Chapter 1: The Final Blow
The battlefield was slick with blood — some of it his, most of it not.
Amon Vale’s lungs burned as he tore his sword free from a dying man’s chest. The soldier gasped, coughed red, and crumpled. Around him, the clang of steel and the screams of the dying twisted into a brutal symphony. The stench of fire, sweat, and iron was thick enough to taste.
This was it.
Victory.
Amon staggered forward, blood dripping from his jaw, his fingers raw from hours of combat. But his eyes—his eyes burned with fury.
The Ser Calric stood just ahead, backlit by the flames of the crumbling citadel. Calric, Cloaked in white, battered but still upright, his sword cracked, his magic waning. The coward had run all campaign, hiding behind his priests and spells. But now, there was nowhere left to hide.
Amon raised his sword, the tip shaking with exhaustion.
“This ends now,” he growled.
Calric raised a hand—not in surrender, but in invocation.
He whispered something under his breath.
Amon didn’t wait. He lunged, sword poised for the killing strike—
And then the world tore.
Not the sky. Not the earth.
The world.
Sound vanished. Light shattered. His body twisted, weightless and burning, like being pulled through molten glass. Time had no meaning in that in-between place — just pain, heat, and the terrible sense of being rewritten.
Then—
—impact.
He hit the ground hard.
But not earth.
Wood.
Everything was wrong. There were no screams. No ash. No blood. Just… a soft hum. A glow. The scent of lavender and dust and something sweet.
Amon groaned, forcing himself up, one hand still clutching his sword.
He was kneeling on a floor of pale oak. Around him, bookshelves. Lights. Walls painted in soft colors. And sitting at a desk only a few paces away was a woman in a faded hoodie, her mouth wide open, eyes frozen in terror.
“What—” she began.
Amon rose, instincts kicking in. He backed toward the wall, eyes scanning every corner. “Where am I?” he barked.
The woman pushed her chair back, hitting the wall behind her. “Who—what the hell?! How did you get in here?!”
He pointed his sword at her. “What did you do?”
She gasped. “Oh my God—are you bleeding?! What—what is that armor?!”
He narrowed his eyes, his head pounding. “Answer me, witch. Where is Calric?”
“Calric?” Her voice cracked. “I don’t—what?”
“This is some trick,” he muttered, looking around the strange chamber. Strange art hung on the walls, wires snaked across the floor, and a glowing box lay open on the bed.
Not a prison. Not a dungeon. And no visible magic.
But no battlefield either.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I live here!” she shrieked. “This is my apartment! You broke in here, you psycho!”
He stared at her, cold realization seeping into his bones. Calric’s words. That last moment. The light.
No.
It couldn’t be.
His grip tightened on the hilt. “He cursed me.”
“What?”
“This is an illusion,” Amon growled. “A spell. An exile. I knew he wouldn’t fight fair.”
“Listen—just take what you want, okay?” the woman stammered. “I’ll—Take my phone—”
She reached for a slim black rectangle on her nightstand.
He crossed the room in a blur, knocking it from her hands with the flat of his blade. “I won't be tricked again.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She backed into the wall, frozen.
He stood there, towering over her, blood dripping onto the carpet.
Seconds passed. His chest heaved. And slowly, slowly, he lowered the blade.
“If this is a dream, you’re a tether,” he said quietly. “I cannot kill you. Not yet.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Please—just tell me what you want.”
He stepped away, pacing now, trying to think. “I want to wake up. I want to find her. I want to destroy Calric’s coward magic and see my Queen freed.”
“Queen?”
He looked over sharply. “Selanah. The Enchantress. He has her.”
The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “This can’t be happening.”
Then her phone buzzed from the floor. A name lit up the screen: Alec (Fiancé).
Her stomach dropped. She picked it up — he let her pick it up — declined the call, and turned pale when her eyes locked with his.
This can't be happening. She kept thinking. This cannot be happening.
Another buzz. A knock on the door.
“Evie?” came a voice. “Hey, I brought food. You in there?”
Her eyes darted toward the closet.
“Hide,” the whisper ran out of her lips.
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Please! If he sees you, he’ll freak out. He’ll call the police. I—please just get in the closet. I’ll explain after.”
He stared at her. Then, defying every instinct, stepped inside the narrow door and pulled it shut.
Heart racing, she opened the front door just a crack.
Alec stood there holding a paper bag. “You didn’t text me back. Everything okay?”
“Sick,” she said hoarsely. “Flu or something. Can we… talk later?”
He leaned forward, concerned. “You sure? I can come in—”
“No!” she said too quickly. “I really need to sleep. Sorry.”
He hesitated, then handed her the bag. “Alright. Text me.”
She closed the door, locked it, and pressed her forehead to the wood.
Silence.
Then the closet door creaked open.
The man in armor stepped out, eyes searching her face.
She finally let herself look at him properly. The angular jaw. The scar beneath his eye. The strange armor. The grey eyes. The midnight black hair. His voice. His words.
It hit her all at once.
“No,” she whispered. “It can’t be. You’re not… you’re not real.”
He tilted his head.
“What did you say?”
“You’re Amon Vale,” she whispered, backing up, reaching for her laptop on the floor. “I wrote you.”
He frowned. “You’re mad.”
“I wrote about the final battle—this morning—I typed Calric’s name this morning—”
“Silence,” he snapped. “You think this is a game? Some fantasy of yours?”
“I think…” she whispered, trembling, “I think I made you.”
