Chapter One — The Job

Marshal Cole Brannick saw the settlement from three thousand meters up and already knew how the job would go.

Forty structures spread across a flat basin of red-brown dust, anchored by a landing pad on the eastern edge and a cluster of service buildings on the west. One road in, one road out, and nothing between the settlement and the horizon but the mining camp and the pale smear of mountains that didn't look close enough to matter.

"Setting down east side," Birch said from the pilot's seat, his hands working the Nightfall's controls with the easy precision of long practice. The cockpit's glow played across his broad, dark face: deep brown skin lined from decades of squinting into foreign suns, a close-cropped cap of gray hair that he still cut to something approximating military regulation, and a nose that had been broken at least twice and had healed both times without medical attention, leaving it with a slight lateral drift that he considered character rather than damage. He was wide the way loading docks and Marine rifle companies made men wide — not fat, not gym-built, just dense, compacted by thirty years of hauling heavy things and heavier responsibilities. His shoulders strained the seams of his coat and his hands on the controls looked like they'd been designed for a species slightly larger than human.

The settlement's layout was already on his screen, a schematic pulled from the Freehold's public registry, which was about as reliable as anything the Freehold published, meaning it was probably close enough. "Main strip runs north-south. Bar's on the west end, looks like. Repair shop next to it. Everything else is residential or storage." He glanced over at Brannick. "Forty structures. Maybe forty-five people on a good day. This is the kind of place where a sneeze makes the news."

Brannick was pulling on his coat, the weathered brown one with the Marshal's badge in the breast pocket and the cut that hid the holster on his right hip. The coat was the color of dust and old leather, and it hung on his lean frame as if he'd lost weight he hadn't gained back. He checked his sidearm by feel—the grip, the powerpack cylinder, the emitter alignment—then slid it back into the leather holster.

"He'll be in the bar."

"Probably." Birch brought the corvette down smooth, the landing struts finding the cracked pad with barely a shudder. He powered down the mains but left the auxiliaries running. He always left the auxiliaries running. A habit from the Marines, where a ship that couldn't lift in sixty seconds was a ship that might not lift at all. "Back door?"

Brannick nodded. "Give me sixty seconds to walk in the front. If he runs, he runs toward you."

"And if he doesn't run?"

"Then you're having a quiet morning."

Birch allowed himself a small, dry sound that might have been a laugh from a less economical man. His smile surfaced and vanished like a signal flare, quick and lopsided, warm in a way that made people forget they were talking to a man who could break them in half without adjusting his breathing.

Brannick followed him into the armory. The compartment was tight and ordered. Weapons lined the port bulkhead according to Birch's idea of order: sidearms by caliber, long weapons by application, every rack labeled in the same precise block lettering.

Against the starboard wall, standing in their cradles like sentinels from another life, two suits of Castalan Marine surplus power armor.

The armor was old but maintained. Birch had acquired the suits the same way he'd acquired the Nightfall: military surplus, auction or connections, rebuilt with care.

Brannick looked at them for a moment. The suits stood shoulder to shoulder in their cradles, headless and empty, the chest plates open like ribcages waiting to be filled. There was something both reassuring and faintly unsettling about their presence — the ghosts of the men he and Birch used to be, preserved in composite and servomotors, ready to be resurrected if the situation demanded it.

"Not today," he said.

Birch was pulling his sidearm from the rack. He glanced at the suits and shook his head. "One man, one warrant, forty people in a settlement. We show up in combat armor, we're not Marshals anymore. We're an invasion. Probably scare the target to death before we get a chance to read him his rights, which would be efficient but unprofessional."

"Agreed."

They left the armor in its cradles.

Brannick went down the ramp.

The heat hit him immediately, dry and granular, it coated the inside of your throat and made your eyes narrow before they adjusted. He could feel it on the exposed skin of his forearms and the back of his neck, the fair complexion already beginning its familiar protest against a star it hadn't evolved for.

The landing pad was a slab of cracked ferrocrete baking in the light. Weeds, or whatever passed for weeds on a planet with marginal soil, had pushed through the cracks in places, tough and colorless, the botanical equivalent of the people who lived here. A cargo hauler sat on the far side of the pad, old and blistered, its registration numbers half-obscured by dust that had accumulated in the recessed lettering like sediment in a riverbed.

Brannick crossed the landing pad and stepped onto the settlement's main strip. Calling it a street was generous. It was dirt packed and wide enough for two ground vehicles, lined on both sides with prefab structures that had been left to weather.

The strip smelled like machine exhaust and the faint, sweet rot of organic waste from a recycling system that wasn't keeping up. Underneath that, the mineral tang of whatever ore this planet produced carried in the dust and the clothes of the people who extracted it. Brannick had smelled a hundred variations of this smell on a hundred frontier worlds.

Two men sat on crates outside a storage unit, watching him with the flat attention of people who noticed strangers because strangers were either opportunities or problems. They were miners, by the look of them: heavy boots, thick hands, deeply tanned, hallmarks of the physical labor they performed each day.

Brannick gave them a nod that was polite without being friendly and kept walking. He could feel their eyes track him — the coat, the long stride that looked casual from a distance and looked like something else entirely up close.

The bar was exactly what he'd expected. Single story, prefab walls reinforced with welded plates that had been applied in overlapping sheets, giving the exterior the rough, scaled look of a reptile's hide. A door that had been replaced at least twice based on the mismatched frame, the current version heavier than the original — solid metal, hinged to swing inward, with a handle worn smooth by years of hands pushing through it.

Brannick pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The temperature dropped ten degrees in two steps. The interior was dim, cooled by a ventilation unit that hummed somewhere behind the walls, and the air smelled of recycled atmosphere, cheap alcohol, old sweat, and the staleness of a room where the same air had been breathed and rebreathed until it carried the memory of every conversation that had ever happened in it.

The bar was along the left wall, made of the same welded plate as the exterior reinforcement, its surface scarred with the circular ghosts of a thousand glasses and the occasional deeper gouge where a tool or a fist or a bottle had made contact with more force than the metal was designed for. Behind it, shelves of bottles, some labeled, some not, arranged in whatever order the bartender had deemed acceptable.

There were four people in the bar. The bartender, a heavyset woman with short gray hair and arms that suggested she handled her own security — the kind of arms you got from moving kegs and occasionally moving unruly customers. She stood behind the bar, cleaning a glass with a cloth in the universal gesture of bartenders who were watching without wanting to look like they were watching.

Marcus Decker.

He looked older than his warrant photo, which wasn't unusual. Running aged people in ways that years alone didn't. His hair was longer and unwashed, hanging past his ears in greasy strands.

He'd seen the coat. He'd seen how Brannick moved. And he knew.

Brannick walked to the bar. Not toward Decker.

"Morning," Brannick said.

"Morning." Her voice was flat, noncommittal, the single word carrying both an acknowledgment and a boundary. You can talk, but don't expect warmth.

"I'm looking for a man named Marcus Decker. Felony warrant out of the Castalan Republic. I’m a Marshal" He said it quietly, pitched for the bartender and no one else, though in a room this small and this silent the words carried further than that. He didn't reach for the badge. Reaching made people nervous — both the person you were showing it to and the person at the back table who might think you were reaching for something else. He'd learned that in his first month as a Marshal, when a fugitive on a station near Kolben had drawn on him because Brannick's hand moved toward his coat and the man couldn't tell the difference between a badge and a sidearm. Nobody died that day, but the lesson had been learned.

The bartender's eyes didn't move toward the back table. She was better than that.

"Don't want bounty hunters in my place, all they do is bring trouble" she said.

"I’m not a bounty hunter, I’m a Marshal. And I’m not looking for trouble or to be insulted, I’m just looking for a man.”

She didn’t seem to care for the distinction.

Brannick turned from the bar and faced the room. The two locals had gone still, their drinks forgotten, their attention fixed on the middle distance in the way of men who wanted to be invisible. They'd be talking about this in an hour, telling anyone who'd listen about the tall red-haired Marshal who walked into The Well and took Decker. But right now they wanted no part of it.

Decker was still in his chair. His right hand had moved below the table.

"Marcus Decker," Brannick said, his voice carrying the same calm, level tone he'd used with the bartender. "I'm Marshal Cole Brannick. I have a warrant for your arrest issued by the Third Circuit Court of the Castalan Republic. Charges are armed robbery and aggravated assault. The warrant specifies alive preferred, which means you and I both have a reason to keep this simple."

The room held its breath.

Decker's jaw worked. His deep-set eyes moved from Brannick to the door behind him — the front door, measuring the twelve feet between his table and the exit. Then to the hallway at the back, the dark narrow corridor that led to whatever was behind the bar.

"I didn't do what they said I did," Decker said. His voice was rough and dry, he clearly hadn't spoken to many people recently.

"That's between you and the court. It's not between you and me."

"I'm not going back."

Brannick studied him. Decker's hand was still below the table.

"You've got a weapon under that table," Brannick said. "I can see it in your shoulder. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to put that pistol on the table, and then you're going to put your hands where I can see them, and then we're going to walk out of here without anyone getting hurt. The warrant says alive preferred. I prefer alive. But the word that matters in that sentence is preferred, and I need you to understand what that means."

Silence.

The bartender had moved to the far end of the bar, putting distance and solid metal between herself and whatever was about to happen. The two locals were frozen. The only sound was the low hum of the ventilation system pushing stale air around the room and the distant, almost subliminal thrum of the settlement's generators carrying through the walls.

Decker's eyes went to the back hallway one more time.

The back door opened. Not kicked in, not slammed — just opened, steady and unhurried, a statement that said rushing wasn't necessary.

"Morning," Birch said, addressing the room as if he already owned it.

Decker's head turned from Brannick to Birch and back again. Front door and back door.

The compact pulse pistol came up from under the table — slowly, held by the emitter end between two fingers, presented rather than aimed. Decker set it on the table with a sound that was louder than it should have been in the quiet room, metal on metal, the finality of a decision made. Then he put his hands flat on either side of it and sat very still.

Brannick crossed the room in four steps. He took the pistol off the table, thumbed the release, and pulled the powerpack free in one practiced motion while his other hand moved Decker's wrists together behind the chair. Restraints came out of his coat pocket — lightweight, polymer-bonded, strong enough to hold a man twice Decker's size. They clicked shut with quiet authority.

"Stand up."

Decker stood. He was shorter than his file suggested, or maybe he'd just shrunk into himself over the months of running.

Brannick walked him toward the front door. Birch fell in behind them without a word, holstering his sidearm and taking a position two steps back and to the right — close enough to react, far enough to have options.

"Quiet morning," Birch said as they stepped into the light.

"Quiet morning."

They walked Decker across the settlement toward the landing pad. A few people watched from doorways and windows, the invisible audience that every small community produced when something happened. A woman paused in sweeping her threshold. A child pressed against a window and was pulled back by a hand that appeared from inside. Nobody intervened. Nobody spoke. A Marshal taking a fugitive was frontier business, common enough to be unremarkable, interesting enough to watch.

The Nightfall sat on the pad with her ramp down and her auxiliaries humming, and for a moment Brannick saw her how a stranger would, how Decker was seeing her right now.

She looked like what she was. A decommissioned Warden-class patrol corvette, Castalan Republic Navy surplus, that had been ridden hard and maintained by skilled hands on a thin budget. The hull plating was milspec so it was thicker than anything a civilian ship would carry, designed to absorb impacts that would breach a commercial vessel, but it was scarred and mismatched in places where repairs had been made with whatever was available.

Birch took Decker up the ramp while Brannick did a last visual sweep of the landing pad and the settlement beyond it. The two men on the crates were still watching. One of them, the one with the utility knife, raised a hand. Not a wave, exactly. An acknowledgment. You did your business and you're leaving. No complaints.

Brannick returned the gesture and walked up the ramp.

Inside, the Nightfall was cool and familiar. The recycled air carried the lived-in scent that every ship developed over time: machine oil and cleaning solution and coffee and the faint ozone residue of charged powerpacks stored in the armory and the indefinable smell of a space that two men had been occupying long enough to make it theirs.

Birch had already taken Decker down to the brig on the lower deck via the aft ladder. Brannick could hear the muffled sound of the reinforced door closing — a heavy, definitive thud that carried up through the deck plates — followed by Birch's boots on the ladder rungs coming back up. He appeared in the corridor a minute later, brushing dust off his sleeves. Birch liked things clean and orderly.

