2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

I don' t die there.

After the gunshot, my senses are engulfed in a strange void. A burst of purple flashes before everything fades to black, and suddenly, I find myself in an unfamiliar place. At first, I think I'm still in the park, but something is amiss. Winter has vanished, replaced by an unrelenting summer sun beating down on me, the heat oppressive and unforgiving. The air is thick and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp chill I remember. Desperate for shade and water, I frantically search for my bag, only to realize it's gone, along with my phone. I stand on what seems like barren ground, devoid of paths and the familiar hum of traffic. The dry, dusty dirt beneath me and the prickling sensation of tall grass against my legs make everything feel even more surreal .

I wrap my jacket around my waist to let my shirt breathe. Normally, the convenience store enforces a strict uniform policy, but the absence of any witnesses prompts me to disregard the rules. As I gaze around, I marvel at the towering, lush trees with fiery autumn colors, reminiscent of pine trees but grander in scale. Their thick canopies cast dappled shadows on the forest floor, providing brief respite from the blazing sun. Despite the surreal setting, I press forward, my heavy winter boots trudging through the forest. The sound of my footsteps crunching on fallen leaves and twigs fills the silence, adding to the eerie stillness. Wild theories concoct in my mind to explain my predicament, from human trafficking to circuses with talking monkeys, anything to stave off the encroaching panic.

An hour later, I stumble upon a dirt road marked by bike tracks that hint at human activity. The road is narrow and winding, bordered by dense underbrush and wildflowers that sway gently in the warm breeze. Eager to find civilization, I choose to head left, only realizing after another twenty minutes that hunger gnaws at my stomach. Suppressing thoughts of food, I move on, catching snippets of distant chatter that hint at the proximity of people. The voices are faint but unmistakable, a mix of laughter and conversation that grows louder with each step. As I approach a large gated area surrounded by stone walls, a semblance of safety washes over me. The gate is wrought iron, ornate and imposing, with intricate designs that seem out of place in this wild landscape. The stone walls are weathered and moss-covered, hinting at age and history.

However, that feeling doesn't last.

There, amidst the few people in the distance, I see her .

As I approach the closest person, I stop abruptly as they turn to face me. My breath catches in my throat as I stare in disbelief. Standing before me is a satyr—a creature I've only ever read about in mythological tales. Her horns, which curve slightly upward and out to the sides, emerge gracefully from her forehead, partially obscured by her long, flowing dark hair. The hair shimmers like midnight silk, cascading over her shoulders and down her back, blending almost seamlessly with the shadows around us.

It's only then that I notice her attire—her pants are cut open at the front, revealing a pair of hooves instead of feet. They are polished and dark, blending into the earth beneath them. The contrast between her elegant upper half and the bestial lower half is jarring, a surreal reminder that this is no ordinary encounter.

My heart pounds in my chest as she speaks, her voice soft yet tinged with confusion. "Are you alright?" she asks, her eyes—large and doe-like—searching mine with concern. The words, spoken in clear, fluent English, jar me even further. How can this creature, this being from ancient myths, be speaking my language?

For a moment, I wonder if I've somehow stumbled into a fairground or amusement park, one with an elaborate renaissance theme that includes actors dressed as mythological creatures. The thought is absurd, yet it brings a fleeting sense of calm. This has to be some sort of performance, I tell myself.

"Wow," I say out loud, astonished by the level of detail in her costume, ", no, I'm fine. Just wondering what country am I in?"

Raising an eyebrow, she responds, "Skiora." My geography wasn't the best but I was fairly sure that wasn't the name of a country or state .

"Uh, what continent am I on? What main city am I close to?" Now she's looking at me funny and appears concerned. "I'm lost, I have no idea where I am." Looking me up and down she fully turns to me,

"Where are you from?"

"I'm from America," I state. Her face is puzzled.

"I'm not sure I've heard of it, is that near here?" And I'm back to being thoroughly confused.

