small boxes of supplies stacked near a ring of sharpened stakes, bedrolls unrolled in a rough semicircle, and bundles of rope or spare weaponry tucked away. It all felt surprisingly homey for something so temporary. He and Joey were the clear outsiders—two kids among seasoned adventurers.

James nearly winced as he took a mouthful of stew. Its flavor was dark and earthy, with a slightly bitter aftertaste that reminded him of blackened coffee grounds. He coughed but managed to swallow. “Uh, it’s good,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.

Marcus grinned broadly. “It grows on you, trust me.”

Elia, rolling her eyes, added under her breath, “Or kills you slowly. We’ll see which comes first.”

Despite the banter, James felt a flicker of normalcy as he savored his second spoonful—at least it was hot and filling. Hunger woke inside him like a beast on its own, and he realized just how ravenous he was.

Nearby, Joey settled on a fallen log, balancing his bowl in one hand while his prosthetic rested on his knee. The runes inlaid along that mechanical limb were faintly lit. Marcus, ever curious, asked Joey about the arm—how it was forged, whether it required recharging, and what abilities it held. Joey answered haltingly, describing how he attained it in a rift he and James went through. The conversation was peppered with nods and respectful murmurs from Marcus and even the occasionally silent Jackson.

James felt a moment of gratefulness that the group wasn’t dismissing Joey or him for their youth. In Tellemoria, older villagers tended to pity or scold them for stepping into dangers. Here, though, it seemed each person was merely evaluated on whether they posed a threat or could be an asset.

Just as James finished half his bowl, Ser Loran joined him, lowering his tall frame onto a log. The older man’s armor made soft clinks, the metal plates shifting with practiced ease. He stirred his stew absentmindedly, gazing across the campsite. After a moment, he turned to James.

“I’m relieved to see you awake,” he said, voice subdued. “After we pulled you out of Tellemoria’s fields, you were giving off a strange essence signature. Frankly, I worried about possession or corruption. Jackson thought you might be a shapeshifter or some other twisted entity. But once I recognized you… well, that concern eased.”

James swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Possession? Shapeshifters?” He tried to inject some humor into his tone, but it came out shaky. “Do I really look that suspicious?”

“Your aura is intense,” Loran replied, tapping the side of his bowl with the wooden spoon. “Unusually strong for a boy your age. It doesn’t hurt that your parents are famed for their magecraft—Ariebel’s healing and Anthonellis’s spearmenship have quite the reputation. But your own capacity seems… deeper, more raw than I expected.”

A pang of memory sparked behind James’s eyes—Nyx, his lost Familiar, taken from him in another rift. He’d never properly learned how to harness his heightened mana, never had the chance to refine it under a mentor’s guidance. The leftover guilt flared. If he were so strong, how had he failed so spectacularly at protecting Nyx, or even Tellemoria?

He looked down into his stew to hide the sudden wetness in his eyes. “I don’t feel strong,” he whispered, just loud enough for Loran to catch it. “I couldn’t protect my—” He stopped, lips clamped shut, not wanting to unleash a flood of grief in front of the entire group. But Loran’s gaze held only sympathy.

“I’m sorry for your losses,” the older man murmured. “We’ve all lost something—someone—in these times. One day, you may be able to do more. For now, surviving is enough.”

James heard the weight of years in that statement and allowed himself to nod. Survival was indeed all that kept him going at times. That, and the notion that he might find his parents, might keep Joey safe. Maybe even find a new Familiar someday, though that desire hurt to consider.

While Loran’s words settled in James’s mind, he looked around at the swirling canopy overhead. The gentle glow from the rift—soft green light that seemed to emanate from the leaves themselves—imbued the entire place with a magical hush. Beneath the hush, James detected forest sounds: a distant drip of moisture, the occasional rustle of undergrowth that could have been small creatures scurrying. This wave rift might be less lethal than Tellemoria’s farmland at the moment, but it was anything but tame. He suspected all sorts of forest-attuned monsters and phenomena could emerge from behind the thick trunks, especially once darkness—if darkness ever truly came here—fell deeper.