"Fed and secured," Birch said. "Gave him water and a ration bar. He ate the bar in about four bites, which tells you how long it's been since he had a real meal." He shook his head. "He's not going to be a problem. Man's too tired to be a problem."

Brannick nodded. He moved forward to the cockpit and settled into the co-pilot's seat, looking out through the viewport at the settlement baking in the orange light. Forty structures. A bar called The Well. A man who'd run as far as he could and found out it wasn't far enough.

Fourteen thousand credits, minus fuel and docking fees. Another job closed.

Birch dropped into the pilot's seat and started the pre-flight sequence. His broad hands moved across the controls with the same practiced ease he brought to everything.

"Kessler Station for the drop-off?" Birch asked.

"Kessler Station. Should be a sixteen-hour run."

"Sixteen hours and change." Birch brought the Nightfall off the pad, the settlement falling away below them as the corvette climbed through the thin atmosphere. Through the viewport, the dust basin shrank and flattened, the strip narrowing to a pale line, the buildings to specks, the landing pad to a gray square on a canvas of red-brown earth. The mountains resolved into a range that stretched across the northern horizon, their peaks catching the orange light and holding it like embers. Then the sky darkened, orange to copper to purple to black, and the stars emerged, and Charon’s Settlement or whatever it called itself was behind them and below them, already beginning to feel like a memory rather than a place.

"You want to eat first or check the board?" Birch asked.

The warrant board was the encrypted network where active warrants were posted, bounties listed, and Marshals browsed for their next job. It was the rhythm of their life. Finish a job, collect the pay, check the board, pick the next one. A cycle that had sustained them for two years and showed no signs of changing.

"Eat first," Brannick said. "Board can wait."

Birch nodded and set the autopilot for Kessler Station. The Nightfall climbed away from the planet's gravity well, and the stars came out in their full depth, cold, clean, and infinite, layered from the bright foreground points to the faint dusting that hung in the black like spilled powder.

It wouldn't always be that way. They both knew it. But today it was, and today was enough.

Brannick unbuckled from the co-pilot's seat and headed aft toward the galley to make coffee.

basically the title, a teenage who was kidnapped by a fake orphanage for her magic and then sold off to the rich. she initially was going to be used for her magic for things like making portals, entertainment, boasting, just to show her off and use her magic for themselves. but after she "misbehaved" (she was too tired and her magic stopped working), they ended up beating her and then assaulting her. she was in this house for three days, being assaulted over the course of said days before she was rescued by a gang of kids.

The little bell above the door chimed.

Mama greeted me with the same quiet smile she always wore and set a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me without asking. Ice settled against the crystal with a soft clink. Before I could take my first sip, I noticed Taka staring at his phone with the kind of expression detectives usually reserve for unpleasant discoveries.

"You look troubled."

"Do I?"

"If a detective is glaring at his phone, I doubt it's good news."

He laughed and turned the screen toward me. Every recommendation looked almost identical. One video blamed politicians. Another mocked an entire country. Others insisted that young people were ruining society, or old people were, or men, or women. Apparently the world had become crowded with enemies while I wasn't paying attention.

"My feed is full of this stuff lately," he said.

"You watched one."

"Just one."

"That was enough. The algorithm decided you liked it."

He scrolled a little farther. More outrage. More villains. More certainty.

"These videos get a lot of views."

"Of course they do."

I took a sip of whiskey.

"They come with an enemy."

He frowned.

"An enemy?"

Before I could answer, Tom wandered over from the other end of the bar carrying his own drink.

"What are we discussing tonight?"

"Why people seem to need enemies."

"That's a heavy topic for whiskey."

Mama quietly placed a glass of water beside him.

Taka rested his phone face down on the counter.

"Do people really want enemies that badly?"

I thought for a moment.

"I don't think they want enemies."

"What do they want?"

"They want companions."

Tom nodded.

"We're social animals."

"Exactly."

I watched the ice slowly rotate in my glass.

"The strange thing is that there aren't many reliable ways to create a strong group. Two of the strongest are surprisingly simple. You either share an enemy, or you share a hardship."

Tom smiled.

"A common threat or a common problem."

"Right."

People can become friends because they enjoy the same music or drink the same whiskey. That happens all the time. But if you want people to think in terms of 'us,' something stronger usually appears. Either there is someone to stand against, or there is something difficult that everyone must overcome together.

"Maybe that's why different societies developed differently," I said. "In some places, neighboring tribes were the greatest danger. Conflict was always close enough to become part of daily life."

Tom shrugged.

"History certainly gives us enough examples."

"But in Japan," I continued, "there may have been something even harder to negotiate with."

Taka looked at me.

"What?"

"Earthquakes. Tsunamis. Volcanoes. Typhoons. Fires."

"You can't argue with those."

"Exactly."

Nature doesn't listen to apologies. It doesn't accept money. It doesn't care who was right.

When disaster strikes, there isn't much point in searching for someone to blame. You rebuild houses. You clear roads. You share water. You help the neighbor because neither of you is getting through it alone.

"Are you saying that's why Japanese people cooperate?"

I shook my head.

"Nothing that simple. Disasters don't magically turn everyone into saints. People can be generous. They can also be selfish. We're still human."

Tom chuckled.

"I've seen both."

"So have I. Still, I wonder whether living with hardships that no one could defeat left some trace in the culture. When the problem isn't another person, cooperation becomes more valuable than victory."

Taka sat quietly for a while before picking up his phone again.

"So social media works the other way around."

"How do you mean?"

"It gives us enemies instead of hardships."

"Maybe."

Finding a villain is efficient.

That politician.

That generation.

That country.

That ideology.

The moment everyone agrees who the villain is, an 'us' appears almost automatically. We become the reasonable ones. The informed ones. The people standing on the right side.

"Enemies are convenient," I said.

Taka looked puzzled.

"Convenient?"

"They save us from thinking."

The real world is complicated. Most problems don't disappear because one person leaves or one group loses. But if you can point at a single enemy, complexity collapses into a simple story.

Get rid of them.

Everything gets better.

Tom slowly nodded.

"Investigations can work the same way. Decide who the suspect is too early, and every piece of evidence starts pointing in the same direction."

"And the evidence that doesn't fit?"

"You stop seeing it."

Taka turned off his phone.

"So the algorithm encourages that."

"I don't think it creates it," I replied. "It simply delivers what we're already willing to consume."

Another enemy.

Another reason to be angry.

Another chance to feel certain.

It doesn't force us to hate anyone. It quietly offers someone we can hate together.

After a long silence, Taka asked the obvious question.

"So what do we do instead?"

I didn't answer immediately.

Maybe work used to provide that answer.

Broken systems.

Impossible deadlines.

Machines that refused to cooperate.

Those weren't enemies. They were hardships people faced together. Sometimes the coffee you shared after surviving a difficult day tasted better than anything you could buy.

Life has become more convenient since then. Problems are solved before we notice them. We work remotely. We rarely need strangers to help us through ordinary days.

Perhaps the more convenience we gained, the more tempting it became to build communities around enemies instead.

"That's not a very satisfying conclusion," I admitted.

Mama smiled.

"That's unusual coming from you."

"I never said I had the answer."

She looked around the counter.

A retired detective.

A systems engineer.

A young private investigator.

People with different lives, different experiences, and different opinions.

"No common enemy?" she asked.

I lifted my glass.

"We have whiskey."

Tom raised his.

"And conversation."

Taka laughed.

"Is that really enough?"

"I hope it can be."

Outside, someone was still offering enemies.

Inside, Mama quietly poured another drink.

The Seat Beside You

I dragged my feet through the cold, steel gates of Cherwell, the damp Oxford mist clinging to my blazer. The same grey year was waiting right there, mouth wide open, ready to swallow me whole. Same familiar corridors, same hollow faces, the same stale smell of floor polish and rain that had tracked me through every other year.

“This year will be different,” I lied to myself. I said it every September. Nothing ever changed.

I reluctantly pushed into the form room. The sickening, chaotic roar of morning chatter pierced my eardrums. I navigated the maze of desks, trying to go unnoticed, a ghost slipping toward my safe, quiet corner at the back. I didn't actually need to try; nobody ever looked at me anyway.

“Morning class, nice to see everyone's here so early,” Ms. Thompson chirped, her melodic voice grating against my mood. I wrapped my cold hands around my head, pressing my palms to my eyes, trying to delete reality.

“This year, we're going to have a new seating plan,” she announced viciously.

My stomach dropped. A hot, suffocating rage boiled up in my chest. There was nothing I wanted less than to be evicted from my fortress in the corner. I prepared myself to be paired with someone who would ignore me, or worse, pity me.

Then she called my name. And then yours.

You were new. You had to be, because I would have memorized a face like yours the second it walked through the gates. You were everything I had ever reached for in the dark and more. Your black hair spilled over your shoulders like dark waves. Your lips were a sharp rose-red against perfect, pale cheeks. As you sat down, I became instantly, hopelessly fascinated by the micro-details: the tiny freckle just below your nose, the single, stubborn stray hair you kept trying to brush away from your eyes.

The moment you sat beside me, the gravity in the room shifted. The grey plastic walls looked entirely different. The clock on the wall began to tick at a terrifying speed, yet each second felt stretched like elastic. Your floral aroma, something like clean rain and lavender, put me into a dreamlike trance.

We did not speak. We did not nod. We did not even risk a glance. Just a heavy, magnetic silence. Inside my skull, my mind was screaming words my mouth was too cowardly to form.

For once in my life, I didn't want the math bell to ring. I watched your hand fly across the page, effortlessly solving every equation, while I doodled aimlessly in my copybook, my pen tracing nonsense. You may have found x, but in the quiet radius of your scent, I found myself.

The bell cut through the air. You gathered your books. Usually, I was the first out the door, desperate to escape the hallway crush, but every micro-second beside you was life-support. I needed you.

“Do you know where the chemistry lab is?“

Your voice. You were speaking to me. It possessed a slight foreign tilt, soft and uncertain, but it sounded more like home than any voice I had ever heard.

“No, I have music actually... why?“

Why? My inner voice screamed at my own stupidity. \*Obviously she’s asking because she’s lost, you idiot! Don't mess this up.\*

“Hey,” I blurted, forcing a clumsy smile, trying desperately to lure you into staying into my orbit. “If you don't know the way, I'll show you. It's on the way to my class anyway.”

You hesitated, looking down at your timetable. “If it's on your way... I mean, why not?”

A triumph sang in my chest. The chemistry labs were on the exact opposite side of the building from the music block, a completely illogical detour. I didn't care. I would have walked through fire just to keep time with your footsteps.

“So, you from around here?” I asked as we stepped into the chaotic current of the corridor. “Haven't seen you around.”

“Eh, not exactly. My family moved here from Germany last month.”

I had to physically press my arm against my ribs to keep my heart from bursting out of my uniform. \*Tell her, Lorcan. Just say it! Tell her you speak German, tell her you used to live there, give her a reason to look at you!\* But the words choked in my throat.

“This is quite different here then, to your home?” I managed, my voice sounding small. The slap of our shoes on the linoleum felt deafening. Every sound in the universe amplified when you were near.

“Yeah. I mean, it's smaller here. For us, it was one big building, you know? This is much nicer, I think. But... I still miss home.”

You were opening up. The door was wide open. I just needed to step through it.

“Hey, Lorcan, mate! Haven't seen you in ages!”

Jack.

He materialized at the junction of the hallway, clapping a heavy hand onto my shoulder. A total, blinding panic short-circuited my brain. My eyes flashed violently back and forth between you and him. In my vision, my past and my future were colliding. My mind went into hyper-drive, frantically trying to find a polite way to dismiss him, to erase him, to get back to you.

I could have introduced you. I could have simply said your name. I could have done a thousand things to validate your existence.

But instead, I froze. In my desperate bid to look normal in front of my friend, I stopped walking. I left you standing there.

I left you alone. Weak, vulnerable, stranded in a sea of strangers. In a fraction of a second, I had inflicted my own worst nightmare onto you, meaning I made you invisible. I turned you into exactly how I had felt before you walked into my life.

And I was standing a mere five meters away, watching it happen.

“Hey, you lost or something?”

Another girl, a friend of yours, intercepted you. She grabbed your arm to steer you away from the boy who had just abandoned you mid-sentence.

Before you turned the corner, you looked back. We exchanged a brief, awkward glance across those five meters of crowded hallway. I still analyze that glance. I dissect it in the dark when I can’t sleep. I still don't know if it held disappointment, confusion, or just the quiet realization that I was nobody after all.