"You haven't heard of America? What about Europe? Am I in Europe? Asia?" I ask, my voice tinged with desperation. She stares at me oddly, her expression unreadable, and then decides to turn away without answering. Why doesn't she respond? My confusion deepens as I look around.

An assortment of creatures begins to file in through the main gates, and I decide to follow them. This feels like something out of one of my books, a fantastical scene brought to life. The stone walls, resembling bright sandstone, evoke memories of visiting the beach when I was younger. The sunlight glints off the surface, casting warm hues that contrast sharply with the dark, imposing gates. These gates are made of spiked iron, an intimidating barrier that is both functional and decorative .

Guarding these gates are two figures, who I assume are men, dressed in scale mail. But there's something off about them. Their bodies are covered in green, shiny scales that catch the light, making them look almost reptilian. Their helmets are adorned with protruding face masks that resemble lizard heads, complete with intricately designed eyes and snouts. The attention to detail is astounding, almost as if they are real.

It's a lot of costuming effort for someone to go through, attaching hundreds of scales to their bodies and creating such elaborate masks. Absolutely crazy, I think to myself. However, as they stand vigilantly at their posts, I assume they are playing the roles of guards and must work at this place. Their presence adds to the surreal atmosphere, making me question the reality of my surroundings even more.

"Excuse me," I exclaim as I approach them, ", I'm a bit lost, can you tell me where I am?"

"Aynor." He scoffs. In response, I nearly jump out of my skin, he had somehow connected his mask to move with his mouth and it made it so realistic.

"Uh, thanks, is there someone inside that might be able to help point me in the right direction home? A travel agent maybe? American embassy?" I ask, my voice wavering as confusion and a hint of panic seep into my words.

"Mapmaker, near the marketplace," the guard responds, gesturing with his head in the general direction to go. Nodding politely, I pass him and enter through the wide-open gates, my heart pounding in my chest. The place is wild and teeming with people in elaborate costumes. Everywhere I look, there are food stands selling fruits, clothing, or gear. The vibrant colors and bustling activity should be reassuring, but something feels off. Where are the merchandise stands or the information kiosks? They seem to be going for authenticity to an extreme degree.

I decide to keep walking until I find some sort of help, but as I look around, I collide headfirst into someone. "I'm so sor-" I stop dead, my breath catching in my throat as I look up. In front of me stands a tall, burly, long-haired man - with the bottom half of a black stallion. It's a centaur. This time, I can no longer deny what I see. His feet move with impeccable, lifelike motion. He is real. An actual, real centaur.

"It's not at all a problem," he says, smiling at me. Words don't come out. I want to respond, really, but it just isn't happening. "Are you alright?" he asks, eyebrows raised in concern. Managing to turn away, I face the crowd I had just walked through, now seeing it with new eyes. It is flooded with unusual creatures that are absolutely not wearing costumes. I feel lightheaded, my mind reeling from the shock. I need to get out of here. I stumble towards an alleyway, away from the crowded streets, tripping over the uneven path at least twice.

I find my way to a secluded spot, shadowed by the taller buildings around me. Leaning against the stone wall, I try to catch my breath, my heart still racing. The dusty scent of the old building mingles with the myriad of aromas wafting from the marketplace. These were meant to be creatures of legend and myth, not real flesh and blood. Clearly, I am not in America, because a place like this couldn't possibly exist so openly without being smeared all over the news. Another possible thought occurs to me: perhaps I've gone back in time to where these creatures actually existed.

I see children in the marketplace, but they are all non-human. Some have tails, others scales, or fur. The adults and elders look just as unusual; many don't resemble any creatures I've heard of in mythology. Yet, everyone I've spoken with so far has responded to me in English. I've studied history, and there is no way I've traveled back in time. What is happening here? Where am I? How do I get home?