At the far side of the camp, Jackson was methodically checking the perimeter. He moved with the liquid grace of someone used to stealth, stepping over roots without a crackle of leaves. Occasionally, he paused to listen or test the wind’s direction. Perhaps the man had spent years as a scout or rogue, living by the blade’s edge. James was just relieved that the watchful figure was on their side.

Joey finished answering Marcus’s questions about the prosthetic arm, then set aside his empty bowl. A flicker of his usual enthusiasm flashed in his eyes.

Elia stood up with a stretch, setting her half-eaten stew aside. “I’m going to check if we can gather fresh water nearby. No sense using up all our stores.” She glanced at James and Joey. “Either of you feel strong enough to come along, or are you both still seeing stars?”

James shook his head. “I… I think I’ll stay put.” His body still felt leaden, and a wave of dizziness pulsed behind his eyes when he made the smallest motion. “I’d be a liability out there.”

Joey, on the other hand, rose with a determined set to his jaw. “I can help,” he said. His slight frame made him look younger than his ten years, but his eyes had a resilience that spoke volumes. “Besides, I need to move around so my arm doesn’t lock up.”

Elia glanced to Marcus, who nodded, shrugging with casual acceptance. “Fine by me,” she said. “Just stay close. This rift might be rated ‘level 15’ but weird things happen in forest domains—especially if the wave rift warps or expands.”

James watched them depart, weaving between the enormous tree trunks until the shadows swallowed them. The fire crackled behind him, flickering warmth against the raw chill that had settled into the forest’s gloom. Jackson, returning from his perimeter check, claimed a spot near the flame, then busied himself cleaning his daggers with a rag. Marcus returned to rummaging through a small wooden crate filled with supplies—James caught sight of a few bandages, some raw jerky, and vials of an unknown liquid.

“How’s your head?” Marcus asked, tipping his chin at James. “I’ve got a pain tonic somewhere if it’s still feeling like a blacksmith’s hammer in there.”

James hesitated, then nodded gratefully. “I appreciate that. It’s… yeah, not great right now.”

Marcus rifled through the crate, eventually producing a small clay vial with a cork stopper. He tossed it gently toward James, who almost dropped it in surprise. He managed to catch it, though a stab of pain shot through his head at the sudden movement.

“Down it slow,” Marcus advised. “The stuff’s bitter as sin, but it works.”

With a grimace, James uncorked the vial and sipped the dark, syrupy fluid. The taste coated his tongue like burnt coffee grounds mixed with vinegar. His stomach churned, but after a few seconds, a cool wave rippled through his body. The relentless pounding in his head receded enough for him to think without wincing. “Thanks,” he breathed.

Marcus bobbed his head in acceptance, then continued organizing the group’s supplies. Jackson muttered something about “better gear” and “short on traps,” but neither man seemed inclined to stop James from resting. Ser Loran, meanwhile, had finished his meal and was quietly polishing a battered section of his chest plate with a rag. Every so often, he paused to watch the trees. One of the older man’s eyebrows arched in silent appraisal, as though he could sense every shift in the magical currents that drifted through the domain.

With his head feeling clearer, James dared to let his mind drift, to piece together the events that had hurled him and Joey into this predicament. What next? asked a voice in his thoughts. They couldn’t stay in the rift forever. Eventually, they’d be forced to exit, whether by the wave rift collapsing or simply the necessity of rejoining whatever was left of Tellemoria. And what then? Would they try to locate his parents, or secure a safer region beyond the farmland?

He glanced down at the trident resting by his side thankful that they had brought it from when Jackson knocked them out. The metal prongs emitted a faint shimmer, as though hungry for mana. He hadn’t had a chance to so much as brandish it in their last battle, let alone put it to proper use. A pang of regret flickered through him. He’d trained with the weapon, considered it part of his identity—a symbol of a future that felt impossibly distant now.

