Dawn painted the forest in shades of amber and gold, transforming the once-menacing woodland into something almost welcoming. Adrian had been following the widening path for over an hour, guided by the gentle babble of the creek beside him. His muscles ached from the night's ordeal, but each step carried him further from the site of his second death, and that alone was worth the discomfort.

The trail curved sharply around a moss-covered boulder, and Adrian paused, sensing a subtle change in his surroundings. The underbrush here showed clear signs of regular clearing, fallen branches had been systematically removed, and certain berry bushes appeared to have been deliberately spared the knife. Someone maintained this section of forest with careful intention.

"Purposeful stewardship," Adrian murmured, crouching to examine a line of stones that too perfectly marked the path's edge to be natural. "Not just passing through, but living with the land."

His academy training had included extensive wilderness survival, though always with military objectives in mind. This was different—the work of someone who viewed the forest as home rather than obstacle.

Adrian rose and continued more cautiously, all senses alert. The silver rune on his forearm remained dormant, offering no supernatural warnings, but his instincts had been honed long before any magical contract had claimed him.

The path widened further, eventually opening onto a small clearing dominated by a structure that made Adrian stop in his tracks. A cabin—rough-hewn but sturdy—stood beneath the protective branches of three massive pines. Built primarily of timber with a sharply pitched roof now covered in morning dew, it exuded a sense of stubborn permanence amid the wilderness.

Smoke curled lazily from a stone chimney, carrying the unmistakable scent of cooking meat. Surrounding the cabin, Adrian noted several practical additions: a woodpile stacked higher than a man's head, animal skins stretched on frames for tanning, an herb garden in neat rows, and what appeared to be a smokehouse a short distance away.

Most tellingly, a series of intricate snares and warning systems encircled the property—thin cords connecting suspended bells, pressure triggers hidden beneath innocent-looking leaves, and carefully positioned mirrors to catch sunlight at specific angles. The defenses weren't designed to kill, but to alert.

Adrian approached openly, deliberately scuffing his boot against a river stone to trigger one of the warning bells. No sense in startling someone capable of such careful preparation.

The cabin door swung open before the bell finished ringing.

"That's far enough, stranger," called a voice as rough and weathered as old leather. "State your business or be on your way."

The figure that emerged from the cabin defied Adrian's expectations. He had anticipated perhaps a hardened woodsman in his prime, but instead found himself facing an elderly man—though "elderly" seemed an insufficient descriptor for the living monument to resilience that stood before him.

The man—presumably the cabin's sole occupant—stood slightly stooped yet somehow radiating more vitality than men half his apparent age. A wild mane of silver-white hair framed a face carved by time and elements into a landscape of deep lines and weather-darkened skin. His beard, equally white but meticulously trimmed, contrasted sharply with eyebrows that seemed to have been left to grow according to their own wild ambitions.

Most striking were his eyes—pale blue but so bright they appeared almost to glow against his tanned skin, sharp with intelligence and utterly devoid of fear.

One gnarled hand held a crossbow with the casual comfort of decades of familiarity, while the other rested on the head of a massive hound that stood silently at his side—a beast with mottled gray fur and watchful amber eyes that tracked Adrian's every movement.

Adrian slowly raised his empty hands, keeping them well away from Wind Howl's hilt. "I mean no harm," he called, voice steady. "I'm a traveler who's lost his way. I've spent the night evading some rather persistent wolves and would be grateful for directions."

The old man's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Adrian with the practiced assessment of someone who had survived countless potential threats. "Wolves, you say? Red-eyed beasts twice the size they ought to be?"

Adrian nodded. "The very same. They proved remarkably difficult to discourage."

A bark of laughter escaped the old man, though the crossbow didn't waver. "Yet here you stand, unbloodied and whole. Either you're the finest swordsman this side of the Great Divide, or you're lying through your teeth."

"Perhaps a bit of both," Adrian replied with a slight smile, deciding that partial honesty might serve better than a complete explanation of his resurrections. "I'm well-trained, reasonably lucky, and smart enough to run when fighting proves futile."

This answer seemed to satisfy the old man, who lowered his crossbow fractionally. "At least you're not claiming to have slain a pack single-handed. Those who boast such feats rarely live to finish their tales." He squinted against the morning light. "You have a name, traveler?"

"Adrian Felton." He deliberately omitted his rank and affiliation with the Astor Kingdom, sensing such details might complicate matters before he understood his situation better.