My hands tremble as I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The sheer impossibility of the situation overwhelms me. I glance around, searching for something familiar, something to ground me in reality. But all I see are the strange, fantastical beings going about their daily lives. I feel a wave of dizziness wash over me, the world tilting slightly as my mind struggles to process the impossible.

"Hey!" I'm startled by a voice behind me bellowing. Turning around I see a very stocky...man? He wasn't taller than me but he seemed very angry. His short face and oddly shaped pointed ears reminded me of the dwarves I saw in fantasy novels. Head to toe he was covered in unusual armor, none of it perfectly fit, either being too big or too small and of odd colors as if it were from multiple outfits. As he walked closer I froze, warts that covered his face like an extra layer of skin became very ascertainable, his bulging eyes reminded me a bit of a chihuahua but I wouldn't dare say that aloud now. "What are you doing just standing around?" He wallows .

Although initially distracted by him, I now notice he's not alone; three others, similarly dressed, stand menacingly behind him. What were they? I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out.

"If you want to just be standing around," he continues, his burly accent now apparent, "then you gotta be paying for it. What do you have?"

"M-Me?" I ask, my voice finding its way back. "I don't have anything. Not even a bag or pockets." It wasn't entirely true; the jacket around my waist contains pockets, but aside from a packet of gum, I don't store anything in them.

He grunts and grabs onto my forearm with force. "No pay?" he snickers, "Then pay another way." This couldn't be happening to me. With brute initiative, he pulls me towards his direction, and I scream, almost colliding with the floor, but his grip stops me. The others around him laugh as they begin walking toward the opposite end of the alleyway, away from the sunlight. I have no idea where they are taking me, but I must figure out a way to get out of here and away from them. Unfortunately, I decide to take the route of screaming at him to let me go, but it's useless. With so much noise in the main street, I feel like I won't be heard.

I hear the faint wisp of something speeding by, and a rock flies into the forehead of one of the men in front of me, causing him to fall to the ground. Staring down at his hideous face, the stone embedded in his forehead, blood already pouring, I can't help but scream. It's not exactly fear; it's more like overwhelming shock that needs an outlet – even though the creature in front of me might be dead.

Alarmed, the other brutes start scanning the rooftops, drawing weapons I hadn't noticed before. Basic daggers at the ready, the one holding me throws me against the nearby wall, and I feel the scrape of my shoulder through my clothes. That's definitely going to bruise. On the ground, I stay close to the wall, worried that whatever threw that stone might not be any more friendly towards me.

A few more stones are shot from an unidentified location. Another one of the attackers goes down, yelling, the stone wedged into the side of his neck. This time, I don't scream; I just stare, wondering if this is an incredibly realistic dream. Perhaps I'm already dead, and this is the afterlife.

The creatures around me start shouting toward the sky, challenging a shadow to come out and face them head-on. I try to move my legs, but I can't seem to put my weight on them. From a rooftop with cover from the glistening sun, a figure drops down on top of the one who had been hit in the shoulder. With a swift twist of the neck, the creature stops crying out in pain. As if choreographed, the hooded figure leaps from the dead one to pounce onto the next closest, knocking him down hard. I watch the creature's head smash into the brick path beneath him.

Paralyzed, I catch only a slight glimpse of the hooded figure. It becomes much clearer when he draws his basket-hilted sword from its holster to block an incoming dagger from the original assailant who grabbed my arm. The hooded man spins to his right, forcing the short creature to fall forward. As he does, the man gives him a swift jab into the back of his neck, making him fall into the wall and not get back up, blood splattering outward as the hooded figure pulls the blade out. Hearing his final gurgles as he dies, I realize I'm now the only one alive, and I just hope—

