Nyxeria’s eyes fluttered open slowly, her body groaning in protest. It was an unfamiliar sensation—pain. In all her fifteen hundred plus years of life, she had never known such a crude, earthly discomfort. Pain was for mortals, a reminder of their frailty. But now, here she lay, her muscles stiff and aching from the impact. She curled her fingers, feeling the sharp pull in her tendons, every movement a strange, alien reminder of this world’s limitations. Is this what it means to be weak? she thought, an unfamiliar bitterness rising in her throat. For the first time, she felt… vulnerable.

The noise of two older men talking slowly entered her consciousness.

“I know about the reward, but how are we going to convince the King, or anyone for that matter, that this girl is what landed here? They will think we’ve gone off the deep end!”

“Vern, we can’t leave her either though…if we show them where we found her, maybe they will be convinced!”

The two seemed to be bickering about a reward, but Nyxeria didn’t bother to listen further. She sat up, assessing her situation. Pain. Weakness. Her power felt distant, as though it was still tethered to her but not fully realized in this foreign place. She had to test it. With a flick of her wrist, she attempted to channel the familiar energy of her realm, only to feel a dull, sluggish response. It was there, faintly, but not nearly as potent as it should have been. She scowled. Weakened. She could feel the lingering effects of the realm’s limitations on her. The raw force of her divine lineage, the power of a god's daughter, should have been more than enough to overwhelm this world’s laws, but it seemed she was not fully attuned to her surroundings. Still, she would be stronger than most mortals by default. She would make do.

Her crimson eyes narrowed as she focused on the two men. They had stopped bickering and were staring at her, as if surprised she was still conscious.

"You two," Nyxeria’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and cold, her finger pointing with an almost regal authority. "Tell me where I am, and make it quick. I have neither the time nor the patience for your hesitation."

The younger of the two men, with a weathered face and dark brown hair, looked first at his brother, then back at Nyxeria. "Brother... what about the reward?" His voice trembled as he spoke, his eyes drawn to Nyxeria’s striking features, lingering on her pointed ears.

“Shut up, you fool!” Vern hissed, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. He tried to keep his composure, but the unease was visible in his eyes. “Forgive him, milady. My brother doesn’t know when to keep quiet. We… uh… we’ve never seen eyes like yours before.” His gaze flickered nervously between her piercing crimson stare and the ground.

The younger man, still staring at her ears with wonder, spoke again, his voice slower this time. “She… she got the ears for it, but... but what kind of elf would—”

Vern elbowed him again, more roughly this time. The younger man stammered an apology, his eyes wide with both awe and confusion.

"Forgive me, milady, but... but you seem to be... uh... unclothed," Vern stammered, his words fumbling out of his mouth as he dared not meet her gaze. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "P-perhaps you didn’t notice..."

Nyxeria glanced down at her exposed body, indifferent to the stares of the two men. She felt a flicker of annoyance at their weakness, but did not let it show. With a snap of her fingers, the inky substance at her feet stirred. It responded to her will immediately, swirling up her legs in serpentine tendrils. The liquid was alive—an extension of her very essence, drawn from the shadows of her realm. It slithered and pulsed as it climbed her body, cold and smooth, its texture like silk woven from darkness. The tendrils twisted into the form of a gown, molding to her figure.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Vern and his brother recoiled, eyes wide with both fascination and unease. The younger man stepped back, his mouth slightly agape. “What... what is that? It’s... it’s like it's alive.”

Vern, trying to recover his composure, swallowed hard. His voice was shaky, though his tone remained respectful. "It’s... it’s a powerful spell, milady. Not many can control magic like that." His brother, still looking at the inky substance with wide eyes, added, “But that’s not normal... no mage wastes power like that unless they’re... really powerful."

"Is that good enough?" Nyxeria sneered, her voice laced with disdain as the gown settled into place.

“Speak plainly and quickly, or I’ll find no use for either of you,” she warned, her tone like ice, each word measured and deliberate.

"Of course! Of course!" Vern said quickly, his voice betraying a mixture of fear and eagerness for a reward. "W-we can take you to the nearest town, no problem at all. If you’d allow me, I can assist you." He extended his hand shakily.

Nyxeria considered him for a moment, her crimson eyes scanning him and his brother with distaste. She didn't care for their presence, but they were useful, at least for now.

"Lead the way," she commanded, her voice an unyielding force.

As Nyxeria ascended the incline of the crater, the strange foreignness of this world gnawed at her. The vibrant greens of the forest clashed sharply with the dreary, shadowed realm she called home. A pang of longing tugged at her heart for the familiar gray curtain that constantly blanketed her home, shielding her from the harshness of vibrant colors she found here.

“Milady,” Vern began carefully, his voice breaking the silence. “You’re in the Kingdom of Oriaet, far to the edges of its borders. We’re simple folk here, not much for visitors from... well, wherever you’ve come from.” He glanced sideways at his brother, who was staring dumbstruck at Nyxeria’s inky dress. "The capital... it's at least a three-day ride from here, maybe longer depending on the roads. But there’s a local lord, Lord Garet. He could help... might even give you an audience if we introduce you properly."

The men trailed behind her, Vern’s nervousness palpable, while his brother continued to eye her, his thoughts simple and unrefined but clearly fixated on the strangeness of her presence.

Nyxeria paid little attention to their babbling. Instead, her mind was focused on the task ahead. The woods were thick with the untamed energies of multiple deities—life and death, wild and controlled—all tangled together in ways that made her feel both intoxicated and nauseous. She would have to bend this land to her will, impose a semblance of order and worship to her father. The bright, garish world around her would be subdued, one way or another.

Her gaze fell on the horizon as she emerged from the trees. The dying light of the sun stretched long shadows across the landscape, and before her lay the small village of Hemsberg. The simple wooden walls of the village were nestled at the base of towering mountain peaks, their rocky faces stark against the setting sun. A weathered keep rose above the village, the stronghold of Lord Garet and the small territory he oversaw. Hemsberg was a village of a few thousand, a peaceful enough settlement, but a prime location to secure her foothold in this world.

“Hemsberg is the nearest town. Lord Garet is who oversees this land,” Vern said, leaning a little too close for Nyxeria’s comfort. His breath was warm on her ear, his proximity unwelcome.

“Don’t get too comfortable with me,” Nyxeria replied coldly without looking back. “Once you show me to the leader, you will be rewarded and go on your way.”

She wasn’t particularly interested in mortals, not in the way they likely hoped. She, like her father, didn’t care for their pleasantries or their fragile, finite lives. But they would be useful for now, and for that, they were allowed to live.

Nyxeria was certain her arrival had attracted attention. The question was, how much? She would need to assess the lay of the land quickly. A solid foundation was required—this land would bend to her will, or it would be crushed underfoot.