The road's packed with people, all moving in the opposite direction from me. A few—clearly the wealthier ones, judging by their colored clothing—ride carts laden with goods and pulled by tired-looking horses. The majority, though, are walking while miraculously balancing multiple heavy baskets and bags.

But rich or poor, everyone—and I do mean everyone—have the brightest of smiles on their faces as they chatter on with each other.

I, on the other hand, grit my teeth, keep my mouth shut and ears closed, and continue putting one foot in front of the other. Who cares if they're going to like, do capitalism or something at the market and then die afterwards? Say I go ahead and warn them, what would would come of it? One, they're not real. Two, if I warn about the attackers someone will obviously ask how I know and then I and my plan to escape scot-free will be toast. Three, no one's going to believe me anyway. And four and most importantly, they're not real.

My determination fuels my trek all the way until the sun's directly over my head -- at which point my feet and stomach both start to protest. When I'd set off, despite what Mrs. Morrell said about 'waking up late today,' the sky had actually still been pink with the light of dawn. Honestly, I'm kind of impressed that I even lasted this long.1

When I see folks break off from the flow of people to head down a well-grooved forest path, I take an educated guess2 and go down the path with them.

It only takes a couple of minutes of walking to know my decision was a good call. The farther I walk, the louder the sound of trickling water becomes and the thinner the foliage on either side off the path is. The leaves finally disappear entirely, and I'm spat out with everyone else in a broad clearing, hemmed in on the far side by a crystal-clear stream.

With a sigh of relief, I follow everyone down to the bank, sit down with a heavy plop, and wipe the sweat off my brow. Aurelia's wool tunic is stuck to my back like shedding skin, and my feet feel wet and gross inside her leather shoes—I made a bad, bad mistake by not packing an extra pair of clothes in my bag. I'm going to be rancid 3 by the end of today.

But so far, so good. The plan to run away is running smoothly (ha). I let myself slouch down, my thoughts drifting to what to do after the running away bit.

That cabin vision was... strange. But if it's real, then maybe Aurelia does have magic. And if she does, then maybe that's how I got here. I don't know for sure, of course—It's not like I've ever had vision or anything in the real world to compare the experience to—but it's as good a theory as any. Once I get to a new town and get myself a cheap room and a job, maybe I can look into this. It'll be tricky, since magic outside of royal employ is banned, but I know from the novels that there are hedge mages hidden in secret covens across the land. If I'm remembering right, Prime!Alex found one in... Briarwood? Briar Glen? Something like that. The witch he'd met there had seemed pretty accommodating. A little too much so, if you know what I mean. But competent. Perhaps she can tell me whether or not I'm actually magical, and make some educated guesses about what happened to me and to real Aurelia.

Because that's the other question. My soul and her body are both right here. And I know where my body likely is (a hospital or a morgue)—but where is Aurelia's soul? That's the only one not accounted for. Did I displace her soul? Did I steal her body?

I shudder at the thought. That wouldn't make me a murderer... would it?

Never mind. One step at a time. Get to a nearby town, find my way to that Briar-something village, figure it out from there.

First things first though, I think. My stomach has been grumbling for a little snack for awhile. I reach into my bag for one of the apples I'd stowed away.

As I scrub the apple in the stream, a kid I'd noticed hopping in front of me on the way down sidles over to my side. He's white, not Asian, but he still kind of looks a little like my eight year old cousin, with his pudgy nose and fat, pinchable cheeks.

"Hi, miss," the kid says, with the slightest lisp to his words.

I nod back and tuck my sling bag closer.

He grins at me, with a smile that's missing two front baby teeth, and holds up his two hands. Cupped in between his palms is a whole roasted potato. "Will you trade with me?"

I look down at his potato, then over to my now-shiny and wet apple. "With this?" I ask, holding the apple up.

The kid nods enthusiastically. He starts to hand the potato over—just as a man, the one that had been walking hand-in-hand with the kid on the path, comes scrambling our way and pulls the kid back towards him. The moment he's got an arm over the kid's shoulder, the tension in his whole body relaxes.

"Winfred!" the man scowls. Judging by their similar facial features, the two are definitely father and son. He pulls his arm back to cross them across his chest. "What did I tell you about not wandering off?"

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"But I wanted to trade with the pretty lady!" Winfred pouts, stepping away from his dad and towards me again.

Pretty? I mouth to myself.

But of course, I am. I'm Aurelia now, I'd seen her reflection as I bent over the stream to dip my apple in the water. The rippling surface had fragmented Aurelia's features, but that still hadn't been enough to erase their elegance: wide coy eyes, high nose, small mouth. The breasts are annoyingly big, but her badass arms and shoulders balance them out.

"Miss?" Winfred asks.

"Uh, yeah. Sure?" I glance over at the man. But when he sighs and shrugs with an exasperated smile, I hand over the apple and take the potato in return. It's cool to the touch. Winfred and his father must've roasted it before they'd set off this morning.