"Karl," the old man replied simply. "Just Karl. Haven't had need of a family name in these woods for longer than you've been alive, I'd wager." He gestured toward a rough-hewn bench beside the cabin's entrance. "Sit if you've a mind to. Standing there like a lost fawn won't get you fed or informed."

Adrian approached carefully, noting how the massive hound's eyes never left him even as Karl returned inside briefly. The animal showed no aggression, merely watchful intelligence that seemed almost human in its assessment.

Karl emerged moments later with two wooden cups, offering one to Adrian before lowering himself onto the bench with the controlled deliberation of one who knew intimately which movements would aggravate old injuries.

"Blackberry tea," Karl explained as Adrian sniffed the steaming liquid cautiously. "Nothing fancier. If I meant to poison you, I wouldn't waste good berries doing it."

Adrian accepted this blunt logic with a nod and sipped the tea—finding it surprisingly complex in flavor, tart yet sweet with undertones of herbs he couldn't identify. "My thanks," he said, the warmth spreading through his exhausted body like a blessing.

Karl studied him over the rim of his own cup. "You're not dressed like any hunter I know, yet not outfitted like a proper traveler either. Those clothes—someone gave them to you." It wasn't a question.

Adrian chose his words carefully. "I... lost my original garments. These were what I found myself in when I awoke in the forest."

"Awoke?" Karl's bushy eyebrows rose. "Now there's a tale worth hearing, I suspect."

"It's a longer story than either of us has patience for this morning," Adrian replied. "But I would be grateful to know where exactly I find myself. This forest is unlike any I've encountered before."

Karl leaned back, one weathered hand absently stroking the hound's head. "You're in the Helheim Forest, eastern edge. Most folks with sense avoid these woods entirely, or at least stick to the marked trader paths on the western border." He eyed Adrian appraisingly. "Where were you headed before you got yourself lost?"

The name struck Adrian like a physical blow. Helheim—in the ancient mythology of the northern provinces, the realm of the inglorious dead. A coincidence, surely, but an unsettling one given his recent experiences with death.

"I was..." Adrian hesitated, then opted for a version of the truth. "I'm from Astor Kingdom. I served in their military until recently. I'm seeking to understand how I came to be here."

The change in Karl's demeanor was immediate and profound. The casual wariness transformed into sharp alert attention. The hound, sensing its master's shift, rose to its feet with a low rumble in its throat.

"Astor Kingdom," Karl repeated flatly. "You claim to hail from Astor."

Adrian tensed, ready to move if necessary. "I do not merely claim it. I was born in its capital, trained at its Royal Sword Academy, and served as deputy captain in its Seventh Legion."

Karl set down his cup with deliberate care. "Young man, either you're the most confused individual I've met in my seventy-three years, or you're attempting a jest in remarkably poor taste."

"Neither," Adrian replied, maintaining eye contact. "I speak the truth as I know it."

"Then you know precious little." Karl's voice held no mockery, only a strange blend of pity and suspicion. "Astor Kingdom fell over two centuries ago. Its capital is a ruin so thoroughly reclaimed by nature that only scholars and treasure-hunters still remember its location."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The world seemed to tilt beneath Adrian. Two centuries. Two hundred years of history had passed while he... what? Slept? Drifted between lives? The implications crashed through his mind like a battering ram, each realization more devastating than the last. Everyone he had known—his fellow soldiers, his academy instructors, the royal family he had sworn to protect—all dust in graves long forgotten.

"That's not possible," he whispered, though even as the words left his mouth, he recognized their futility. After dying and returning twice, what meaning did "impossible" still hold?

Karl watched him with eyes that had witnessed a lifetime of human suffering. "Your shock seems genuine enough," he observed quietly. "Which raises far more questions than it answers."

Adrian forced himself to breathe steadily, applying the mental discipline that had carried him through battlefield chaos. "The Royal Sword Academy. Does it still exist in any form?"

Karl shook his head. "Destroyed during the Fall. Some say its library was secretly preserved by the last grandmaster, but if true, the location died with him." He leaned forward slightly. "How old are you, Adrian Felton?"

"Twenty-three. Or at least, I was twenty-three when..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain his last clear memories.

"When you died on the Red Hawk Plains," Karl finished for him, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper.

Adrian's hand moved instinctively to Wind Howl's hilt. "How could you possibly know that?"

Instead of answering directly, Karl rose with a grunt of effort. "Come inside. This conversation shouldn't happen in the open air."

Adrian hesitated only briefly before following the old hunter into the cabin. If Karl had meant him harm, the crossbow would have been the simpler solution than poisoned tea or elaborate conversations.

