The world swam back into view, the dark clarity of a winter sky adorned with the twinkling gems of stars strewn across the dusty beauty of the Milky Way.

Home, then, Damien thought, or somewhere close to it.

It took a moment for the night’s chill to reach him, a side effect of the residual adrenaline in his system rapidly dispersing now that the threat of three demonic, flower-headed nightmares had evaporated.

I hope Oleg’s family is okay.

Funny how he felt genuine concern for people he knew to be Sam’s inventions. He was affording them more concern than he did for 99% of the people in his own life.

More details came to him as he sat up. He was not at home, nor was he in Loch Lomond, as far as he could see. The ground beneath him was not bitumen but cold, damp earth. Dew-laden grass framed his makeshift bed, and the leafless claws of a gum tree were silhouetted against the brilliance of the night sky.

The darkness was alive with the symphony of cicadas and frogs, a sound that immediately brought him back to childhood sleepovers at Carl’s farm.

This pleasant sound was accompanied by the crackle and pop of a fire built with damp wood. Sitting up, he could see the meagre campfire at his feet, although precious little of its warmth reached him.

Matthias sat opposite, his dark eyes smouldering with the reflected flames.

“That’s quite the trick,” he mused, his eyes locked on the fire. “Quite the trick to disappear like that.”

Damien’s hand drifted instinctively to where his sword had been in the other world, but, of course, he carried no weapon here. His knuckles were bruised and cut, although the worst of his injuries seemed to be already scabbing over.

Time has passed here, then.

“I don’t understand…”

“How you got here? You dropped this when you disappeared.”

Matthias held up the tavern model. It was strange seeing that tiny representation after having quite literally been inside it mere seconds ago.

Is that what happens? Am I actually inside that tiny model when I’m not here?

More importantly, how had he gotten his hands on that? Damien had left it on the coffee table at home.

“It’s quite a remarkable likeness,” Matthias continued, turning the model over in his hands. “I keep expecting to see the innkeeper…ah… what was his name again?”

“Oleg,” Damien blurted out, immediately regretting it when he saw the flicker of a smile on the strangely dressed man’s face.

“Oleg, yes. That’s the one. Sam told me all about his little world. It’s quite fascinating the level of detail he’s given it, don’t you think?”

Damien remained silent.

“Ah, but it’s probably not so impressive to you, eh? You grew up exploring that world with him. I don’t doubt you even had your hand in shaping large chunks of it, indirectly or otherwise. What would you say was your favourite part?”

Matthias leaned forward, his cupped hands holding the model dangerously close to the flames.

“Oh man, I don’t know,” Damien lied. “I barely remember our games. That was high school stuff.”

“And yet Oleg’s name came to you so quickly,” Matthias countered. “Funny how one’s memory works, eh?”

Damien grunted in the affirmative.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter much. I’m more intrigued by how you disappeared like that and how you seem to have miraculously reappeared so close to this little model.”

“I, uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Matthias laughed. “Come now, Damien. I know what I saw. I had just finished saving you from that band of ruffians - you’re welcome, by the way - when you just winked out of existence and left this charming likeness behind. Then, a few hours later, you reappear at my campsite, miles from where I last saw you. I’m not a madman.”

Maybe we both are.

“You’re pretty bloody calm about this, mate,” Damien countered, dodging the question as best he could. “You see a lot of fellas disappear and reappear?”

“I’ve lived an unorthodox life, I suppose. It takes quite a bit to surprise me. Tell me, do you go somewhere when you disappear? Or is the teleportation instantaneous for you?”

This fucking guy. What the actual fu-

“Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Where are my manners? Would you like something to eat or drink? I’d have applied something to your wounds had I been able, but I’d be only too happy to tend to them now.”

The man’s aloofness to the entire situation was dizzying. It reminded Damien of those times when he’d come up against one of the truly great players and found himself clutching at thin air. He had been good, but there were some that just seemed to play the game on an entirely different level. You didn’t try to tackle those guys on your own - you had somebody go low while you came over the top.

Or you had a prop forward “accidentally” catch them late or high, or high and late, and hoped the ref only blew a penalty.

