(Dylan)

Dylan blurted his pre-scripted line when presented with two options, “Por que no los dos?”

Charles gave Dylan a flat look, crossing his arms. He seemed to understand.

Dylan stared at him, confused. ‘Charles knows Spanish?’ he wondered for a moment, and then remembered the translation ring. The rugged elf didn’t find Dylan’s antics particularly amusing.

Dylan sighed. “Restricted powers, please.”

Charles gave a slight nod before explaining, “Absorbing an orb installs its framework, like a belt with four pouches.” He gestured to his own leather belts. “The installation manifests the first ability, filling one of those pouches. Without a glyph to control the other influence, the framework pulls from ambient magic.

“That’s how the first ability can get influenced by restricted magic.” Charles glanced at Dylan’s reaction, his mouth tightening slightly. “It’s rare, but it still happens. Having one restricted ability is dreadful—I can’t imagine an entire framework.”

“You seem to know a lot about illegal magic.”

“Restricted,” Charles corrected. “That’s common knowledge—something anyone with access to a world gate or astralship should know.” He picked up the boot again but paused, lost in thought instead of making another adjustment.

“What’s a world gate?” Dylan leaned forward, eyes wide. “Wait, did you say astralship? You need to explain both. Like, right now.”

Charles had already made one lifelong dream come true by pronouncing him a wizard, and that rugged motherfucker was about to do it again with the chance that every show with ‘star’ in the title was real. Dylan steepled his fingers in unbridled excitement.

“Dylan, there are only three ways on or off a world.” Charles crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied the chubby man. “If you didn’t use a gate or arrive by ship, how did you get here?”

“You mentioned a third way?”

“There’s always another way,” Charles said, “usually involving terrifyingly powerful magic.” He narrowed his eyes at Dylan. “You’ve never seen an astralship before?” He pointed up.

Dylan followed his finger, gawking at the night sky. He wondered which of those twinkling lights were stars or if he was looking at Lost-in-War-Trek, Fire-lon 5, Battle-scape, or the Orvil-lorian.

“That’s how people usually travel between worlds,” Charles said casually.

Dylan needed to confirm they were talking about the same thing. “You have spaceships?”

“Dirt doesn’t?” Charles asked, looking genuinely confused, as if not having spaceships was the strangest part of this conversation.

“Earth,” Dylan corrected for what felt like the hundredth time. “We have space flight, but we’ve only been to the moon.”

“You’ve been to your moon?” Charles asked, surprised, since he’d never visited either of his

“Well, I haven’t,” Dylan said. “But we went once. Or maybe twice? Some people think we faked it…” He stopped himself before stumbling into conspiracy theories.

“Dirt’s pre-astral? How does someone from a pre-astral civilization get off-world?” Charles asked rhetorically.

Dylan shifted nervously on his stool. ‘This is it. I’m gonna die again. I can feel it.’ He braced himself, already strategizing for the next reset.

After a pause, Charles said, “Dylan, I think I know what happened.”

‘Here it comes. I hope it’s quick.’ Dylan clenched his eyes and tensed his entire body, flinching when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“I believe you may be a victim of intergalactic trafficking.” Charles’ words hung in the air, and Dylan blinked, mouth slightly open, as he struggled to process what he’d just heard.

“It’s important for you to tell me what else you remember from yesterday.” His voice low and steady.

Dylan clicked his tongue, still unable to process. “What…?”

“It’s okay, you’re safe now.” Charles awkwardly tapped the back of Dylan’s shoulder, his attempt at compassion—stiff and mechanical.

Charles shook his head. “I never thought Ebonscale would stoop to trafficking in sentient species, but they’ve gone too far.” He stood and walked to his treehouse. “Take your time and tell me everything you remember.”

Dylan was dumbfounded, unsure of what to say.

‘Was I kidnapped from Earth?’ Dylan wondered. He needed to be careful about what he said next. ‘What did I tell him before the resets?’ This was as bad as lying—keeping track of what someone else knew and didn’t.

Charles’ patience wouldn’t last forever, and the rugged elf already knew about his deaths. Explaining that without revealing magic powers would be tricky. Dylan stuck to the truth, avoiding any further complications for Future Dylan in case he got reset again.

“One moment I was on Earth, and the next I was in a dark room on Mother of Dragons,” Dylan said. ‘Bit of a mouthful for a planet,’ he thought, ‘but still better than dirt…’ Charles listened as he pulled open the cabinet door. Dylan continued, “I was naked, and then an explosion went off, taking out a wall. There was a woman in the room with me, but she died before I could get to her.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Charles returned with the finished boots in one hand and a pair of gray socks in the other. He held them out. “Here, put these on.”

“Thanks.” The socks were soft, made from a breathable material. Dylan’s feet were sore and blistered, but slipping them on didn’t hurt. Afterward, he tugged on the boots, one at a time. Just like his pants, they fit perfectly. With warm feet, he continued, “I couldn’t find my glasses or my phone to call for help.”

A question flickered across Charles’ face, but he held back, letting Dylan continue. Dylan, still trying to figure out how to explain the deaths without lying—or dying—settled for omission.

“There was an orb, and I used it,” Dylan said, staring down at his new boots. He wiggled his toes in the toebox, avoiding Charles’ gaze.

“What was in the orb?” Charles asked.

Dylan shook his head, not wanting to answer that question.

‘Should I say it’s another orb?’ Dylan wondered. The only other orb he knew about was the undeath one Charles had mentioned, and that sounded way worse than time magic. His mind raced to solve the mortal puzzle—his life depended on it.

“That’s okay,” Charles said.