The cabin's interior proved as practical and well-maintained as its exterior. A single room served multiple functions—living area, kitchen, and sleeping quarters all arranged around a central stone hearth where a small fire cooked something aromatic in a suspended pot. Cured meats and dried herbs hung from the rafters, while well-worn tools lined the walls alongside an impressive collection of weapons. Maps and charts covered one section of wall, many marked with notations in a careful, precise hand.

Karl gestured toward a chair at the small table, then rummaged through a cedar chest in the corner. He eventually extracted an object wrapped in oilcloth, handling it with unexpected reverence.

"My grandfather was a scholar before he became a hunter," Karl explained, carefully unwrapping the package. "He passed his books and knowledge to my father, who passed them to me, though I've had less use for them than they did."

The oilcloth fell away to reveal a book bound in cracked leather, its pages yellowed with extreme age. Karl opened it with careful fingers to a specific page and placed it before Adrian.

"The Battle of Red Hawk Plains," Karl said simply. "The last stand of Astor's Seventh Legion."

Adrian stared at the faded illustration that accompanied the text—a rendering of the very battlefield where he had died, complete with the tactical positions of both Astor forces and the northern barbarians. His gaze fell to the text below, struggling to decipher the archaic script.

"Among the fallen heroes of that fateful day, histories record with special note the sacrifice of Deputy Captain Adrian Felton, whose intervention saved the life of Thomas Merrick (later General Merrick of the Resistance). Felton's body was never recovered, leading to decades of folk tales claiming he had been spirited away by forest spirits or shadow mages, though scholars dismiss such accounts as the natural mythologizing of tragic figures."

Adrian's fingers traced the words, the sensation of touching his own obituary surreal beyond description. "Thomas survived," he whispered. "He lived."

Karl watched him with unreadable eyes. "You truly are him, aren't you? The Adrian Felton of old legend."

"Legend seems a grandiose term for a footnote in a history book," Adrian replied, attempt at humor undermined by the slight tremor in his voice. "But yes, I am... was... that man."

Silence filled the cabin, broken only by the soft crackling of the hearth fire and the hound's rhythmic breathing from its position by the door. Karl seemed to be weighing multiple thoughts, his weathered face inscrutable.

Finally, the old hunter spoke. "Two possibilities present themselves. Either you're the most dedicated and convincing fraud I've encountered in my long life, or something has happened that defies natural law." He gestured toward Adrian's arm. "That mark you keep unconsciously touching might offer some explanation."

Adrian glanced down, surprised to find his fingers indeed tracing the outline of the silver rune beneath his sleeve. He hadn't been aware of the gesture. After a moment's hesitation, he rolled up his sleeve, revealing the faint silvery pattern embedded in his skin.

Karl leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Arcane script, ancient form. Beyond my limited knowledge to decipher." He sat back, expression thoughtful. "But I've lived long enough in these woods to recognize magic when I see it. Real magic, not the parlor tricks village 'wizards' perform at festivals."

"It appeared after I... returned," Adrian explained, deciding full disclosure might be his only path to understanding. "I died on that battlefield, Karl. I felt the arrow pierce my heart. But then there was darkness, and a silver-haired woman, and then..." He gestured helplessly at himself. "Then I woke in this forest, two centuries later."

"And the wolves?" Karl prompted. "You said you encountered them last night."

Adrian's jaw tightened. "They killed me as well. Tore open my back, crushed my throat. But I returned again, at the same spot, healed as if it never happened."

Karl exhaled slowly, reaching for a nearby shelf and retrieving a clay bottle and two small cups. He poured a finger of amber liquid into each, sliding one toward Adrian. "Apple spirits. Seems appropriate for revelations of immortality before breakfast."

Adrian accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, downing the potent liquor in one swallow. The burn in his throat felt reassuringly normal—a mundane sensation in a world that had become anything but.

"I'm not sure 'immortality' is the correct term," he said after the warmth spread through his chest. "I can die—have died, twice now. I simply don't... stay dead."

"A distinction with little practical difference," Karl observed dryly. "Though I imagine the dying part remains unpleasant regardless of its impermanence."

The unexpected humor startled a laugh from Adrian. "That's certainly one way to describe having your lungs shredded by claws."

Karl studied him with renewed interest. "Most men would be curled in a ball of existential terror after experiencing what you describe. Yet here you sit, discussing your own deaths with remarkable composure."