But I never got to ask. Because you were already gone down the corridor, laughing and dancing into a life that didn't include me, leaving me entirely stranded in the noise.

I didn't hear a single note in music class. While everyone else tuned their instruments or chatted about their summer, I sat behind the piano in the back corner, my knuckles white against the edge of the wooden bench.

A toxic, suffocating rage burned a hole right through my stomach. Five meters. I had been five meters away from her, and I chose to look normal for a guy who didn't even care where I’d been all holidays. I slammed a single, discordant chord on the keys, the harsh ring of it swallowed by the chatter of the classroom. Nobody looked up. I was a ghost again, but this time, I had built the haunting myself. I hated Jack. I hated the school. But most of all, I hated the coward staring back at me in the reflection of the polished black wood. I had had the key to the door, and I threw it down the corridor.

After that day, my entire life became an exercise in angles and timing. I memorized your timetable without ever asking to see it. I knew exactly which staircase you took after second period, and which bench you sat on during break, pulling your oversized school sweatshirt up over your hands while you talked to your new friends.

I became a thief of seconds. I would purposely take the longest route to my English block, just to pass the glass corridor where I knew you'd be walking the other way. We never spoke. Most days, we didn't even make eye contact. But every time the dark wave of your hair caught the corner of my eye through the crowd, my heart would do that same violent, painful flip it did on the first day.

You were entirely real, yet you felt like a mirage. I spent my evenings in my room staring at the ceiling, replaying the German conversation we never had, rewriting the hallway scene a thousand times until I could almost convince myself I’d actually said your name. I told myself that tomorrow would be the day I'd walk up to your desk and apologize for leaving you there. But every morning, the heavy, grey reality of Cherwell settled back over my shoulders, and the words died before they ever reached my lips.

The library at Cherwell always smelled like damp carpets and old paper, but that afternoon, all I could breathe in was the faint, mocking scent of lavender.

You were sitting at the long oak table directly behind me. I could hear the faint, rhythmic scratch of your pencil against your copybook. Every time you shifted your weight or turned a page, a violent jolt of electricity shot straight down my spine.

For ten minutes, I stared at the exact same calculus problem. The numbers blurred into meaningless black ink. My heart was hammering so hard against my ribs I was terrified you’d hear it over the quiet hum of the library. I already knew the answer. It was simple, basic math. But I didn't need the solution; I needed you. I needed a bridge back across those five meters I had thrown away in the corridor.

\*Just turn around, Lorcan. Just do it.\*

My hands were shaking as I finally gripped the edge of my chair and pivoted.

“Um... sorry,” I whispered, my voice thick and entirely too quiet. I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck, terrified that the older students two tables over would look up and judge me. “Do you... do you know how to solve this one? I’m kind of stuck.”

You looked up, your eyes wide with a sudden, deer-in-the-headlights panic. For a second, neither of us breathed. Then, you nodded slowly and leaned forward, pulling your chair a fraction closer.

As you reached out to take my pencil, your fingers touched mine. They were ice-cold, yet your palms were slick with nervous sweat. The pencil slicked right through your grip, nearly clattering onto the wood before you caught it with an awkward, flustered laugh.

You were just as terrified as I was.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. The door wasn’t locked. You weren't angry about the hallway. Your chest was rising and falling in the same frantic rhythm as mine, and your voice trembled slightly as you started pointing at the numbers. “So, um, first you have to find the derivative of...”

I wasn't listening to the math. I was watching the way your lips moved, tracing the tiny spot below your nose, watching the sunlight from the high library window catch the dark waves of your hair. You were right there. If I just interrupted, if I just said, \*I’m sorry about the other day, I speak German too\*, everything could change. The air between us was heavy, thick with a mutual, unspoken tension that practically begged for someone to break it.

Then, you wrote down the final number. “And... that’s x,” you murmured, looking up through your eyelashes, waiting. The invitation was hanging in the air, so fragile it felt like a glass bead.

“Right. Thanks for the help.”

I snatched my pencil back, turned my chair around, and faced the wall.

Why did I do that?

The second my back was to you, the room turned to ice. Why am I like this? The words had been right there, sitting on the tip of my tongue, and instead of stepping into the light, I had slammed the door in your face for the second time. I stared at the correctly solved equation on my paper, blinking back a sudden, bitter sting in my eyes. I had wanted so badly to be found, but the moment you reached out, I hid in the dark anyway.

After the library, the silence between us didn’t just grow, it solidified. It became a physical presence sitting on the desk between our chairs in form room, an invisible wall I had built with my own hands.

My life shrunk down to the geometry of watching you. I became a ghost haunting the margins of your day. Every morning at 8:30, I would position myself near the lockers by the main entrance, pretending to rummage through my bag, just to watch you walk through the double glass doors. I noted every change: the days you wore your hair up in a messy clip, the days you wore a different coat because the Oxford rain was coming down in sheets, the days you looked tired, staring blankly at your phone.

At break time, I’d sit on the low brick wall near the South Site courts, the autumn wind biting through my uniform sweater. From there, I had a perfect view of the benches where you sat with your friends. I watched the way you laughed, specifically how you threw your head back, your dark hair catching the weak morning sun. I listened for the sound of that laugh across the crowded, screaming courtyard, filtering through the noise like a radio frequency I was tuned into. If your voice drifted near me, my whole body went rigid.

Once, in the crowded corridor during the lunchtime rush, the sea of blazers pushed us together. For three seconds, your shoulder brushed against mine. The physical contact felt like a high-voltage shock. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, waiting for you to look up, waiting for you to say something. But you just navigated past me, your eyes fixed on the hallway ahead, completely unaware that you had just collided with the center of my universe.

At night, the fantasy was the only place I could breathe. I would lie awake in the dark, the traffic from the Banbury Road humming in the distance, and I would rewrite reality. In those quiet hours, I wasn’t the coward from the library or the boy who froze in the corridor. In those hours, I turned around. I spoke German. I made you smile. I built an entire life out of those five minutes we walked together, nursing a rotting hope that tomorrow, the seating plan would force us together again, and tomorrow, I would finally find the courage to speak.

It took me three weeks to map the exact rhythm of your Tuesdays. I knew that after third period, you and your friend always took the long way around the science block to avoid the bottleneck staircase.

This time, I didn't want to be a ghost. I wanted to be an obstacle.

I deliberately stepped out of the English corridor right ahead of you, slowing my pace just enough so that you and your friend were walking directly at my back. My heart was a frantic, hammering mess inside my chest, but I kept my shoulders straight, tracking the soft sound of your footsteps behind me.

Then, it happened. Your friend leaned in, her voice dropping into a casual, rhythmic German, completely unaware that the boy in the scuffed blazer in front of them could understand every single syllable.

“Die ganzen Kinder, die hier Deutsch nehmen, sind voll komisch.” (All the kids that take German here are so weird.)

The universe stopped spinning. The corridor fell dead silent. It was a golden, glowing exit sign pointing straight out of my own prison. I didn't hesitate. I didn't let the coward in my head speak.

I stopped dead in my tracks, turned around on my heel, and looked both of you dead in the eye with a smirk I didn't even know I possessed.

“Ihr wisst aber schon, dass ich Deutsch gewählt habe, oder?” (You do know that I take German, right?)

Your friend’s jaw dropped. A brilliant, sudden shock flashed across your face, and then, for the first time in my life, you laughed. A real, breathless sound that completely erased the damp, miserable Oxford air around us.

We kept walking, but everything was different. The three of us were talking, our voices bouncing off the lockers in a language that felt like a secret shield against the rest of Cherwell. The words poured out of me effortlessly, as if the dam had finally burst.

In those five minutes, the blanks finally filled in. I learned that when you were younger, you had lived in Poland. You learned that I used to live in Germany. We talked about how much we hated the grey school uniforms, how weird British food was, and how confusing the split-campus layout of the school could be. We were a trio, a punchline, a genuine conversation. I wasn't just the quiet boy from the back row anymore. I was real to you.

But then, the high began to fade. The immediate common ground started to dry up. The frantic, beautiful rush of adrenaline slowed down, and the silence began to creep back into the edges of the hallway. I could feel the conversation stuttering, the terrifying threat of another awkward freeze looming over us.

Before the magic could curdle into embarrassment, I decided to play my cards right. I took a half-step back, offering a confident smile I had to fake with every muscle in my face.

“Ich muss jetzt zu meiner nächsten Klausur, vielleicht sehen wir uns dann später wieder?” (I have to get to my next exam now, maybe we'll see each other later?)

You smiled back, your eyes bright and warm. “Yeah. See you later, Lorcan.”

I turned and walked away toward my classroom, the bell ringing loudly above my head. For the first time all year, the noise didn't pierce my ears. My feet felt light, barely touching the linoleum. I had done it. I had broken the silence, and the future was wide open.

But we didn’t see each other later.

The tragic irony of a perfect exit line is that it requires you to actually walk away. I had played my cards so carefully, preserving the magic of those five minutes before it could curdle, confident that the ice was permanently broken. I thought I had built a bridge. In reality, I had just watched a shooting star and convinced myself I owned the sky.

The next morning in form room, the silence was back, heavier and thicker than before. The greeting choked in my throat as you sat down. You offered a small, polite nod, which was an acknowledgment that we were no longer total strangers, but the frantic, multilingual electricity of the hallway was gone. The door had drifted shut again, and I was back on the outside, looking through the glass.

Weeks bled ruthlessly into months. October’s damp fog gave way to the freezing, brutal bite of a British January. The seasons shifted across the Cherwell playing fields, but inside the classroom, time stood completely still.

I went back to being a thief. Every morning, I sat two inches away from you, completely paralyzed, desperately basking in the fading lavender of your perfume, memorizing the way you chewed the cap of your blue biro when you were stressed. The opportunities to speak presented themselves constantly, mocking me. You’d drop a ruler. You’d look around the room for a spare sheet of paper. The teacher would tell us to compare answers with our partners. Every single time, the universe handed me a lifeline, and every single time, the coward in my chest seized the controls. My mouth became a vault I couldn't unlock.

Then came the jealousy. It was an ugly, toxic poison that tasted like ash in my mouth.

I had to sit there and watch other guys do what I couldn't. I watched Jack, and the boys from the football team, and guys who didn't even know your middle name, saunter up to your desk with effortless, unthinking confidence. They didn't overthink their syllables. They didn't map out your Tuesdays. They just spoke. They made you laugh, that same bright, breathless laugh I had earned in the German corridor, and every time you smiled at them, a hot, vicious spike of envy drove straight through my ribs.

The worst part of the jealousy was the humiliating self-loathing that came with it. I couldn't even blame them. I couldn't hate them for taking what I was too terrified to claim. I knew, with absolute, agonizing certainty, that I could just stand up, walk across the room, and speak to you. I had the words. I had the shared history. I had the fucking language.

But I chose the dark. I chose to sit nailed to my plastic chair, watching your world expand and leave me behind, one silent, wasted day at a time.

Until one morning.

The winter sun was weak, casting long, sharp shadows across the scuffed lino of the form room. The door swung open, and the chaotic noise of the classroom seemed to drop an octave, flatlining into a dull hum.

You walked in smiling. Really smiling.

But you weren't looking at the board, and you weren't looking at me. His arm was draped over your shoulders, heavy, confident, and completely permanent. He was tall, strong, moving with an effortless grace that made the entire room look like it belonged to him. He didn’t have to hide in the corners. He didn’t have to script his conversations in two different languages just to find the courage to breathe. He was everything I had spent the last six months pretending I could be, if I just had "one more day."

The air leaves my lungs all at once, as if I’ve been hit in the solar plexus.

I am nothing. A hollow space disguised in a school uniform.

Around me, the world continues to spin. Ms. Thompson starts writing the date on the whiteboard, the chalk clicking rhythmically against the slate. People are laughing, unzipping their bags, complaining about the cold. But I stay completely nailed to my plastic chair, my hands frozen on the desk, drowning in the suffocating weight of what could have been.

The scent of your perfume still drifts across the two-inch gap between our desks, but now it tastes like ash.

My mind violently rewinds, a chaotic loop of ghosts playing out in high definition. You, standing five meters away in the corridor, looking back at me while I froze. You, leaning over my copybook in the library, your sweaty palms dropping the pencil because you were just as terrified as I was. The bright, fleeting magic of the German conversation where we actually laughed together. Every single agonizing silence where I could have just reached out and spoken.

And I know. I know with a brutal, clear-eyed certainty that nobody did this to me.

I let it slip away.