"Are you okay?" he asks me. For the first moment, I feel overcome with relief. He wasn't there to kill me. Looking up at him, I see that his clothing resembles other hunters I would write about in my stories at home. A typical Robin Hood appearance with light green and brown clothing, a tunic with a hooded jacket, and pants with many straps for holding various items. Tucked in next to the sheath for his sword is a slingshot, a very basic one. Almost amused, I stand up, coming face to face with him. My heart stops in my chest—or at least it feels that way as I stare at him. I am left awestruck, like a deer in headlights. He doesn't have anything unusual about him; he looks human – two eyes, two ears, which are half-covered by his dark hair and hood, and a nose. It is all the features you expect to see in a person, and yet, something strikes me about them. Maybe it is how perfect they are? Like something you expect to see in art. It's mainly his eyes, I decide. They are so dark, yet so captivating. I typically like lighter features – blonde hair, blue eyes, but his draw me in in a way I hadn't been prepared for. I swallow the lump forming in my throat.

There's something dream-like in his appearance – something that has me resisting the urge to reach closer to touch him, to see if he isn't just an illusion of my mind.

"I'm alright now," I muster, even though my shoulder is really stinging .

"Trolls aren't exactly tolerated around here for that kind of behavior, but I'm sure someone will find them soon. We should go and get your shoulder checked out," he smiles, offering his hand to me. Without a second thought, I take it. His hands are rough but not indelicate. "The doctor is only a few streets away. Have you been here before?" By ‘here,' I assume he means to this town before, not to this world.

"I'm actually very lost. I'm not even sure I'm alive, honestly." He raises an eyebrow, some of his dark hair shifting beneath his hood.

"You look pretty alive to me. Come on, you must have hit your head pretty hard," he guides me back towards the main street and into the crowd.

A few streets away, just as he said, stands an old house with a sign out front that reads "Practitioner," with the same word written in various other languages beneath it. The house itself is a relic of another era, with weathered stone walls and a sloping roof covered in moss. Ivy climbs up the sides, adding a touch of wildness to the ancient structure. The windows are small and adorned with intricate wrought iron grilles, hinting at the mysteries within.

We step inside, and I am immediately taken aback. The air is thick with the scent of herbs and ancient parchment, creating an atmosphere both enchanting and slightly eerie. From floor to ceiling, shelves are filled with mixtures and concoctions, herbs and books that glow and move as if alive. Bottles of various shapes and sizes, containing liquids of every color imaginable, are carefully arranged on the shelves. Dried plants hang from the ceiling, their leaves rustling softly as if whispering secrets.

It is the most miraculous thing I've ever seen. The shelves, made from dark, polished wood, are carved with intricate etchings that remind me of runes from television shows about witches. The designs seem to pulse with a faint, otherworldly light, adding to the room's magical ambiance. The floor is covered in a richly patterned rug, its vibrant colors contrasting with the muted tones of the stone walls. In the center of the room stands a large wooden table, cluttered with more bottles, open books, and strange, glimmering artifacts.

Candles flicker in various sconces and candelabras, casting dancing shadows on the walls. A small fireplace crackles in the corner, its warmth adding a comforting glow to the otherwise mysterious setting. As I take it all in, I can't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder, as if I've stepped into a place where the very fabric of reality is woven with magic.

"Good to get out of the sun," my companion comments, pulling back his hood. His dark hair falls forward in a mess, but one that suits him. That's when I notice something else – a single hoop earring hanging from the top of his long pointed ear, which means he isn't human after all.

Attempting to hide my disappointment, I respond, "Yeah, I've been out all day. Probably longer," muttering, trying not to stare at his ears. I think I'm over the initial shock; now I'm just curious to touch them.

"So what happened to you, Princess?"

A bit flustered by the nickname, I clear my throat, "Well, I woke up in a field, and I actually have no idea where I am or what country I'm in. That's why I thought I had to be dreaming or dead," lifting an eyebrow at me, he takes a moment to register what I just said.

He chuckles, "You're in Aynor, a city of Skiora. "

"You know," I sigh, ", even though you're trying to help, it doesn't. I've never heard of Skiora. And no one here seems to have heard of where I'm from either. Not to mention I haven't met a single human since I woke up on the forest floor."