‘What?’ Dylan thought, biting his tongue.

“Do you know the ability you got from it?” Charles asked.

Still staring at his toes, Dylan wondered, ‘Was this an option the whole time? Just... not answer?’ It had worked before, so he tried it again.

Dylan looked up at Charles, shook his head, and waited. His mind was always racing to find solutions; it had never occurred to him that silence could be one

“Must be a self-resurrection ability if you remember dying,” Charles said. “Listen, Dylan,” Charles leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering, “don’t tell anyone about your abilities. That kind of information is dangerous, and a lot of people will use it against you.”

‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Dylan thought. ‘This might just work.’

Charles poured out the remaining tea to quench the waning fire, then kicked up enough dirt to cover the ashes. He took the kettle off the hook, grabbed both mugs and the teapot, and carried them to the back of the treehouse. The sound of water splashing from the spigot filled the quiet night air as Charles carefully scrubbed each piece of his tea set.

“Fetch the stools and table,” Charles said, motioning with his head in their direction.

The stars and moons provided enough light for Dylan to gather the stools and table and carry them to the treehouse. He had suspected he was on another planet after climbing out of the lake, when he looked up and saw two moons.

Dylan carried everything in one trip to the treehouse chest. Awkwardly, he reached under the pile of stools and table to lift the lid, but it didn’t budge. He set the furniture down and tried again.

“That won’t work,” Charles said from behind the treehouse.

‘That’s creepy,’ Dylan thought. It unsettled him how Charles always seemed to know exactly what he was doing, even out of sight.

Charles came around with the wet tea set and placed it on the small table. Dylan watched as he put a hand on the cabinet door, paused, then opened it to reveal a drying towel. Charles dried the tea set and wiped the table clean.

“The cabin, chests, and cabinets are all magically locked and will only open for me.”

Dylan kept watching as Charles opened the chest, neatly stacking everything inside before closing the lid. Dylan leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest. “How does it work?”

Charles closed and then re-opened the chest, pulling out a single arrow. “It just works.”

Dylan didn’t take it personally, remembering Charles’ advice about sharing information. The rugged elf walked to the other side of the treehouse and pulled open the oval door, waiting for Dylan to follow.

The tip of the arrow lit up with an orange glow.

Charles locked eyes with him. “Do not touch the glowing part.” He spun the arrow, fletching first, and held it out for Dylan. “It’s not much, but it’ll help with the darkness.”

“Thanks.” Dylan took the arrow and held it upright like a long, makeshift candle. Charles gave him an unsure look.

“You’ll ride inside the treehouse. We’ll reach Dartmouth in a day if we don’t stop again.” He pointed to Dylan’s legs. “Then we can get that rash looked at. You’ll be safe and out of sight until we get there.”

Dylan watched as Charles walked toward the front of the carriage. With one foot on the driver’s step, Charles turned back. “Oh, and the bucket’s on the other side of the nightstand, but you’ll have to clean it out if you use it.”

“What’s the bucket for?” Dylan asked. Charles grabbed the handle and pulled himself into the driver’s box, leaving the question unanswered. “Charles, what’s the bucket for?” Dylan asked again, his voice rising half an octave.

Snap, crack, and thwip sounds came from the front of the treehouse, like breaking branches and snapping vines. It caught Dylan’s attention, distracting him. He craned his neck to see the oversized demonic deer working their hooves free from their roots, walking in place as they prepared for departure.

“I’ll let you out after we’ve arrived,” Charles said, picking up the reins. Dylan hurried to climb into the treehouse, worried he’d get left behind. “If you need anything, just speak normally,” Charles added, flicking the reins. “I’ll hear you.”

They were off, pulling back onto the road toward a town called Dartmouth. Inside the treehouse, a hallway stretched between two doors. One remained locked, while the other led to the bedroom he’d slept in just a few hours ago.

With the arrowhead glowing, Dylan could finally see. A twin bed was tucked into the corner, and he realized he must’ve missed it when he passed out earlier. Next to it sat a nightstand and the bucket Charles mentioned. In the other corner was a reading nook, complete with a lounge chair and a small bookshelf filled with books.

The other side of the room looked like a work area. A workbench with a built-in machine reminded Dylan of his grandmother’s sewing machine from her craft room. One side of the bench held a wall-mounted thread holder, stocked with dozens of spools in various colors. On the other side, a long shelf was stacked with fabrics and leathers.

The leather chair let out a series of fart noises as Dylan sat down and got comfortable. Glancing up at the ceiling, he remembered what Charles said.

“That was the chair,” Dylan said out loud.

The arrow cast a soft, flickering light across the room, shadows dancing along the walls as Dylan placed it carefully atop the bookshelf, securing it with a book. His hand hovered near the glowing tip for a second longer than necessary, the warmth almost tempting him to touch it.

An intrusive thought crept in. ‘What happens if I touch the glowy bit?’ Dylan resisted the urge to poke himself with the arrow. Instead, he turned his attention to the tiny library, wondering, ‘How many of these are about magic?’

He picked up the first book and examined it. The cover was blue, but the title had worn away. ’Better get started,’ he thought.

Dylan wasn’t the fastest reader, and he only had a day to read as much as he could. His excitement faded after opening the nameless blue book and realizing he didn’t recognize any of the letters. He picked up another book at random and flipped it open.

Dylan sighed, slumping into the chair, frustrated that he couldn’t read or learn more about magic. The stupid translation ring didn’t work with books. Now he had a whole day with nothing to do.

‘What if I have to go to the bathroom?’ Dylan wondered as the bucket came into view again.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me.”