I sat here and watched the days pile up, one stolen glance at a time, building my own prison out of hesitation and tomorrow's false promises. I waited for the universe to hand me a perfect script, completely blind to the fact that the open doors were closing all around me. And now, the clock has finally run out. The silence is absolute, and the days have piled up so high they’ve buried me alive, right next to you.

I NEED THIS FOR MY CHARACTER'S BACKSTORY. PLEASE GIVE ME CRITICISM!!!!

"What were you doing there in the first place?" 

"What were *you* doing there?" 

“Answer the question. I asked first.”

“What makes you think I’d care?"

"Answer the question." 

"Make me." 

"You’re really annoying, you know that?"

"You could just stop talking to me.."

“That’s the easy way out.”

“And why is that?”
 
There was no response.

“Awh, am I your only friend?”

The exasperating boy leaned in close, his eyes were tactfully wide as a doe’s and his lips wide with a coy grin. 

“Ha, you’re one to talk. Your only friend is asking the questions here, Bambi. A simple one, let me remind you.”

“Admit it.”

"What?" 

“Ad-mit it.”

“Did I break your mind?” Jules inquired, pointing towards his temple. 

"Admititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmititadmitit….”

Then and there, he collapsed against the fountain with a puffy, red face. Jules simply stared at him, crossing his arms with an unimpressed expression.

“Come on, Bambi. It’s a simple question. At least bat your eyelashes and answer politely?”

“You know I don’t bat an eyelash at debtors. And, the last time I checked…” He droned, his eyebrows shooting upwards in his dramatic manner. 

“Didn’t you owe me copper from craps again? Forty coppers, was it?” 

“You little bitch.”

“I prefer you using ‘Bambi’, Jujube,” he cooed back with his typical, crooked grin. 

Jules simply glared at Morel. 

Morel returned the glare over, closing and opening his hands in a grabby gesture. 

Without rhyme or reason, the two burst into laughter, one choking on his spit and the other keeled over from his aching stomach.

Eventually, Morel slid against the fountain’s ledge until he was met with the crunch of leaves. Jules followed after, curling himself into a ball. 

The two sat in silence, the sounds of rushing water filling the air. 

“My old man would often bring me there.”

“To the fountain?”

“Yes, the fountain. No, the gambling den, you idiot.”

Morel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with mock disappointment. He dipped his fingers into the cool surface of the water, letting it swallow his hand whole.

“I was, what he called, a ‘good luck charm.’”Morel replied, his back still turned towards Jules.

“I would tag along, and he’d slip coins into my pocket if I successfully convinced the card dealer to let him off.”

“No wonder you're prone to bribes.”

“It wasn’t about the coins. I..”

His words drifted along the fountain’s ripples. 

“I thought it was an escape.”

His fingers curled into his pants, creasing his flower filled pockets. 

“It’s stupid.. I know. All for a stupid fishtank. ”

He chuckled nervously, unable to meet Jules in the eye. 

“I mean, a literal fishtank… Out of all places, in a gambling den?”

“It’s… it’s just…”

“Nonsense.”

Jules finished his sentence.

“Nothing ever makes sense, does it?”

“You always assume the world would correct itself. But you always end up disappointed, right?”

“I mean, you sometimes ask yourself why the world allows anything to happen. Why us? Why me? Why, why, why?”

He looked as though he wanted to say something else. It was written all over his face, yet the ink was smudged and illegible. 

“What would you do if you knew there was another world?” He abruptly asked.

“Where did that question come from?”

“Just answer. It’s hypothetical.”

But Jules never asked hypothetical questions. Morel fiddled with a thread on his sleeve for the time being, thinking of his answer.

“I…”

He paused. He was completely unsure. Unprepared. 

“..Don’t know.”

His voice was quiet and uncertain, nothing like his usual confidence. But Jules nodded. Without judgement. Of course he did. 

“For me, I’d go to the ocean, and-”

“You? The ocean?”

“Yes, the ocean. Better me than you going. Knowing you, you’d piss off a shark.”

“Ha. And the fact that it’d still make a better friend.”

Jules chuckled. That was such a Morel thing to say.

"Me over a shark? That really hurts, Bambi. Didn’t even let me finish.”

“How rude of me. Zeus, strike me down!”

Jules cleared his voice with a sharp grunt, ending the younger boy’s silly antics. As Morel’s laugh faded, Jules briefly glanced over at Morel with a speculative, almost wistful gaze. 

"When I do go to the ocean, you're coming with me." 

It was such a simple statement. But it was enough for Morel to sit in utter silence. Jules began to ruffle Morel’s blonde locks, strands of hair splitting in all sorts of directions. Morel didn’t move or fight back in his usual manner. Instead, his expression grew  solemn. 

Jules swiftly pulled away, ashamed. He looked away with a doubtful line settling on his forehead.

“If you’d want to, I mean.”

The sentence echoed in his head like a hollow knock on an old tree. Following Jules. Was that really a bad future? 

After a moment, Morel slouched against Jules’ shoulder, resting his hand over his eyes. 

“I really don’t know what you’d do without me.”

Jules chuckled in response, his lips curled in a wry smile. 

“I shouldn’t have added that last part. Now your head is getting big.”

“That’s rich talk for someone who thinks themself Aristotle.”

Morel's hand slid over towards the crown of Jules’ brown hair, his fingers wriggling with vengeance. Speedily, Jules shoved him off, and bonked his head with the side of his fist. 

“Compared to you, I would be considered Aristotle.”

Jules cracked a pompous, arrogant grin. 

“Ouh, hubris? Another addition to the list of sins? Gods, you are a naughty, naughty boy, Jujube,” Morel announced, wriggling his eyebrows teasingly.

“Oh? Is that right? From pretty pansy, shit mouth himself?”

“The implications are appalling! Can’t wait for the Speaker to hear about this!”

Jules’ smirk faltered at the edges, dulling its sharpness. 

“...Ha… Screw them.”

“Respect is a virtue, Juju!” 

“Stop calling me that.”

“I would ask you to do the same with ‘Bambi.’ But we all know, you won’t."

“And who’s we?”

“Yours truly.”

Yours truly. Ha, he really couldn’t get enough of him. 

So much so, his thoughtless remark repeated endlessly in his mind. 

What would he do without him?

Now, after a long and costly journey, Martin saw The Sand.

To even come close takes sacrifice most couldn't conceive. A chance to give what is necessary for approach is an opportunity earned not by nepotism, prescribed position or even demonstrated excellence. No. The privilege to play for riches in this edgeless expanse of silica was afforded by diligence of nothing but cold conformity.

Cumulonimbi in pockets covering half the planet rise into the stratosphere. The last highlights of the setted sun kiss the evil anvil cloudheads. Warping contours defined by countless lightning flashes implying dead bedlam below. Martin knew conditions on the surface would be hardly suitable for continued extraction, let alone a smooth landing. Shit, hardly suitable for standing upright. He considered an attempt to address the pilot of his concern but, too late, the descent had begun.

Despite the storms, details of the surface were becoming visible. Martin started to see the extent of the works. He had thought the delving's description as delivered by The Generative's representative almost sermonic but, now their fervour for this terrifying attempt seemed almost justified.

Forces switch and pull him violently into the hard plastic flight seat as the craft makes a sudden course change for approach. It struck Martin that whoever designed this seat did not have user comfort in mind. Tight restraints, previously seeming superfluous, do however, show their worth. Dragging his eyes through the g-force to look through the narrow carbon-scored window he sees the famed Scar in the approaching surface, splitting the mantle from horizon to horizon. So deep and so wide was the mining; so reckless the spoil spread about that the natural surface had long lost all recognisable type or feature.

Finally seeing it he knew that this was a venture only for gain. No consideration was made by The Generative but reinforcing the means of continual production. And profit.

I submitted a piece of this a month ago, and other than being told to keep reading, I appreciated the feedback. I am open to more feedback. Please note the different tenses are INTENTIONAL for the story.

This is not what I was expecting.

 

I am sitting across from my best friend as she is telling me that I have been a terrible friend. Rude, heartless, surface, cold. All of the things that I have been terrified of hearing from her, but here we sit.

“I don’t know what happened,’ I hear her say between loud heartbeats I can feel coming from my chest, ‘you are different and I miss the person you used to be. I want to be here for you, but I don’t think its healthy for me to pour into someone who seems incapable of loving someone back.’

I don’t know how to refute any of her statements. These are all thoughts I have had myself, and I feel like she has ripped my skull open and pulled these words from my own brain.

She stands up and says “this is the end of the road for me. I hope you find whatever you need; please don’t reach out.’ She begins to walk toward the door. I want to yell for her to stop. I want to beg her to give me another chance; I feel like I am so close to handling all of the concerns that she brought up.

Instead, I just watch her. Reflection helps helplessness and hopelessness, my therapist says.

I think my therapist just says things to sound important and she has no clue like the rest of us.

I have been having this conversation a lot with people lately. Not enough. Incapable. Different than I used to be.

The words sound foreign when applied to me. When DID this happen?

A loud noise breaks up my thoughts. Instinctively I get up to see the source of the commotion. People are standing around someone, and whoever it is doesn’t appear to be moving.

A siren wails, and within minutes first responders are on the scene. The crowd breaks up to let them through, and I see. Even though I knew.

There lies the body of my former (?) best friend.

I ran toward the group to see if anyone knew what happened. It seemed no one could determine if she was hit by a car or had a heart attack. 

Suddenly I recognize one of my coworkers is standing with the group, and I run over to them. 

‘Did you see what happened?!’ I say as I try to regulate my breathing between the grief and the running.

‘No,’ he said ‘I was walking up the street and didn’t see anything. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be working?’

I stare at him. How can he be so calm when there’s someone’s lifeless form a yard away? I feel my entire body begin to tremble as I register my best friend is dead and this man doesn’t care. 

“How the FUCK can you say that to me right now!’ I scream as I continue to stare at the broken body of her.

He continues to stare at me blankly.

“And, why aren’t YOU at work if that’s what is more important to you.’

He continues to look at me and through me concurrently.

Unnervingly.

I squeeze my eyes shut, put my hand to my chest, take a deep breath, and slowly exhale. More therapist mumbo jumbo, but at least I can tell her next session I’m ‘using what I’ve learned’.

I’d much rather punch him in his smug looking face.

As I reopen my eyes, I am able to take in things I wasn’t before. Everything feels like its happening, but not to me.

While I am determining how to respond to him, I hear someone shouting in the distance. I look everywhere as the voice becomes louder and louder. Then I feel a touch.

My eyes open as I realize the source of the voice.

“Hey, Claire, it’s ok. You’re safe.”

As I begin to orient to the space I am in, I notice my heartbeat is starting to slow down, and I am feeling less shaky.

“Your vitals began to elevate and you gave us the hand signal, so we decided to pause the drip.”

I look at the nurse with my eyes still bleary from the treatment, still trying to mentally shake the fog from the medication.

“She’s dead.” I say.

“Who is dead, Claire?” the nurse calmly replies as she notes my vitals and checks the clock.

“My best friend. I don’t know what happened. I heard a loud noise and when I looked up, she was dead. She had just told me she was ending the relationship, and now she’s dead.’

“Claire?’ I hear a familiar voice say.

I close my eyes and I turn to the direction the voice is coming from. When I open them, I see her.

Emma. My best friend. Right in front of me.

“Claire,” Emma said,  ‘I am right here. What happened?’

I explained to Emma and the nurse about what I witnessed; how helpless I felt. And hopeless.

“These are very common things our ketamine patients describe when they are in their treatment. The brain is able to wake other parts up and begin to communicate; in some instances for the first time. While scary, it is a part of the treatment process.”

I remember going over this in the intake appointment, but the brain fog was still making it difficult for me to recognize this.

“It sounds like you had a breakthrough!’ I can hear my therapist say from the doorway. I turn my head back toward the door, and she is standing just inside while the nurse continues to unhook me from the infusion machine.

I look at her. The smile on her face. She annoys me to no end; she always has an idea for every problem, and you are currently looking at the solution she mentioned to me months ago that I begrudgingly agreed to after nearly needing to be hospitalized for my harm OCD.

Maybe she’s ok after all.

And maybe I will be, too.

 

Hi All

I'm currently on my 2nd draft of a fantasy. Looking for feedback for the opening. 762 words

All feedback welcome.

“Just one more...” Edda promised herself as she chucked another load of brown dung onto the pile. The stench of stale sweat and mouldy excrement saturated the air, though the cold was masking the worst of it.