Winfred immediately sits down on a rock, dips his bare feet in the water, and takes a big chomp out of the apple.

"Are you going to the Harvest Festival too?" he asks, spraying juice everywhere. His father gives him a Look, but he's clearly an indulgent father, because he doesn't intervene. Instead, he sits down on the grass too, at an angle so he can see both Winfred and me at once, with Winfred only an arm's distance away.

"Uh..." I say, but I don't really see a reason to lie to the kid. "No, actually. I'm going the other way." I point west.

Winfred's forehead wrinkles. "Why are you going that way? Don't you want to go to the Festival?"

Well. The answer is Hell No, but then he'll obviously ask why, and—

I wave my hands vaguely. "I've something else to do," I say.

"But you'll miss out on all the fun!"

I look down at the potato. They kind of over-roasted it, honestly, I think as I flake off a couple charred bits on the thin skin, just to have something to do with my hands. "It's nothing special anyway," I say.

"But it's the Harvest Festival!" Winfred sounds like I've just pronounced Christmas the worst day of the entire year. "There's so many people there, hundreds, thousands. And there's such good food too! And you don't have to pay for any of it! Oh! And music and singing and dancing. Then in the morning you can walk around the marketplace, there's so many pretty things to look at even if I can't buy any of it—"

Oh God, get me out of this conversation. I can't look at his bright, happy face much longer. "I don't know," I say desperately. "It's like that every Sunday, why don't you come back some other weekend—"

"Wait." If anything, his eyes are only getting wider and brighter. "You get to go every Sunday? Do you live at Silverwood Keep?" He says 'Silverwood Keep' like somebody from rural Louisiana might say New York City.

"I mean, not at Silverwood Keep. Just near it—It's really kind of ugl—"

"Wow," he says, his voice hushed. "We only get to go twice a year, for the Spring Festival and the Harvest Festival. Mama and Papa mostly sell our stuff to the traders passing by on their way there, Mama says we live too far to go ourselves." His lower lip juts out. He glares over at his dad. "But I think we can go more often! It's only a three days' walk."

I jump up, stuffing the potato into my bag and swinging the whole thing across my shoulder.

"Sorry, got to go, getting late," I say quickly. I don't look up as I move away from them, with only a vague wave backwards. "Nice to meet you!"

"Okay!" Winfred's boyish voice calls out after me. "Thanks for the apple, miss! See you at the Harvest Festival!"

"Not going," I mutter.

I tell myself not to look back as I go back up the path and out of the clearing. If I just walk until the thicket of trees, they'll obscure my views, and then—

I look back.

Winfred and his dad both have their feet in the water now. He's still chatting away, gesturing to punctuate his words with what's left of the apple in his hand. I'm too far away to hear whatever he's saying, obviously, it's probably just kid nonsense. But whatever he's saying, it makes his dad throw his head back and laugh.

So he's funny too, like my baby cousin.

I look away.

He's not real, he's not real. None of them are real, I repeat to myself, back on the main path. Going West, still. Not East. Not to the Harvest Festival.

One foot in front of the other, that's all I, Gemma Tran, have to do. That's my only responsibility.

Everyone around me is just, like, ambient noise. Cannon fodder. Video game NPCs. I bet if I'd talked to them for longer, they'd say the same things over and over again too. "I love the Harvest Festival!" "I'm so excited to go to the Harvest Festival, are you going?" That sort of thing.

So what if Winfred seemed plenty able to say whatever he wanted.

So what if his dad seemed plenty able to dote on him too.

So what if Winfred won't ever get to see the morning market, since the attack is happening tonight—

I yank myself away from the thought, before the image of Winfred's sweet open face going slack and lifeless can crystallize in my mind.

They're not real, I think, gritting my teeth. Even if Winfred ends up being one of the victims, even if he never again gets to chat away while his dad looks on indulgently—

Damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

I skid to a stop in the middle of the road, making the woman behind me collide with my back. As she steadies her baskets and curses up a storm, I pivot on my heels and start walking back the direction I came - Eastward. Going with the flow of the crowd now, instead of against it.

Then I calculate how long it's going to take me to reach the Keep, and how long it might take me to convince someone about the upcoming attack—and break out into a run.

If I sprint the entire way, I might just make it in time.4

Maybe after raising the alarm, I can lock myself in the dungeons, put a knapsack over my head, and pretend to be a corpse.

===

1. Turns out fear of dying can do a lot more for you than 11 years of gym class.

2. I mean, there's really only two explanations, right? It was either a medieval outhouse or a medieval picnic area, and honestly, I'd take both/either right now (The right answer ends up being both. Only there's not really an outhouse, just some thick bushes).

3. On the other hand, the books are always joking about how bad medieval people smell. Maybe the stench will actually help me blend in? Like a smell disguise.

4. I once read online that adrenaline helped one woman lift a whole car up to rescue her kid. I'll need adrenaline to perform the miracle of pulling this off too, because before this I'd never so much as finish three laps around a track.