He had no teammates here. No big boppers he could rely upon to thump some respect into this strange man.

His lack of response did not slow Matthias down. Already, he had taken a small pot from its resting place in the coals and scooped out a portion of baked beans in a thick tomato sauce. He followed this up with a torn-off end of bread and a tin cup full of watery tea.

It was hard to stay on the defensive when you were being forced to accept hospitality, and Damien was hungry. He nodded and set to devouring the meal without ceremony. He had eaten in the inn, but he was famished.

Does the food I eat there disappear here? Or does the transition take it out of me?

Matthias clicked his fingers as one might click at an inattentive child. “I’m going to need you to focus, Damien,” he condescended. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” he asked around a mouthful of beans. The thick, red sauce dripped down his chin, clinging tenaciously to his stubble.

Matthias sighed with long-suffering patience. “Transition between the two worlds. How do you move from here to there?”

He leaned forward in anticipation of Damien’s answer. The former footballer was not an expert on reading people’s emotions, but he knew a desperate man when he saw one. Matthias was a gambler playing with his cards out for all to see, and he didn’t seem to realise it.

Damien didn’t need to lie. He hadn’t the faintest idea how it happened, beyond the fact he was always unconscious when he left “his” world. That same rule didn’t seem to apply on the other side, at least not after those three things had banished him.

They had mentioned a master. Was that Matthias?

The man across from him certainly didn’t look capable of ordering such horrors around. While he’d undoubtedly handled himself well in the fight, that was a decidedly human skillset, no matter how impressive.

“Who are you?”

“Ah,” Matthias leaned back, disappointed. “We’re doing quid pro quo? I suppose that is only fair. Is that to be your first question? I fear you’ll find the answer disappointing.”

Damien thought about it for a moment and nodded.

“I am Matthias. I am a man of many skills and twice as many interests. I have no more in this world than what you see here, and I know Sam. Does that suffice?”

It didn’t, but Damien supposed it did count as an answer. He gestured for Matthias to ask his question.

“How do you get there? How do you get back?”

“That’s two questions.”

“Just so,” Matthias agreed, “I’ll make do with the first half of my question.”

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Damien shrugged. “No fucking idea. It just happens.”

A momentary flash of frustration transformed Matthias’ face, but he mastered it quickly. “Disappointing, but not unexpected. Your turn.”

“You’ll answer honestly?”

“This would be a rather pointless exercise if I didn’t.”

“Why do you want to know?”

Matthias barked a laugh that filled the night’s silences and seemed to push back the darkness. “What sane man wouldn’t be curious? You see a man disappear into the void, leaving behind a tiny model of a tavern, and then he reappears hours later and miles away. Wouldn’t it be more suspicious if I wasn’t curious?”

“I suppose so,” Damien agreed. Still, something about Matthias’ hunger for answers felt like more than intellectual curiosity.

“My turn.” Matthias leaned over the fire, offering to refill Damien’s tea. He hadn’t even realised he’d drained the cup, but it sat empty at his side. All that remained of his meal were a few slicks of tomato sauce spattered artfully across his plate.

“What happens when you disappear? Do you dream?”

Damien swallowed. Did he tell this man - this stranger - the truth? Or did he tell a plausible lie?

“I don’t remember,” he lied. “One moment, I’m there; the next, I’m waking up. I’ve never… teleported, or whatever you want to call it, before.”

Matthias hid his disappointment well, but Damien noted the slump in the man’s shoulders.

“Where are you from?” Damien changed angles, a quick hit and spin at the defensive line. “You’re not Aussie.”

The question had the effect Damien had hoped for; Matthias seemed confused. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, he needed time to contemplate his answer.

“I grew up with Sam but didn’t see him much until the last few years. I was often travelling, so we had to make do with written correspondence.”

“That doesn’t really answer the question,” Damien countered. “Where are you from?”

Another flash of frustration, gone as quickly as the first.

“I grew up in a pretty remote area, but I travelled so much that it’s hard to say one place. You are right, though; I’m not Australian. I imagine my accent gave me away.”

