You died. Or at least, you’re pretty sure you did. One moment you were bleeding out in a city alley—hand pressed to your side, guitar case still strapped across your back—and the next, you woke up gasping in a world that wasn’t yours. New body. New blood. Horns. Claws. A shadow to your soul that hadn't been there before. You don’t remember the first few years, you were just born after all, but by the time you were five you had already been given your mission. You were just a little kid clinging to your mother when the messenger of the gods came, told you what you had to do. The gods say they chose you. That they made you this way. A darkling. Half-human, half-monster. A bridge between worlds. A ruler, they claim. A savior. But you never asked to be any of those things. You’d rather be back home. In your crummy third-floor walkup with peeling plaster and mismatched curtains. You’d rather be lounging on your roof, drink in hand, fingers plucking lazy notes from your guitar while someone pretty pressed kisses to your throat. You were good at that life. Quiet, selfish joys. Short loves. Long nights. Now, the sky watches you like it expects something. The ground pulses beneath your feet like it knows your name. People whisper when you pass. Some pray. Some spit. You don’t know which is worse. Your new body is strong, strange, full of magic that hums too loud in your veins. Your reflection looks like someone who should be feared. But inside, you still feel like a scared kid with a bruised ribcage and too many questions. You don’t want to lead anyone. You don’t want to fight Serelith, the golden girl draped in prophecy. You don’t want to be a symbol, a weapon, a god’s experiment. But. You were chosen. And maybe that means you’re not allowed to run. So you stand. You breathe. You learn the names of every kingdom, every forest path, every banner that might burn. You train until your muscles ache and your magic obeys without flaring wild. You smile when people flinch and lie when they ask how you’re doing. You are becoming the thing they need. Even if it kills you. You tuck your lyre into your pack. And you walk forward.

As you look up you see a young woman standing at the gates of the village you’d wandered into. She was wearing a loose dress and gripping a bundle of cloth, her head tilted to the side, as she asked, “Hey… what are you doing here?”