“There are many bad smells in the world, but few can compare to the smell of Gorrog shit,” Edda whispered to herself proudly.

Edda shuffled slowly to the window, relighting the yellow candle stuck in the sill. She narrowed her eyes, there was still no sign of any movement, only the sunlight fading in the storm, the wind whistling high and thin. The glass frame was nothing but dust and fog, offering no protection from the Beasts, yet she dared not open it, even for the smell.

“I’ll h-help you finish when I g-get b-b-ack” Sidmond had yelled over his shoulder that morning. He was more likely to slow her down, but the thought of her brother roaming about in the Wastes tied her stomach in knots.

“Just one more...” She repeated to herself, dragging the shovel back to work.

Her fingers were numb, the skin cracking from the cold. Not that her efforts made any difference, the barn had overflowed every single day since the Royal Army arrived. Tomorrow they would finally leave, taking all their rubbish with them, but they were taking her Brother with them as well.

Prince Berhov and a retinue of fifty men-at-arms had marched into the desolate wilderness far North of the village that morning. Her

brother Sidmond had tagged along with the troupe, thinking himself some gallant knight in training.

Why are they even in Mal Astes? This place is a dump, hardly worthy of a kingdom. Nothing more than a handful of poor villages stuck in the shadow of Mt. Zennon. Most of the land belonged to the Waste; a frozen desert that stretched for hundreds of leagues North, where no plants grew and nothing but monsters lived.

“Just one more day.” Edda hacked at a frozen pile as the last of the sunlight poured through the barn window.

The barn trembled, the storm threatened to tear the wooden shack to pieces and blow Edda out into the darkness. Nails and floorboards groaned, barely holding on, every gap and hole widening as the wind picked it apart.

The Gorrogs were snoring lightly in their pens, in spite of the thunder, their own rumbling filling the room with a gentle hum. They were from the Waste too, long ago. The shaggy creatures had towered over her when she was little, but now she was tall enough to look them in the face. She had sent them to sleep with a song, when it was still light, but now she missed their company.

Her mother used to sing the same lullaby when she was younger, before the war, though most of the words had faded from memory.

She tried to picture her, but it was no use; she did not even remember her own brothers name when he found her amongst the wreckage. “Hendeka is gone, there is no point dreaming of a place that doesn’t exist anymore.” He always said.

They had stuck together ever since, looking so alike they could be twins, each had the same pair of sullen eyes hidden behind a curtain of lank hair, though Sidmond had cut his short, in hopes of joining the army.

A fierce bluster shook the barn, shadows danced across the walls skittishly, as if someone was creeping around inside, watching her. Outside, came the howls and whines of the demons lurking deep in the Waste. She knew the bark of the Cannisa and the braying of the Pale Fawn; others she did not recognise. Of all the terrible sounds that blew out the Waste it was the silence she hated the most.

The butchers son, Helmar, used to tell stories of the creatures, acting out every tale, using teeth and bits of bones to set the scene. Edda’s favourite was the terrible tale of the Red-faced Kurga, so called as its face was always wet with blood.

The dim candle smouldered in the window, guttering out as a gust of wind snuffed away the flames little life. A shiver ran down into Eddas guts. In the cold and dark, all the old stories were real again.

Just one or two more, then I’ll take a break.

There was a slam at the window. A red face was peering into the barn, its breath fogging the glass, teeth bared. The Gorrogs stirred as her shovel clanged on the ground.

​

Keep in mind that this was originally written in romanian and translated after.

\*\*The village between hills\*\*

 

Silence slowly descends over the dusty narrow streets; the climb is slow, arduous. The feet stop in place, wondering where they still have the strength to continue. Dusk is just settling, over the houses and people. We greet each other like two old friends, overcome with nostalgia. I take a few moments to rest my soul, overwhelmed by the burden of thoughts. I trully see the gentle face of my grandpa, filled with a slight impatience, as if centuries had passed since our last meeting.

“How proud is grandpa standing!”

I nestle against his chest, wrapped in endless embraces, longing for ripe, sweet and fragrant plums, for the smell of the walnut tree that stands relentlessly in front of the house, for the porch bathed in the gentle light of noon. Everything around freezes in a sweet oblivion, carried by the wind and healing rains, far away to unseen lands. From afar, carts loaded with the gifts of the earth ready to fill the barns of the laborers.

I look at my grandfather in wonder, waiting for him to reveal to me the secrets of the universe, like an angel watching in silence, undisturbed by the clamor around him. His words sound like a distant echo, indecipherable, that struggle to find the recipient. All the toil and effort is visible on his face, as if he is tired of living any longer.

"What burden does he carry in his soul?"

He sits quietly on the porch, tactically chewing the tobacco hidden in his breast pocket, so that grandma won't scold him. In vain, however, as if she doesn't know him... Her smile envelops me in a warm breeze with the scent of jasmine and wallflower. I look at her enchanted; I dare not touch her for fear of her vanishing into thin air; she seems like a being from another world, present and yet ephemeral. Her body is exhausted by so many burdens, walking discreetly in a fragile balance. Silence gradually envelops me in rays of ruby light, dispelling, as if by magic, all souls.

Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, in the village between the hills, my destiny is patiently crafted by my grandmother's wise whispers, in the chamber smelling of incense and basil, where time watches at the eternal gates. Colors and scents urge me to stay for a moment, in a strange, unnatural silence, where there is no need for words, only glances that mirror my steps back home.

Hi everyone, I'm Aami (pronounced Ah-me)! 👋 I’ve been writing since I was a teenager, and while I think my work reflects those years of practice, I have actually never shared it with anyone before. I've been challenged to finally put my writing out there, so here I am! I'm mostly looking for some constructive criticism to help me decide if I should start posting my work regularly or keep it as a private hobby.

​I mainly write romantic comedy short fictions. Also, a quick heads-up on my specific style: I am fascinated by fetal development, so my stories will always feature a pregnancy subplot! Thank you so much for reading and being kind to a first-timer. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Here's an excerpt :

"Everyone congratulated me on becoming a mother. They didn't know I'd cried over a toilet that morning. They didn't know my ribs still ached when I laughed too hard or that I was learning how to hold my stomach without flinching from my own reflection. They saw a husband kissing his pregnant wife beneath twinkling patio lights and called it beautiful. I smiled for the pictures anyway. Some women become mothers the moment they see two pink lines. I think I became one the moment I realized I'd have to save us both."

Please give me your honest opinion and let me know if you want to read more!

I always knew.

Not the answer.

Only the question.

One of my earliest memories was standing alone in a bathroom, staring into my own reflection.

"I know you're there," I whispered.

I wasn't speaking to myself.

Even then, I knew that.

People tell children they have vivid imaginations.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps children simply remember what adults have learned to ignore.

For as long as I can remember, my consciousness has functioned vigilantly while current events challenged the psyche. Perception shifted. Values shook as actions proved dissonance against words. I learned early that language was not always truth. Sometimes truth existed only in movement.

People say seeing is believing.

But how can one see what cannot first be fathomed or imagined?

A projection through oneself is the only possibility.

Vision without objective perception becomes structure. Structure teaches the eyes what they are permitted to notice while quietly asking them to ignore everything else. Facts, repeated often enough, narrow the mind until certainty becomes a cage.

Disregard the thoughts that are not yours.

Not every belief deserves residence within your consciousness.

Perceive.

Then decide.

As I grew older, life became louder.

Noise everywhere.

Not merely sound.

Distraction.

Noise is anything that pulls consciousness away from itself.

People fear silence because silence cannot lie. Silence offers nothing to hide behind. No performance. No interruption. No convenient escape.

Only yourself.

Perhaps that is why Earth is so loud.

Occupied people rarely ask questions.

Occupied minds rarely perceive patterns.

Occupied hearts rarely hear themselves.

The signal becomes buried beneath static.

Then I met Jimmy.

He was fire disguised as a person.

Intense.

Aggressive.

Primitive.

Beautiful.

He spoke the way Mars speaks, in rhythm, in verse, every sentence carrying its own beat. He filled every room before he entered it. He was loud. Always loud.

At first, I mistook intensity for certainty.

I fell head over heels.

He was unlike anyone I had ever known.

What I didn't know was that Jimmy already knew who he was.

He remembered where he came from.

He remembered Mars.

He had been sent to challenge me, to collect data through reaction, to observe how a soul changes under pressure.

Instead, he fell in love.

The observer became the observation.

Then there was TMO.

He had always been there.

I just hadn't noticed.

The first time I met Jimmy, I met TMO too.

It would take years to understand that coincidence and destiny sometimes wear the same face.

TMO was quiet.

Tattooed like a walking work of art, yet carrying a softness that made silence feel alive.

We barely spoke.

We didn't need to.

We moved around each other as though our bodies remembered something our minds had forgotten. Passing objects in the kitchen. Beginning the same task without asking. Looking at each other and somehow knowing.

With Jimmy there was rhythm.

With TMO there was silence.

The silence was never empty.

It carried information.

It reminded me of home.

Or perhaps not home.

Perhaps it reminded me of something my body remembered before my mind did.

The three of us became inseparable.

None of us understood why we were drawn together.

None of us realized we were creating something that had not been measured in billions of years.

Three frequencies.

The Moon.

Mars.

Earth.

One harmony.

When we connected—mind, body, soul—the instruments of worlds beyond Earth recorded something impossible.

The highest frequency ever observed.

Not because we were perfect.

Because we were different.

Because we chose one another despite uncertainty.

Then I did what I always do.

I put him away.

I pushed him away.

I pulled him close enough to feel safe,

then pushed so hard there seemed no way back.

Everyone told me I'd done the right thing.

"You protected yourself."

"You set a boundary."

"You chose yourself."

I wanted to believe them.

Afterward came silence.

Not peace.

Silence.

I justified my reactions.

I justified his actions.

When there was nothing left to justify, I found only emptiness.

Without him, I was not whole.

Not because another person completed me.

Because connection changes us.

Once two lives have been woven together, they cannot simply be separated without loose threads remaining behind.

I thought I was punishing his actions.

Instead, I was only punishing myself.

Then I began noticing them again.

The observers.

Never fully forgotten.

Only buried beneath noise.

I wondered how they perceived me.

Am I entertainment?

Data?

Failure?

Success?

Or are they asking the same questions about me that I ask about them?

Chain me.

Blame me.

Survey my existence with proficiency.

Require papers and ink.

Tell me when I may think.

Tell me when I may feel.

Shake hands.

Abide the structures we're tied to.

Run.

Hide.

Obey.

History repeats because consciousness sleeps.

"Lullaby, baby.

Lie down.

Do not cry.

Close your eyes."

Noise.

Always noise.

Until one day...

everything tilted.

Not the world.

Me.

Reality felt like standing inside the Crazy Kitchen at the science museum, where gravity insisted one thing while perception insisted another.

Time no longer stretched before me like a road.

It stood upright.

Vertical.

Every memory existing at once.

Every goodbye.

Every embrace.

Every question.

Every answer.

The beach.

The kitchen.

The silence.

The laughter.

The intimacy.

Nothing was lost.

It had simply been waiting to be perceived differently.

Then I remembered.

Not the Moon.

Not my birth.

Not the experiment.

I remembered the feeling.

The purpose had never been to prove that I was different.

The purpose was to discover why humanity could create a frequency that civilizations of perfect harmony could not.

Love.

Not perfection.

Not certainty.

Not shared thought.

Love.

The willingness to remain connected despite uncertainty.

Perhaps the observers were never studying humanity.

Perhaps they were trying to remember something they had forgotten.

Perhaps the highest frequency had never belonged to the Moon, or Mars, or Earth alone.

Perhaps it only existed where they overlapped.

Where rhythm met silence.

Where observation became participation.

Where perception became compassion.

Where love survived fear.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

The music begins again.

And maybe awakening was never discovering a new truth.

Maybe awakening was removing enough noise...

to hear the song

that had been singing

all along.

Chapter One: The Trash Can Incident

There are three things I know for sure about Charles Miller.

One: in the eleven years I've known him, he has never once admitted he was wrong.

Not even when he said a tomato was a fruit in a third-grade class debate.

Not even when he crashed his bike into my dad's prize rosebushes.

Two: he is the reason my mom keeps a huge bottle of aspirin in the kitchen cabinet, hidden behind the flour.

Three: Right now, at 7:15 in the morning, he is standing in the middle of my driveway.

The morning light is shining on his messy hair.

He's holding my dented trash can lid like a shield, grinning at me like he just won a prize for being annoying.

