The young woman was woken by a sudden shake to her shoulder. The touch was not gentle, nor was it brash, it felt like an order that could not be denied. “Get up,” a voice—she recognised as the one attached to the man she called Death—said. “And tell me your name while we’re at it. I would like to know who I am speaking to before we start any conversation.”

She was surprised to find he did not settle for calling her It or That Girl like the others did. Though his scowl did not die, as he asked again, “Your name, what is it?”

“I don’t have one,” she blurted.

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This made him pause. “You don’t have one,” he said, “or you don’t remember?”

“I don’t know.”

She looked past his shoulder. The fog had not let out, but a tall, tall castle—embraced by yet another forest—loomed over their tiny figures now.

Before its magnificent door, a crowd of soldiers who wore the same uniforms, she had seen on the others earlier on, were shuttling inside; this time, both men and women donned the emblem of their country as they carried shields and swords and bows, and more, into the fortress.

What appeared to be a crowd of teenagers, gathered behind the guard; one by one, they marched behind their protectors with torches that lit up the ever-growing night and resembled giant, orange fireflies.

“Ophelia,” the man finally told the young woman.

“Ophelia?” she echoed.

He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “From now on, it will be your name.”