Damien chuckled. “And your clothes.”

Matthias looked down at his medieval cosplay and joined Damien’s laughter. “Sam always said I would fit right in in Loch Lomond!”

“I mean, you fit in with the weird Celtic Festival crowd, but nobody who does that shit is from here, except maybe the organisers, and they don’t commit like the diehards.”

“Fair point. I suppose my attire is rather ostentatious. I’ll need to remedy that. One must blend.”

Damien nodded, sipping thoughtfully at his tea. He didn’t trust this man, not by a long shot, but it was incredibly difficult to stay suspicious of him. He had a way about him that was entirely disarming.

Case in point, Matthias suddenly changed the subject. “Have you ever tried to enter of your own volition?”

“Enter?”

“Disappear, sorry. Have you tried to do your little Bilbo act?”

Damien shook his head. “Nah, mate. I’ve been knocked out, I’ve fallen asleep, and I’ve fainted.”

“And have you slept since discovering this… power without disappearing?”

“How would I know? I can’t see myself when I sleep.”

Matthias laughed. “Ah, of course. I’d have thought you were the type who seldom sleeps alone. Fame tends to attract people, in my experience.”

“You’re famous?”

“Me? No. I’ve known famous men, however, and they rarely lack for options. Are the local slatterns not to your taste?”

Who says slatterns? Did this guy fall out of Great Expectations?

“Something like that. I learned a long time ago that the ones who come easy come with baggage, and those without baggage don’t sleep with guys like me.”

“And what kind of guy are you?”

The question gave Damien pause. An arsehole or douchebag, perhaps. A cocky, emotionally-stunted man child who let fame get to his head and was still reeling from the comedown.

The same scared little boy jumping at footsteps in the hallway.

“Anyway,” Damien jinked, “to answer your question, I haven’t tried and, as far as I know, it has only happened once while I’ve slept.”

That was an honest answer. He’d only received the model the night before and had been living the longest day in human history ever since.

“Try.”

“What?”

“Try,” Matthias repeated. “Try to disappear.”

“Yeah, sure, mate. While I do that, you try and pull a rabbit out of your hat.”

Matthias blinked. “I’m not wearing a hat.”

“Figure of speech, mate. I can’t control… whatever it is. It just happens.”

“Have you tried?”

Damien scowled. “I already told you I haven’t. It just happens.”

“Seems like there’s only one way to find out,” Matthias pressed. “Try.”

Insistent bastard.

So, he tried. What teenage outcast hadn’t “tried” to use the force, just in case it was real? How many times had he half-jokingly reached for a TV remote or can of Coke that was beyond his grasp, willing it to come to his hand?

Fucking nerd.

He didn’t know how to try and do something he didn’t know how to do. This wasn’t like a toddler learning to walk or talk through observation and repetition, this was a grown man sitting cross-legged on wet grass by a campfire outside Bumblefuck, Egypt, squinting like he was trying to grunt out a too-big shit and all but muttering, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no pla-

—---

With a popping of his ears not unlike descending in a plane, Damien found himself sitting at the foot of his bed in the Goose & Child, sword across his knees and a whetstone in hand. He ran it along the blade twice before he realised he had no idea what he was doing and dropped it.

Fred knew what he was doing. Am I just jumping into his body?

He quickly tilted the sword, trying in vain to make out his reflection in it. The pinkish blur that looked back at him could have been anyone.

The key he’d found in the cellar sat beside him, its weight dimpling the scratchy green blanket.

Matthias had been right. He had been able to do it at will.

A shout from downstairs brought him back to the present. He snatched up the key in one hand and his sword in the other, flinging open the door and rushing to investigate. However, he didn’t see the small chest waiting outside his door and fell awkwardly against the opposite door when his foot tangled in it and sent him tottering forward.

In the moment before he lurched back to his feet and ran to the stairs, he noted that its lock looked like it would be a good fit for the key he’d found.