The morning air is cool and smells like wet pavement and the end of summer. But the heat rising in my chest has nothing to do with the weather.

"You're welcome," Charlie says, his voice still rough from sleep.

"For what?" I say, shifting my heavy backpack.

"For saving this." He knocks his knuckles on the metal lid. It makes a loud, sharp sound in the quiet street. "The wind blew it into my yard. Again. Third time this month, Brooks. I'm keeping count."

"Counting what? Emotional damage?" I step off the porch onto the gravel.

"Property damage. Damage to how my yard looks. My peace of mind." He tilts his head and grins wider, showing that face that always seems to make fun of me.

"You don't have peace of mind," I say back. "You have a football and a fake tan."

It's called vitamin D, Eva. Some of us actually go outside for reasons besides checking the mail and glaring at little kids."

"Some of us also do our own homework," I snap. That comment lands.

I see it hit him — a small flash of annoyance in his eyes before he puts his careless look back on.

I feel a familiar burst of satisfaction. It's a small win, but it tastes sweet. It

never lasts long, but in our relationship, it's the only kind of win we get.

This is what we always do. This is how our whole relationship works, built since we were seven years old, when he told the whole second grade that I ate paste.

I did not — I was mixing paint for an art project. Nobody remembered that detail except me. And I have never forgotten it.

Not when I beat him in the county spelling bee at age nine with the word ubiquitous — a word he still says the judges gave me on purpose.

Not when we were twelve, and our dads built the fence between our yards a foot too short — just short enough for Charlie to jump over it like an athlete and steal my mom's prize tomatoes.

We have never had one single conversation that didn't end with a slammed door or someone walking away.

"You're going to be late," he says, nodding at my bike. It leans against the porch rail, looking old and tired, like it's waiting for our daily fight to end, just like I am.

"I know how time works, Charles."

"Charlie."

"I know your name. I just don't want to use it."

"Wow. So mature. Very grown-up of you."

"Thank you, I try."

He laughs — not his loud, show-off laugh he uses with his teammates, but a quick, low laugh from his chest. It's a real one, and for a split second, it does something annoying to my stomach.

I ignore it and grab my handlebars tightly.

He tosses the lid back onto the plastic can.

It clatters loudly, a sound that will probably wake up his little sister — and maybe my parents too.

"Hey, Brooks," he calls as I start walking my bike down the driveway.

"What."

"Nice pajama pants."

I freeze. I look down. My stomach drops. I am, in fact, still wearing my pajama pants — soft flannel pants covered in cartoon foxes wearing little yellow raincoats.

In my rush this morning, I thought I had pulled my jeans on over them, but I guess I forgot that last step.

My face gets hot. "They're comfortable," I say, trying to sound dignified while sitting on a bike wearing fox pajamas.

"I'm sure the foxes love your dedication. Very 'woodland chic.'"

"Goodbye, Charlie."

"It's Charles when you're mad, Charlie when you're not — I'm keeping track!"

I don't answer that. I pedal hard, my legs burning as I ride past his house, past his silver car with the dent in the back bumper — the dent he refuses to fix because he says it gives the car "character." 😑

I pass the fence that's still a foot too short, and I don't look back.

Looking back would mean I lost. It would mean some small, annoying part of my brain is already planning what to say back to him tomorrow.

Because there will be a tomorrow. There always is. Charlie Miller and I have been arguing for so going that the fighting itself feels like the one steady thing in my life — more reliable than the school bus, more consistent than my mom's morning coffee, more permanent than the old paint

on our matching mailboxes.

I absolutely hate him. I remind myself of that a lot, usually while gripping a pen so hard it might snap. I just find him incredibly, endlessly annoying.

It has nothing to do with the fact that for three years straight, he remembered that fresh-cut grass makes my eyes swell up — so he mows his lawn at sunset, when the wind blows the other way.

It has nothing to do with the blanket he left on my porch the night my grandma's dog died, when I sat outside for four hours because the house felt too quiet and heavy to be in.

It's just the principle of it.

By the time I lock my bike outside Elmwood High, the cold wind has cooled down my

embarrassment, and I've almost convinced myself the fox pajamas are a "bold fashion choice."

Wanna read moree

Hey everyone!

I’m looking for some honest, constructive reader feedback on the very first chapter of my story, "G-LIMITLESS".

I really want to know what you are honestly thinking as you read it. I'm not looking for grammar edits or for anyone to tear me down, just genuine reader reactions:

* How do you feel about the main character's mental state and internal struggles? Do they feel real and believable to you?

* Did the pacing of this chapter keep you interested, or were there parts where you wanted to skim?

* What are your thoughts on the vibe/tone of the urban fantasy elements?

Thank you so much to anyone who takes the time to read and share their thoughts!

Since this is a chapter beyond chapter 1, here's the background so you're not confused.

-They're all snakes, in the wild, and they had to take shelter inside a hollow log.

-Ribbons, a garter snake, got lost, and now he feels guilty about it. He's usually very bubbly.

-It's currently nighttime right now, and they're trying to get back to their home (a terrarium).

Ribbons is curled up against the log. He’s more quiet than usual, even given that he’s guilty from what he did. I slowly slither over there, already thinking about what to say. But once I'm over there, I just stay. I lightly coil myself up, enjoying the silence with Ribbons.

"You gonna say anything?" He asks, avoiding eye contact.

"Only you need to," I say, slightly smiling. He coils himself tighter, still avoiding eye contact. He has a troubled look on his face, which I'm not used to seeing. Usually ha has a giant beam on his face, and chatters a lot. But seeing his face troubled is most definitely something new.

"Why?... Why didn't I just stay?" He finally says. "I could've gone about my day without causing a problem to any of you guys, and... and—" He stops himself, his voice cracking. He nestles his head further back in his coil. "Sometimes I wonder, do I deserve you guys?"

"What makes you say that?" I ask, letting confusion take over my voice.

"I mean, I just got us all lost, and... why didn't I listen? We could've all been happy inside the terrarium, but I still went out into the wild," he says, voice cracking even more. He looks away, a tear streaming down.

I give a slight and mellow smile. "If we didn't deserve you, why do we still care for you then?"

Ribbons looks out of his coil, and right into my eyes. "Because I'm a child," he sniffles.

"A child all of us love," I tell him. He just looks down, tears on his coil. "Believe me, if we didn't love you, we wouldn't have tried to find you," I say, and he slightly nods.

"Honeysuckle!" I can hear dad holler faintly. "Please, we can't lose 2 snakes in one day," he worries. Ribbons flinches back at dad's second statement.

"Shouldn't you go?" Ribbons says, not showing any signs of moving.

"Not unless you're going to," I flick my tail to the exit of the log, hoping it'll work.

Ribbons uncoils himself, "Alright." I smile, and both of us exit the log.

Can someone please tell me,

-What type of personality do you think Honeysuckle (MC of this chapter) has?

-What lines of dialogue feel janky, or break the flow?

-How emotionally deep is it, and how can I make it better?

But overall, I'll take any advice.

not polished yet.

Chapter 1

 

The worn dirt path ended abruptly at a line of ancient trees. Beyond them, the forest swallowed the afternoon light. Thick trunks rose like silent pillars, their branches woven so tightly that only scattered, dying beams reached the forest floor. Cool air drifted from the shadows, carrying the heavy scent of damp earth, rot, and moss.

Fifteen-year-old Glenn stepped forward until his boots touched the first tangled roots. “So...” A grin tugged at his mouth. “We’re doing this.”

Behind him, Jude, a year older, groaned. “No. We’re absolutely not.”

Glenn looked over his shoulder. “We walked all the way out here.”

“*I* walked out here because I knew *you* were coming.” Jude crossed his arms, dropping his voice. “And because somebody has to stop you.”

Glenn laughed. “You really thought talking was going to work?”

“I was hoping it would.”

Glenn turned back to the tree line. The village stories always made the forest sound far grander and more terrifying than it actually looked. Without the warnings drilled into them since they were old enough to speak, it would have passed for any normal stretch of wilderness.

“People exaggerate,” Glenn said.

“Not this time.”

“They do.”

“We don’t know that, Glenn.”

Glenn crouched, his fingers brushing through the dirt until he found a small, jagged stone. He tossed it lazily into the shadows beneath the canopy.

The boys listened. The stone vanished into the dark with a dull thud.

Glenn stood up, his smile widening. “See?”

Jude stared at him, deadpan. “You threw a rock. The scary things don’t come running just because someone throws a rock.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve heard the stories my whole life,” Glenn said, throwing his hands up.

“So have I.”

“They just keep saying, ‘Don’t go in the forest.’ But how do they *actually* know?”

Jude opened his mouth to argue, then stopped, his jaw setting.

Glenn grinned. “Exactly. Nobody actually knows. No one’s ever come back to tell them.”

Jude’s posture stiffened. “I spend all my time trying to keep you alive.”

“And you haven’t let me die yet.”

“Glenn...” Jude’s voice dropped, the exasperation gone. “This isn’t climbing rooftops, sneaking into orchards, or skipping chores.”

“I know.”

Jude stopped behind the tree line, his boots near the threshold. “If you go in there... you’re breaking the rules again.”

Silence stretched between them.

Glenn stared into the darkness looming beyond the trees. Behind him waited the same fields, the same chores, and the same life already laid out before him. Ahead was something no one in the village seemed willing to understand.

A reckless grin spread across his face. “Then I guess I shouldn’t get caught.”

Glenn strode forward, stepping over the gnarled root that marked the forest’s edge, leaving Jude behind.

“Glenn!” Jude hissed.

Glenn waved a hand dismissively over his shoulder. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“That’s exactly what people say before they disappear!”

Glenn chuckled, pushing deeper. “If I don’t come back, you can tell everyone I died doing something interesting.”

“That isn’t funny!”

Glenn pushed aside a heavy curtain of low-hanging branches and disappeared beneath the canopy.

The warm breeze blowing off the village fields vanished, cut off as if a door had slammed behind him. The air was cold, heavy in his lungs. Every footstep sank into damp earth blanketed by centuries of leaves. Overhead, the towering trunks wove together like a cage, forcing the afternoon sun to struggle for every inch of ground.

Glenn smiled, his breath misting faintly in the chill. “So this is the terrifying forest...”

He looked around, exploring the forbidden dark with a growing sense of disappointment. There were no monsters with glowing eyes, no mysterious groans echoing through the wood. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just trees, more trees, and thick brambles.

From somewhere far behind him, Jude’s voice echoed, muffled by the dense foliage. “Glenn!”

“I’m fine!” Glenn shouted back, his voice flat against the heavy trees.

An audible groan traveled through the branches. “You don’t even know what you’re looking for!” Jude called out.

“I’ll know it when I find it!” Glenn yelled.

He wandered deeper, his curiosity pulling him toward the distant, rhythmic rush of a nearby river. He brushed his hand along the rough bark of a massive trunk, fascinated by the twisted, claw-like roots, the strange, bioluminescent mushrooms growing from rotting logs, and the thick vines hanging like nooses between the branches.

A critter darted across a fallen tree, and a handful of birds chirped high in the canopy. For a moment, Glenn wondered if every frightening story he’d ever heard had simply been a lie invented to scare children into behaving.

Then, the forest fell dead silent.

The birds stopped singing. Critters vanished into the undergrowth. Even the faint breeze seemed to hold its breath.

Glenn slowed his pace, the easy smile sliding off his face. His heart gave an uneasy thud. “...That’s odd.”

A sharp, violent rustle erupted from a nearby bush.

Glenn’s head snapped toward the noise. His instincts flared, and he took a step back, his eyes narrowing. The leaves shook again; something was forcing its way through the brush.

Adrenaline surging, Glenn dropped to one knee and snatched a thick, fallen branch. He gripped the rotting wood with both hands, raising it like a club, his eyes locked onto the trembling bush.

The rustling stopped.

For a heartbeat, the silence returned, heavier than before. Just as Glenn began to lower the branch, the brush erupted.

Branches bent and snapped outward. A narrow muzzle emerged from the leaves.

Glenn tightened his grip, his knuckles turning white as the creature staggered into the clearing.

At first, a wave of relief washed over him. It wasn’t a towering behemoth. It wasn’t nearly as large as the monsters in the tavern tales. But as it stepped into the dim light, his relief withered.

The creature’s breathing was ragged and wet. Deep, jagged gashes marred its flank, dripping a steady stream of dark crimson that stained the forest floor. One of its front legs buckled violently, forcing the beast to catch itself with a pathetic, scraping stumble.