As the minutes stretched, a comfortable lull settled over the camp. The crackle of firewood and the occasional shuffle of boots on leaf litter were the primary sounds. Marcus finished stowing supplies, while Jackson tested the sharpness of his daggers with a small whetstone. Ser Loran finally set aside his polished armor piece, his gaze drifting upward. James followed that gaze toward the canopy, noting how the rift’s subtle green glow wove between the leaves.

The hush was broken by Elia’s return, Joey on her heels. The boy carried a small pail of water in his good arm, his prosthetic twitching occasionally as though not fully synced to his body. Elia had a couple of new cuts across her leggings, likely from brambles, but otherwise looked unfazed.

“Found a clear pool about a hundred steps that way,” she reported, pointing behind her. “No signs of big predators, but I did sense some faint magical signatures drifting around. Probably lesser fauna, but still worth caution.” She eyed James. “How’re you holding up?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Better. Marcus gave me a tonic.”

She offered a curt nod. “Good. We’ll probably rest here for a few hours. I’d like to see if we can scavenge some of the rift’s resources—might find healing herbs or forest-attuned materials we can sell. Not to mention the place is safer for the time being than that farmland was.”

Joey plopped down beside James, setting the water pail near the fire. He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “The air is so thick here,” he mumbled.

From across the fire, Marcus grinned, settling into a cross-legged position. “I’ve been in half a dozen wave rifts across the continent—some of them are absolute nightmares, full of rampaging beasts or twisted landscapes. This one’s downright cozy by comparison.”

Jackson let out a soft snort. “Don’t jinx it,” he said, continuing to run the whetstone along his dagger. “The moment we get too comfortable is the moment a sporeback or something equally nasty decides we look tasty.”

Elia, having returned to stirring the pot, shrugged. “If that happens, we’ll deal with it. We’re better off here than out in the open farmland where an elemental or rampaging beast tide might tear us to pieces.” She cast a sidelong glance at James and Joey. “Next time, though, you two should avoid farmland that’s about to be ground zero for a Magma Elemental attack.”

A dry chuckle escaped James despite himself. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

A few more minutes of low conversation passed, and James felt the tension in his body slowly unwind. The pain tonic was working; his headache was now a dull throb rather than a pounding drum. He noticed Joey fidgeting with the harness that linked his prosthetic to his shoulder. Marcus offered a few suggestions about how to ease tension in the straps, and Joey nodded appreciatively.

Ser Loran eventually rose, collecting the empty bowls. “We’ll clean these at the stream. Then it might be wise for everyone to get some rest. If the rift remains stable, we can explore tomorrow—perhaps find an exit that leads us closer to safety.”

James set his own half-empty bowl aside, hooking a thumb under his belt. He felt a spark of nerves. “Tomorrow,” he echoed. The idea of forging deeper into this rift both excited and worried him. Some part of him wanted to keep pushing forward, to get strong enough that he wouldn’t have to rely on strangers’ goodwill. Another part warned him he was lucky just to be alive.

“Don’t rush anything,” Ser Loran advised, reading the flicker of apprehension in James’s face. “Recovery takes time.”

Nodding, James sighed. The group around him was a ragtag band—a stoic rogue, a pragmatic mage, a gentle giant of a warrior, and a seasoned knight. Strange as it was, he felt safer here than he had outside Tellemoria, before they’d been discovered. And even if it was only temporary, that sense of security felt like a precious commodity.

He watched as Jackson moved off to check the perimeter yet again, daggers in hand, while Elia started packing up her ingredients, glancing once more at the swirling canopy overhead as though suspicious of what it might drop next. Marcus busied himself removing bits of debris from around the fire, humming quietly. Joey busied himself cleaning out the remainder of the pot with the small pail of water, occasionally glancing over at James with a relieved smile.

James returned that smile, faint but genuine, then turned his gaze outward to the surrounding forest. The trees reached so high they vanished into the rift’s luminescence, their branches forming a tapestry that wove in and out of each other like living architecture. Everything in this domain whispered of secrets—hidden grottos, ancient beasts, and maybe possibilities he had yet to imagine.