"It's a good thing you came here then." A new voice enters the room, and it's a lady who had come from behind the luxurious looking dark purple curtain which led to the rest of the house, at least that's what I assume. Looking her up and down, she wears a long robe, red with metallic gold spirals at the end of her sleeves, held close to her by a belt. The belt itself was strapped with at least a half dozen pouches - who knows what each contains. Since her light hair was up in a bun, I could also see no bearing of pointed ears or scales. "I'm Patricia, the practitioner of the lower town, and a human if that makes you more comfortable." She holds her hand out for me to shake it, and I accept it graciously.

"Don't get me wrong; that's totally not what I meant," I stutter.

Smiling, she responds. "Believe me, it gets overwhelming for me too sometimes. There aren't many humans in this town since it's primarily dominated by Woodland Daemonaria, but most are still quite nice to us."

"Daemonaria?" I feel my eyebrows press together.

Concern flashes across both their faces when my new friend speaks, "Maybe you should also check her head while you're checking her shoulder," he says to Patricia. It was obvious they thought something was a little wrong with me.

Exclaiming, I state, "I'm not crazy, I'm not from around here - just look at what I'm wearing!"

"Yes," Patricia begins, "I was going to ask what kind of house crest you were wearing. It's not very familiar to me."

"It's not a house crest, it's a logo from a convenience store in New York, where I live. You can buy slushies and stale doughnuts there." I'm starting to slightly panic again. " New York ?" I sigh; they clearly had no idea where I was referring to. "Sorry, maybe I did hit my head." I shrug, wincing at the movement in my shoulder.

"Please, come behind the curtain and let me take a look at that for you. Corvu, why don't you stay here?" He nods and smiles. At least now I know the name of the person who rescued me .

I follow Patricia behind the curtain where she politely asks me to remove my shirt so she can inspect my wound. I do so with no argument. Bringing over a washcloth and bandages, she looks over it, then fixates for a moment on my chest. I look down and see the necklace Sheila gave me still hung around my neck; despite all the craziness, it was still there. She looks back up at the wound then at me.

"It's not too bad, looks a lot worse than it is." She smiles, putting something on the washcloth from a glowing green bottle. I feel a shiver run down my spine as I imagine what must be mixed in the concoction to make it glow like that. "This will kill any growing infections, but it'll sting a little while I'm applying it, so why don't you talk to me about something. Tell me about where you're from." She waited for me to begin talking so I decided to tell her more about me.

"I grew up in New York, but I was an orphan, so I grew up with a pretty big...family. I never got adopted, so when I was old enough I started working so that I could take care of myself. I moved into an apartment; it's not fancy and it's a little cramped, but it's the closest thing I'll probably have to a home in a long time. "

Humming her response and nodding up and down, she responds, "How old are you?"

"I turned twenty-one just before last Christmas." I smile, but she just tilts her head. "Oh, no Christmas here?"

"Sorry love, what's Christmas?"

"It's a holiday celebrated a little differently around the world; people give out presents and families gather to spend time together. People decorate their houses with lights and have a big dinner; it's very nice."

"Sounds lovely, a little bit like Thychut." I just smile, assuming it might just be called something different. I feel a small tug and notice that she was done bandaging me up. "There we are. You're good to go." She leaves me alone to put my shirt back on, then I go back out and see Corvu and Patricia chatting. They turn to me as I come out from behind the curtain.

"I should thank you, but I'm really sorry I don't have anything to pay you with." But Patricia just smiles at me.

"This is what I do; I don't expect any more than peace for my services."

I let out a small sigh of relief. "I have to ask a few questions, please?" They both nod with anticipation. "How is it that you speak English? "

"What's English?" Patricia questions, eyebrows engaging with the conversation.

"The language you're using. The one we're speaking to each other."

"We're speaking Skivak." Everything must have different meanings around here. I can't possibly be on Earth. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, steady but intense as if it were a thundering night.