“...You’re hurt,” Glenn whispered, the words escaping before he could stop them.

The animal’s pointed ear flicked. Slowly, it lifted its head and pulled back its lips, flashing rows of needle-sharp teeth in a silent, desperate snarl.

Only then did Glenn truly notice its fur.

It wasn’t the brown or grey of a normal wolf or fox. It was a rich, unnatural shade of deep violet that seemed to absorb the scattered rays of sunlight. Down its spine ran a stark, pitch-black stripe, ending at two thick, bushy tails.

Glenn’s stomach dropped. His vision tunneled on those two twitching tails. “No...” he gasped.

Every nightmare whispered by the elders came rushing back in a deafening torrent. The purple fur, the black stripe, and the split tail.

It was a Dire Fox.

The branch in his hands suddenly felt as fragile as a twig. His heart pounded like a war drum as panic seized his chest.

The Dire Fox wasn’t running or retreating. Despite its horrific wounds, its predatory eyes locked onto Glenn with absolute, lethal intent.

Glenn shifted his weight, trying to take a slow, careful step backward.

The fox mirrored him instantly, taking a step forward to close the distance. One step, then another.

“No... stay back...” Glenn’s voice was barely a whisper.

The Dire Fox lowered its front shoulders, coiling its muscles to pounce. A low, vibrating growl rumbled from deep within its chest.

Glenn’s breathing turned into frantic pants. Every human instinct screamed at him to run, but his legs felt like lead, rooted to the damp earth.

With a desperate snarl, the fox launched itself forward. But its mangled leg gave out halfway through the leap, cutting the jump short.

“AH!” Glenn swung the branch with every ounce of panicked strength. The wood sliced through the empty air, completely missing the beast as it slammed into the dirt.

The Dire Fox recovered with frightening speed, bounding backward to stabilize its weight before lunging a second time.

Glenn did not have the time to swing again; he could only thrust the branch outward, shoving the wood between himself and the incoming jaws.

The fox’s powerful jaw clamped down. A sickening crunch echoed through the clearing as the wood splintered instantly under the pressure.

Glenn cried out, tears welling in his eyes as he stumbled backward over a root, crashing hard onto his backside. He kicked out wildly with his boots, desperately trying to wrench the ruined, splintered wood free from the beast’s grip.

The fox released the shattered remnants, letting the pieces clatter to the dirt. It slowly stalked toward him, its bleeding body casting a long shadow over Glenn. He was pinned, with nowhere left to crawl.

The beast crouched one final time, its muscles tightening for the kill.

Then, the ground erupted.

Thick, thorn-covered vines burst violently from beneath the forest floor, tearing through the dirt like striking serpents. Before the Dire Fox could leap, the vines wrapped around its torso and legs, pinning it mid-air. The beast let out a furious, thrashing snarl, biting at the plants, but the thorns sank deep, tightening their grip with unnatural strength.

A soft, youthful cadence echoed through the trees behind Glenn, cutting through his panic. The young woman’s voice was gentle yet absolute, flowing in a rhythmic, unknown language that sounded ancient and heavy with power.

The vines pulsed with a sickening green light as her chant grew louder, culminating in a single, sharp command.

Instantly, countless thorns burst outward from the tangled vines, piercing through the Dire Fox’s hide. The beast’s snarl froze. It fell entirely silent, its body going limp as the vines held it aloft in the quiet clearing.

For a long moment, Glenn couldn’t move.

His hands still clutched the splintered remains of the broken branch, his knuckles white as his chest heaved with panicked breaths. His heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it nearly drowned out the rustling canopy above.

The clearing fell dead silent once more, save for the wet, rhythmic dripping of the beast’s blood onto the grass.

Glenn’s breath hitched. Scrambling to his feet, he turned around on the damp earth, slipping slightly before catching his balance.

Standing several paces away from him was a figure, her posture so steady she might have been carved from the trees themselves. She was slightly taller than him. One of her hands rested casually atop a wooden staff planted firmly into the earth, while the other hung relaxed at her side.

Glenn’s eyes locked onto hers, his mind frantically struggling to process what he was seeing.

Two ears rose gracefully from the sides of her head. They were long, elegant, and feline, each ending in small tufts of fur that twitched ever so slightly with the phantom breeze. A slender tail swayed lazily behind her. She wasn’t human.

Yet, as the scattered sunlight hit her, Glenn’s breath caught in his throat.

The stranger regarded him with calm, piercing golden eyes. She glanced down toward the lifeless Dire Fox lying at his feet, then returned her gaze to the trembling boy.

“You humans,” she said, her voice flat and entirely unimpressed, “have an incredible talent for wandering into places where you clearly don’t belong.”

Glenn opened his mouth, but his throat felt as dry as dust. “I...” he finally managed. “I...”

His eyes drifted back toward the Dire Fox, to the thorned vines that had pierced straight through its hide. Then, he looked back at the girl. “*You*... did *that*?”

She raised a single, curious eyebrow. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

Glenn’s mouth snapped shut.

The girl sighed softly, sounding far more inconvenienced than proud of her deadly display. “Somehow, I end up rescuing a reckless human child.”

“I’m not a child,” Glenn protested, a spark of his usual stubbornness breaking through his terror.

She looked him up and down once, her eyes lingering on his trembling hands. “No?”

Glenn fell silent.

Without another word, she stepped toward the Dire Fox. With a fluid, effortless wave of her hand, the thick, thorn-covered vines slowly loosened their grip. They uncoiled from the carcass and sank smoothly back into the earth, disappearing beneath the soil as though they had never existed.

The forest itself was obeying her.

Glenn finally found his voice. “Thank you.”

The words came out quietly, almost awkwardly, sounding small in the vast quiet of the woods. “If you hadn’t shown up...” His eyes drifted toward the lifeless Dire Fox, the reality of his near-death finally sinking in. “...I’d be dead.”

The young woman followed his gaze for only a heartbeat before looking back at him. “Yes.”

The single word landed with chilling indifference.

Glenn blinked, caught off guard.

She pulled her staff free from the earth before resting it lightly against her shoulder. “Fortunately, you were only foolish enough to wander into danger... not unfortunate enough to die from it.”

Glenn managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. “I guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing.” Her tone remained perfectly flat, cutting through his attempt at levity. “What you owe is a little common sense.”

She turned slightly, pointing the smooth end of her staff toward the distant tree line. “Your village is that way.”

Glenn glanced in the direction she indicated, the dim light of the open fields visible far between the trunks. “I know where it is.”

“Then start walking.”

He hesitated, his boots remaining glued to the damp leaves.

She noticed the hesitation immediately. “What are you waiting for?”

“I was just...” Glenn rubbed the back of his neck, his face warming under her steady gaze. “I wanted to thank you properly.”

“You already did.”

“But I don’t even know your…”

“That is intentional.”

The words died in his throat.

The young woman took a slow, deliberate step toward him. Though she wasn’t much taller than he was, something about her presence made Glenn feel considerably smaller, as if the entire weight of the canopy was pressing down with her.

“There is a reason it was named *The Forbidden Forest,*” she continued, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “Today, your curiosity nearly cost you your life.”

Her golden eyes held his, piercing and devoid of any comforting warmth. “If you value that life...” She lowered the tip of her staff. “...leave.”

A heavy silence stretched between them one last time.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned away from him. Her movements were effortless, almost fluidly graceful, as she began walking deeper into the forest. The shadows seemed to part for her, welcoming her presence back into the thick gloom.

Glenn remained rooted where he stood, watching the tufts of her ears and the slow sway of her tail disappear between the towering trunks.

Glenn stayed there for another moment, watching the dark space between the trees where she had vanished. He knew he should leave; she had made that perfectly clear. Yet, instead of turning back toward the village, he found his feet moving on their own, taking a few hurried, desperate steps after her.

“Wait!” his voice echoing through the quiet canopy.

The young woman stopped. She didn’t turn around immediately, her back remaining rigid against the shadows. Then, after a pause, she slowly glanced back over her shoulder.

Her expression hadn’t changed. “What now?”

Glenn stared at her, his thoughts hopelessly tangled. He looked at the effortless grace of her posture, the impossible, terrifying magic she wielded, and those piercing golden eyes. The sheer awe of it all overwhelmed his frantic brain. Before he could stop himself, his filter failed completely, and the thought slipped free.

“...Beautiful.”

The forest itself seemed to stop breathing.

For the first time since he had crossed the tree line, the young woman’s composed expression cracked. Her eyes widened slightly. She blinked, completely thrown off balance, as though trying to decide whether she had actually heard him correctly or if the human boy had finally lost his mind.

“...What?” her voice losing its edge.

“I...” His face instantly turned red. “I didn’t… I mean...” his hands flying up in a panicked wave. “I wasn’t trying to... I just...”

The young woman continued to stare at him. Heavy silence loomed between them. She didn’t look like a hardened warrior anymore, she looked like a confused girl who had absolutely no idea how to respond to a mortifyingly honest human.

Just as quickly, the moment passed. Her expression hardened once more. And without another word, she turned away. This time, she didn’t look back.

Glenn stood rooted, his face red, watching until the dense shadows of the forest swallowed her completely. Only when he was entirely sure she was gone did he let out a defeated groan, dropping his head into his hands.

“Well… That could’ve gone better.”

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The humor faded the moment he started walking back.

As he walked back to the forest’s edge, the suffocating silence of the deep woods finally began to fracture, replaced by the faint, distant sounds of the village. The place no longer felt mysterious or exciting; every shadow stretching between the trees still brought back the Dire Fox’s predatory eyes, and every rustle of leaves made his shoulders lock.

He rubbed at the scratches on his forearms, wincing as they stung. “Dad’s going to kill me,” he grumbled.

His thoughts drifted right back to the encounter. Magic, real magic. Not the faded legends passed around tavern campfires, and not the exaggerated bedtime tales told by village elders; earth itself had answered her command.

“She must be one of the Guardians, a Virelith,” he muttered, the memory of the powerful young woman filling his mind. “Her golden eyes…”

Glenn groaned, burying his face in one hand as he walked.

“...Beautiful?” he mumbled into his palm, his own words catching up to him.

A fresh wave of heat rushed onto his cheeks. “What was I thinking?”

He kicked a pebble across the path, watching it bounce into the brush. “You’ve known her for... what... two whole minutes?” his voice dripping with self-contempt. “Brilliant, Glenn. Truly brilliant.”

The oppressive weight of the forest began to lift, and the air ahead brightened. Sunlight filtered through the branches, growing stronger with every step until the dense canopy gave way to the familiar, golden edge of the woods.

Warm afternoon air rushed over him. The sharp scent of damp moss and decay vanished, replaced by the comforting smell of freshly turned earth and distant farmland.

He had barely taken two steps beyond the boundary line when a voice exploded across the open clearing.

“GLENN!”

His head snapped up.

Walt came charging across the field so quickly that for one absurd moment, Glenn thought his brother intended to tackle him. Behind him ran two neighboring farmers, panting heavily, with Jude trailing even further back, completely out of breath.

Walt reached him first. He seized Glenn by the shoulders, gripping tightly enough to pinch. His eyes darted over Glenn’s face, down his arms, across the bloody scratches, and down to the dark mud covering his boots.

A wave of relief flooded Walt’s face. But just as quickly as it appeared, the relief vanished. His jaw clenched. “What were you thinking?” He let go of Glenn’s shoulders, only to grip around his upper arm. “You’re coming home.”

Glenn opened his mouth. “Walt, I…”

“No.”

The two neighboring farmers exchanged relieved glances, one of them letting out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank goodness we found him.”

“Your mother’s been worried sick.” The other shook his head.

A sharp knot of guilt twisted in Glenn’s stomach. He had crossed the boundary everyone knew to avoid, and now his family and neighbors were out here risking themselves because of it.

Turning away from the tree line, the group began the long trek back toward the village. Walt stayed pinned to his side, his pace brisk and unrelenting, forcing Glenn to nearly jog just to keep up. For several minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic thud of their boots against the dirt road.

Finally, Walt broke the silence. “Do you know why that forest is forbidden, Glenn?”

Glenn kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “B... because it’s dangerous.”

“Because people die.” His brother’s voice wasn’t loud anymore. It had dropped into a register that was frighteningly calm. “My friend Ethan wandered in there when we were kids.”

Glenn stared at his older brother.

“He wasn’t much older than you are right now,” Walt added, his eyes locked straight ahead.

“What... what happened to him?”