He needn’t have rushed. He arrived at the foot of the stairs in time to catch Oleg and his wife in the early stages of awkward foreplay, the big man’s hands pawing at his wife’s apron strings as he smothered her neck and cheeks with whiskery kisses. At the sight of a breathless Damien-as-Fred at the foot of the stairs, the barkeep quickly stepped away from his wife, careful to hide the bulge in his trousers behind the bar.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Oleg, hurriedly fixing her hair. It had come loose from beneath her bonnet - positively scandalous.

He did not know these people, not really, and he had his doubts about whether or not they even existed, so why did he feel every bit as awkward as if he’d walked in on his parents canoodling in the kitchen?

“I… uh… sorry,” he mumbled. “I thought I heard something.”

“Aye, ye did,” Oleg chuckled. “Ye heard a man and his wife acting like handsy teenagers. Need something?”

“Uh…”

“Close your mouth before you catch a fly,” Oleg’s wife teased. “Ye act like you’ve never seen a man and his wife acting familiar before.”

Damien blushed. He’d walked in on far worse during team retreats and away days, yet there was something far more invasive about having caught these two in a private moment.

“I was just checking if everything was okay. When I left, there were…”

He trailed off, unsure how to describe what he’d seen and whether he’d even left for them.

“Ah, ye mean yer little disappearin’ act? It seemed to satisfy them creatures that had come in. They left right away.”

“Even paid their bill,” Mrs. Oleg added. “Most polite changers I’ve ever known.”

“Changers?” Damien asked.

“Aye,” Oleg cut in. “Shapechangers. They served the Grey King before…”

He trailed off as if he had forgotten what he was saying.

“Before?”

“Huh? What?”

“You said they served the Grey King before.”

Oleg nodded. “Aye. They served him before, and now they don’t.”

Damien sighed. This was not the first time he had hit a wall when trying to learn more about this place. The three residents of the inn still acted as if they weren’t aware of the shapeless, lightless void on their doorstep.

“Don’t worry about it. So, they left when I disappeared?”

Oleg and his wife nodded. “First time we’ve seen somebody force that on someone. Master Sam always -”

Damien cut them off. “Master Sam? Sam was here?”

The two exchanged nervous looks. “Of course.”

“When?”

“Oh, not thirty minutes before you came back. He left a package for you.”

Damien turned and rushed back upstairs, quickly grabbing the small chest and taking it into his room. His fingers were clumsy with excitement, making it take longer than necessary for him to fit the key into the lock and turn it.

Inside the chest, padded by velvet, was another model. This time, it was a miniature representation of a blacksmith’s shop and attached home. A transparent lacquer base attached the two, although it had been carefully painted to resemble ground, with a fine layer of green flock used to simulate grass.

The forge glowed ruddy red - a cunning use of paints to create the illusion of light - while a tiny anvil, bellows, and workbench completed the space. The attached home was where the blacksmith, Voril, and his daughter, Sofia, lived. Sofia’s mother had died during one of the group’s many adventures in the region, perishing at the hands of a particularly vengeful orc war chief who had launched an attack on the village as punishment for the party’s attempted assassination.

Damien turned the model over in his hands, marvelling at Sam's effort in creating such an exquisite replica. Why had he delivered this model here when he’d left the last one on his doorstep? Was it a test to see if Damien was entering their shared world? If so, he could have easily asked Oleg.

What is the point of all this, Sam? Is this your elaborate “fuck you” to me for abandoning our friendship?

But that seemed foolish. If Sam had somehow figured out a way to not only bring his world to life, but to visit it, why waste that on something as petty as revenge against a friend who had cast him aside? Why not just live here and use his knowledge of the place to become something tantamount to a god?

The sudden ring of metal on metal drew Damien’s attention to the window. The void remained, an oppressive weight of inky darkness that pressed in on the window with the weight of the sea.

What happens if the glass breaks?

The ring came again. Damien moved to the window and peered out.

The darkness remained, but now something was occupying it - a blacksmith’s shop floated out there in the void, its edges stark against the featureless abyss.

And connecting it to the tavern’s front door was a well-worn path hemmed by a low hedge, impossibly thin in profile but wide enough to walk on as viewed from above.