Adrian considered this. "The academy trained us to compartmentalize. To acknowledge fear without being paralyzed by it." He rotated the empty cup between his fingers. "Besides, what good would hysteria serve? I find myself displaced in time, marked by magic I don't understand, apparently unable to remain dead. Panic won't improve any of those conditions."

A slow nod from Karl, accompanied by something that might have been approval. "Practical. I can respect that." He rose, moving to the hearth to stir whatever simmered in the pot. "You'll be wanting breakfast, I assume. Death and resurrection must work up an appetite."

"Actually, yes," Adrian admitted, suddenly aware of the hollow emptiness in his stomach. "Though I wouldn't want to impose further on your hospitality."

Karl waved away the concern. "I've lived alone in these woods for thirty years, young man. Conversation with someone who isn't a hound or a squirrel holds value enough to justify sharing my stew." He gestured toward the pot. "Rabbit and wild onions. Nothing fancy, but it'll keep body and soul together." A pause, followed by a wry smile. "Though in your case, that connection seems quite secure already."

As Karl prepared two bowls of the hearty stew, Adrian found himself appreciating the old hunter's matter-of-fact approach to his extraordinary situation. No hysterics, no religious fervor, no immediate assumptions of malevolence—just practical assessment and adaptation to new information.

"You're taking this rather well," Adrian observed as a steaming bowl was placed before him. "Most people might find claims of resurrection somewhat disturbing."

Karl settled back into his chair with his own portion. "I've spent over seven decades in this world, the last three alone in a forest rumored to be cursed. I've seen trees move when they ought to stand still, met animals that spoke in riddles, and witnessed lights in the sky that danced to music no human ear should hear." He took a spoonful of stew before continuing. "An immortal soldier from the past? Hardly the strangest thing these woods have produced."

Adrian tasted the stew—simple but flavorful, the kind of practical sustenance that reminded him of campaign cooking during more straightforward times. "And you believe me? Just like that?"

"I believe you believe it," Karl replied carefully. "And unlike most tales I hear, yours explains certain oddities rather than creating new ones."

"What oddities?"

Karl gestured toward Wind Howl, which Adrian had propped against the table. "That blade, for instance. The craftsmanship and rune patterns haven't been produced in over a century. The academy's techniques died with its last masters." He nodded toward Adrian's general posture. "Your speech patterns, formal without affectation. The way you hold yourself—military discipline from a tradition long abandoned."

The old hunter leaned forward. "Most tellingly, the genuine shock on your face when I mentioned Astor's fall. No actor, however skilled, could manufacture that particular expression of loss."

Adrian acknowledged this assessment with a nod, appreciating Karl's observational skills. "What happens now?" he asked, the question encompassing far more than just the immediate future.

"Now?" Karl repeated. "Now you finish your stew, help me check my traplines since you've benefited from their bounty, and decide whether you want shelter for a while or prefer to continue wandering." He shrugged. "I've room enough and could use an extra pair of hands with winter approaching. In return, I can teach you what you need to know about the world as it exists now, not as it was two centuries ago."

The offer's pragmatism appealed to Adrian's military sensibilities. An exchange of value for value, with clear expectations on both sides. "You'd welcome a stranger claiming to be unkillable into your home? I could be dangerous."

Karl's laugh held genuine amusement. "Young man, I was killing things that wanted to kill me before your grandfather's grandfather was born. If you prove dangerous, I'll simply push you off the north ridge. Even if you survive the fall, it'll take you three days to climb back up—plenty of time for me to relocate if necessary."

Adrian found himself grinning despite everything. "Fair assessment. I accept your offer, at least until I better understand my situation."

"Good," Karl nodded decisively. "Finish eating. The eastern trapline won't check itself, and I've questions about this Royal Sword Academy that might help identify those runes you're carrying."

As they finished their meal in companionable silence, Adrian felt the first tendrils of something he'd thought lost forever—direction. Not understanding, not yet, but a path that might lead there eventually.

The silver rune on his arm remained quiescent, neither burning with resurrection's fire nor fading completely from sight. Whatever destiny or duty it represented seemed content, for now, to let him learn and recover.

Outside, dawn had fully transformed into morning. Through the cabin's small window, Adrian caught glimpses of a forest that seemed less menacing in daylight—still mysterious, still dangerous, but navigable with the right knowledge and preparation.

Knowledge and preparation that Karl, it seemed, was willing to provide.

For the first time since awakening in this strange new world, Adrian Felton, twice-dead knight of a long-fallen kingdom, felt something approaching hope.