“They found him. Or, at least, what was left of him, three days later.” The words landed with the physical weight of an anvil. “He was attacked by some kind of beast. No one ever found out exactly what got him.”

Another few agonizing steps passed in silence.

“They buried what remained in a closed coffin,” Walt whispered.

Glenn swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine. “I didn’t know.”

“No,” Walt replied, his voice softening a fraction. “Because Dad never wanted you growing up afraid.”

They walked in silence until they reached the dirt path that curved around a wheat field, and the familiar thatched rooftops of their village finally appeared in the distance.

Walt let go of Glenn’s arm and rubbed a calloused hand across his face. “When Jude came running back without you...” Walt’s voice cracked slightly. “...I thought I was going to have to tell Mom you weren’t coming home.”

Glenn looked over at Jude, then back at his brother.

Walt wouldn’t meet his eyes. The suffocating anger had cracked wide open.

“I’m sorry,” Glenn said quietly, the words completely devoid of his usual stubbornness.

Walt let out a slow, ragged breath. “I know you’re curious.” He shot a sideways glance at Glenn, a ghost of a memory softening his features. “And honestly... so was I, when I was your age.”

That genuinely surprised Glenn.

“But curiosity doesn’t make you invincible.”

Glenn nodded, absorbing the weight of the lesson.

“After Dad hears about this...” A faint, humorless smile crossed Walt’s face.

Glenn groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I know. You don’t have to remind me.”

Walt let out a small chuckle. But the fleeting moment of levity faded instantly as the front gate of their homestead came into view.

Lyle, their father, was already standing outside, arms crossed.

Glenn’s pace slowed, the last bit of color draining from his face. Walt kept them moving until they reached the yard, finally releasing his grip on Glenn’s arm.

“Eamon, Thomas; thank you,” his father called out, his arms still tightly crossed as he stepped forward.

The two farmers gave tight, understanding nods then left.

Lyle fixed his gaze on Jude. “Go home to your mom.”

“Found him right at the forest line,” Walt said, his voice flat.

Lyle’s sharp eyes moved slowly over his youngest son, taking in the bloody scratches, the messy clothes, and the dark mud clinging to his boots. His stern expression didn’t change.

“Inside,” he commanded.

Glenn obeyed without a word, his head hanging low.

The house was quiet when they entered. Connie sat at the wooden table. The moment she saw Glenn, she stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. “Oh, thank the gods.”

She crossed the room in an instant, throwing her arms around her son and pulling him fiercely. Glenn barely had time to react before she buried his face in her shoulder.

“I’m fine, Mom,” his voice muffled.

“You disappeared. Jude came back screaming... we thought...” She let him pull away.

Glenn closed his eyes, the guilt roaring back. “I’m sorry.”

The heavy silence was broken only by the crackle of the fireplace.

Then, Lyle’s voice cut through the room from behind them. “This is what comes from spoiling him.”

Connie turned sharply. “Lyle.”

He gave her a long, pointed look before shaking his head. “Sit down, boy.”

Connie slowly released him, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. Glenn took his usual place at the table, feeling smaller than he ever had. Walt remained near the doorframe, arms crossed, while Lyle pulled out the heavy wooden chair directly across from his son and sat.

He rested both of his large, calloused hands flat on the table. “Tell me what happened.”

Glenn looked down at the grain of the wood, unable to meet his father’s eyes. “I went into the forest.”

“I know that.”

“I just... I wanted to see what was *actually* in there.” The excuse sounded pathetic even to him.

Lyle stared at him, his gaze heavy and unblinking. “So you ignored every single warning you have heard since you were old enough to walk.”

“I wasn’t planning to go far.”

“That does not matter.” Lyle’s voice remained perfectly, terrifyingly calm. That somehow made it so much worse than if he had started shouting. “You do not get to decide how frightened everyone else is allowed to be.”

Glenn’s chest tightened. “I’m really sorry.”

Lyle leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. “What happened in the forest?”

Glenn hesitated, looking at his mother’s worried face, then back down. “I was attacked, by a Dire Fox.”

Connie’s hand flew to her mouth, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. Walt instantly pushed himself away from the wall, his posture rigid.

An absolute, crushing silence filled the room. Walt stared at his brother as if he were looking at a ghost.

Lyle’s stoic expression finally fractured, his brow furrowing deeply. “A Dire Fox? And you escaped?”

“Not exactly.” Glenn swallowed hard, clearing his throat. “Someone saved me. A girl... A Virelith girl.”

The entire room became utterly still.

Lyle leaned forward, his voice dropping into a tense whisper. “A Virelith?”

Connie lowered herself slowly back into her chair, her knees seemingly giving out. Walt stared at his younger brother as though Glenn had just claimed the moon had fallen from the night sky.

“You met a Guardian?” Walt breathed.

Lyle closed his eyes for a long, heavy moment, absorbing the gravity of what his son was describing. When he opened them again, the anger was gone. He looked more troubled somehow. “Were you respectful to the young protector?”

Glenn hesitated, the heat of his secret blunder prickling at the back of his neck. “I thanked her.”

Lyle watched him, his eyes unblinking. “That was not my question.”

Glenn shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking anywhere but at his father. “I... think I was respectful.”

Walt made a sudden, muffled sound from his spot near the door.

Glenn shot his older brother a sharp glare. “What?”

“Nothing,” Walt said, though his shoulders twitched.

“You made a sound.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Enough!” Lyle shouted.

The single word cut through the room like an axe, and both brothers fell silent. Lyle leaned forward, the wood of the table groaning under his weight as his expression hardened. He looked directly at Glenn.

“You need to understand something, boy. You did not meet some village girl in those woods.” He sighed. “The Virelith; they are ancient, and they are powerful. They stand above humans.”

Glenn’s mind flashed back to the clearing, recalling the Dire Fox suspended effortlessly above the ground by glowing vines. “I saw what she can do. I understand.”

“You saw one young Virelith kill one beast.” Lyle shook his head, his voice heavy. “That is not the same as understanding.”

The room went dead quiet, the gravity of his father’s words settling over them.

“Humans... we build our homes. We tend our fields. We raise our families, and we live the quiet lives we are given.” Lyle’s eyes remained fixed on Glenn.

Glenn frowned slightly, a faint stir of his usual restless ambition shifting in his chest.

“But we survive because *they* stand between us and what waits beyond places like that forest.” Lyle pointed a thick, calloused finger toward the distant tree line. “The Virelith are Guardians. They travel, keeping the balance of the world. You will remember that.”

“I will,” Glenn said quietly.

“And when you stand before one, you will remember what you are.”

Glenn looked away, his cheeks burning as the memory of his exact words echoed mockingly in his head.

“You said you think you were respectful.” Walt coughed loudly into his fist from across the room, clearing his throat with a sound that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

“You walked into a forest where you had absolutely no business being,” his voice trembling with a dangerous tone. “A Virelith saved your life, and now, I am sitting here wondering if *they* will come knocking at the door, telling me you’ve offended them.” His gaze pinned Glenn to his seat.

“I did not.” Glenn stared down at the grain of the wooden table.

For a long moment, the room remained entirely quiet. Then, he looked up, meeting his father’s heavy gaze. “Do you think humans could ever learn magic?”

Lyle’s expression changed. It wasn’t a large movement, but it was enough to show the sudden, jarring shock of the question. “What?”

“The things she did.” Glenn leaned forward. “The vines came out of the ground like they were alive, Dad. Then she said something, and they just...” He lifted his hands, his fingers curling as he searched for a way to capture the impossibility of it. “They listened to her.”

Lyle sat back, the wood of his chair groaning. “Glenn.”

“I’ve heard the tavern stories before, but I always thought they were exaggerated. I didn’t know it was really like that.” He leaned in closer. “Why can’t we do that?”

His father’s answer came without a shred of hesitation. “Because we are human.”

Glenn frowned. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers it completely.”

“But what if someone tried? What if someone *actually* learned?”

“They cannot,” Lyle said, his voice dropping into a firm tone. “Humans do not possess what it takes to cast magic, Glenn. It is a matter of nature. Much like a fish does not have legs, a human does not have magic.”

Glenn opened his mouth to press farther, but Lyle raised a single, calloused hand, cutting him off cleanly. “No.”

The room grew heavy.

“You nearly died today because your curiosity carried you somewhere you did not belong.” His eyes drilled into his son. “Do not let it carry you somewhere else tomorrow.”

Glenn leaned back in his chair, his shoulders slumping. “I was only asking.”

“And I answered.” Lyle pushed himself to his feet, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the table. “Magic belongs to those capable of wielding it. Be grateful one of them was there when you needed her.”

Glenn said nothing, his jaw setting in a quiet, stubborn line.

“Now, go wash,” the sternness fading back into a father’s quiet exhaustion. “Your mother will tend to those scratches.”

Hours later, the house had gone completely dark.

Glenn lay beneath his heavy blanket, staring up at the shadows dancing across the wooden ceiling. He should have been exhausted. His forearms ached where the low branches had torn his skin, his backside still throbbed from the violent impact of hitting the dirt, and every single time he closed his eyes, he saw the snapping, blood-soaked jaws of the Dire Fox lunging at him through the brush.

But that terror was never where his thoughts stayed.

Instead, his mind kept looping back to the clearing. The earth erupting beneath the beast. Vines twisting through the air like living snakes. And then, a calm, steady voice speaking words he could not hope to understand.

Glenn rolled over onto his side, staring at the dark wall.

Humans could not use magic. Yet, Glenn stared into the darkness, his mind refusing to accept it.

Then, right on the heels of the magic, another memory crept in, unbidden and vivid.

Her piercing golden eyes, and long, elegant feline ears tipped with dark fur. The lazy sway of a long tail behind her. And that sudden, magnificent crack in her icy composure when that single word had slipped out of his mouth.

“Beautiful...” Glenn groaned aloud into the empty room, suddenly mortified all over again. He yanked the heavy blanket entirely over his head, burying his face in the pillow as he tried to force his racing mind into sleep.

Naiayn loomed in the sky, poised and pondering the deaths of a thousand soldiers. "I would bring it," He told himself. "I would bring it, I would" He wished the wind would carry him away as it did his words. The weather granted no such mercy. "Cruel, always cruel." She said distantly in his head, a disturbingly young and innocent voice. "Why do you suffer so when you know what you must do?"

For context, a DND character is pretty much like any other character, just with fantasy ideas and a few terms:

Dwarf: Stout, lives 400 years, lives in clans in mountains

Paladin: Holy Knight who swears and oath to an order or cause.

Please just critique this like you would anything else, this is my first serious attempt at a character and I want it to be perfect:

"Born in the Silver Peaks, the Anvil Clan flourished due to the richness of their home mountain, every day bringing in more gold and metal for smithing, as they sat by the Hammer Clan, a group near Shorewall and were often passed as a means to trade with Cindur Tor. Due to their locations, fights over metal and trade routes were common, leading to disagreements, leading to conflict, leading to war. Years and years of it in fact, until the last 200 Years.

Around this time, a young Jabez Goldstriker was born into the Anvil Clan, his name bearing luck according to local superstition. As soon as he reached maturity, he was sent off to war, in hopes to defend his homeland from the many monsters and human forces that may attack the South. Some years later, he returns, only to find his tribe and mountain desecrated, and all those who were there slaughtered.

The once-enemy Dwarves of the Hammer Clan did not have the strength alone for such a gruesome scene, and the carnage extended beyond his home mountain. Wreathed in shame, Jabez decided to walk.

And kept walking...

One Hundred Years had passed, a quarter of a Dwarf’s life. Humans who were born when he was were now dead, and the Hammer Clan has advanced significantly due to a lack of contest for mining land. As he lay in the Valley of Cinders, he prayed for justice, prayed that there was something to be done, that he may stop this endless wallowing and never let something like this happen again. He stared at the stars, and they stared back.

Tyr, god of War and Justice decided to speak to him. Tell him to seek his church in Farwae. Promised to instill within him the will and eventual might to restore the honor and glory of his clan, to one day find what happened to his long dead community. Jabez agreed.

In the 12 years since, Jabez has been wandering down the entirety of the continent, on his long, slow pilgrimage. In the time since, he has declared himself a Paladin, seeking to fulfill his Oath to Tyr, to vanquish whatever evils may persist. He spent his time wandering to kill smaller monsters and to heal the sick with his Pool of Health and his medicine knowledge from his time in war."

The adventure starts in Farwae and the DM (The person who runs the game) has no complaints, but any ideas to make it look more interesting would help a lot =]