"Do you have a world map somewhere? I need to know how to get home." Patricia nods and disappears once more behind the curtain. I find myself in preparation to cry, but I'm trying to hold it together. Truly, who was I to assume what was happening. This felt too real and painful to just be a dream or hallucination. I hold my breath as Patricia comes back through the curtain and hands me a rolled-up piece of paper. It was clearly old but not fragile. Going towards the windowsill for the most light, I open the parchment, and at a quick glance, I nearly faint again. It's Earth, well not exactly but pretty close. It's where I live. "Where are we?" I ask quietly. Corvu leans over and points to where it should say ‘Las Vegas', replaced with the word ‘Aynor'. It seemed impossible. Not even Las Vegas would create a feature theme park like this .

"I also have this." Patricia clears her throat, holding an open book in front of me - it looked almost identical to the necklace I was wearing, the only difference was the stone was oval and not tear-shaped. Two whole pages are written in a language I didn't understand, which contained an image of what hung heavy around me. "It's a witch's amulet. If you really aren't from here and from another world or realm, it probably brought you here." How does something like this happen?

"Nope," I exclaim, closing the map and handing it to Corvu. "I'm not crazy, and I'm not going crazy. This is insane. This is not some kind of time-traveling necklace." I hold the piece up in my hand, where I can see the inside of the amethyst glow deeply inside.

"Not time travel, realm. You switched realms." She smiles at me, trying to assure me. It's not working. "You should be careful though. The amulet is an extremely rare totem and possesses a lot of great powers. Many Daemonaria want it for themselves because it grants the wearer magical abilities beyond imagination." Corvu's eyes open wider as he hears her words, but for some reason, I feel like that information would shock anyone. "But there's more," Patricia continues, glancing at the book and translating the text. "The amulet maintains its powers only if it's willingly passed from one person to another. The previous holder must trust the next completely. If it's taken without genuine faith, or because you were commanded to, its power becomes faulty."

Corvu frowns, clearly questioning this revelation. "So, the amulet's full power only works with trust? And if it's passed through force, the power is compromised?"

"Yes," Patricia nods. "The person who had the amulet before Tia had to have faith in her to give it to her, and they must have trusted you, Tia, for the amulet to keep its power. If it's simply taken from her, it will lose power altogether."

Without hesitation, I put the amulet inside my top. The idea of someone taking this amulet from me, and potentially losing its power, scares me.

"Can it bring me home?"

"I'm not sure, dear. It brought you here, but you'll need to speak to a wizard."

"Wizards are a thing? I thought it was a witch's amulet?"

Corvu provides his answer with distaste, "Witches have been hunted almost to extinction. There aren't any left, at least not ones anyone is aware of." My head spun. For maybe the hundredth time today, I feel my heart race. I try to breathe, but my throat feels like ice. A voice echoes in my ears. "Hey? Girl?" My vision comes back into focus. Corvu is standing in front of my face holding my shoulders. Clearly, whatever this place is, personal space is not a common courtesy.

"My name is Tia." Even though I spoke the words, they had sounded like they came from an entirely different person.

Corvu raises a brow at me, "Tia, then." He smiles, and I see the distinct length of his fangs for the first time, but I'm not as frightened as I probably should be. "You know you stick out quite a lot around here. You should consider a change of clothes." Patricia nods her head to this and disappears once more into the back room.

"I have no money," I state, ", and if I'm being honest being human is clearly strange enough regardless of the clothes I wear." As if on cue to make my point, my stomach let out an unusual sounding rumble. "And I haven't eaten in what feels like days." When Patricia returns she's carrying some fabrics. Handing them to me, she suggests I go and change .

As I go to stand behind the curtain, Corvu shouts to me, "Tell you what, if you tell me more about this world you're supposedly from, food will be my treat." It was a kind gesture, and not one I could refuse. I graciously accepted, hoping that I wouldn't come to regret the decision.