Namelessman came awake with his face pressed into cold, wet earth. The taste of soil and decay coated his tongue. A dull, relentless hammering pulsed behind his eyes, each throb like a blacksmith's mallet striking hot iron.

  "…What the hell?" His voice rasped, unfamiliar even to himself. He pushed up onto trembling arms, blinking hard against the dizziness that threatened to drag him back down. The world swam into focus slowly, reluctantly.

  Ancient trees towered on every side, their twisted branches knitting together overhead into a living ceiling so dense that daylight arrived only in thin, pale needles. Moss clung to bark like green velvet, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp leaves, mushrooms, and something faintly metallic perhaps his own blood.

  He was completely naked.

  No memories. No name. No scrap of cloth, no boots, no clue how long he had been lying here like discarded refuse. Only the certainty, cold and absolute, that this was not his world.

  He rose unsteadily, wincing as twigs and stones bit into the soles of his bare feet. The forest seemed to breathe around him slow, watchful. Somewhere distant a bird called once, then fell silent, as though it had decided against announcing itself.

  He walked because standing still felt worse.

  Hours bled together. Or perhaps only minutes. Time felt soft and treacherous here, like trying to hold water in cupped hands. Strange creatures watched him pass, a four-legged thing the size of a cat with luminous blue fur, a cluster of mushrooms that pulsed with faint violet light in time with his heartbeat, a deer-like animal whose antlers branched into delicate crystalline prisms that chimed softly when it turned its head.

  Eventually the trees began to thin. Ahead, rising from the gentle slope of a hill, stood a crooked wooden house. Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney, warm amber light glowed behind warped glass panes. It looked like something drawn by a child who had only ever heard stories of homes.

  "Thank every forgotten god," he whispered, throat raw. He half-stumbled, half-ran up the final stretch of the path. The garden was modest neat rows of herbs, a few hardy cabbages pushing through the soil, a small coop, and lines of laundry swaying gently in the chill breeze.

  "Hello?" His voice cracked. "Hello! Anyone there? I need help, please!" Silence answered. Only the soft creak of the house settling and the distant cluck of chickens.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  He circled the building, peering through windows. Inside he glimpsed a simple hearth, a worn table, shelves lined with jars of dried herbs and roots. No movement. No one.

  Desperation gnawed deeper. The cold was sinking into his bones now, stealing feeling from his fingers and toes. Then he saw them, a simple linen shirt and sturdy brown trousers hanging from a wooden peg beside the back door, still damp from washing.

  "I'm not stealing!" he called loudly to the empty yard, as though the universe itself might bear witness. "I'm just… borrowing. I swear I'll bring them back." He snatched the clothes down, dressed hurriedly, and immediately felt a fraction more human.

  Near the side of the house stood a rain barrel. He leaned over it, bracing both hands on the rim. The water's reflection offered him a face he barely recognized.

  Brown unruly hair, eyes the color of storm clouds wide, frightened, and utterly foreign but somehow that face was his. A stranger stared back.

  His chest tightened. Something older than memory ached behind his ribs.

  "Who the hell are you?" he whispered to the reflection. He plunged both hands into the icy water and scrubbed his face violently, as though he could wash the stranger away. Droplets flew, he shivered as they ran down his neck.

  A sudden burst of indignant clucking made him turn. Chickens strutted about the yard, plump and oblivious. His stomach gave a long, hollow growl.

  He crouched slowly. "Sorry about this," he muttered to the nearest hen, "but I'm pretty sure you'd do the same."

  He lunged.

  The chicken exploded into feathered chaos wings beating, outraged squawks ringing across the yard. Namelessman wrestled, slipped on damp grass, cursed, and finally pinned the bird against his chest, panting.

  "Got you, you little bugger. Hope your owner doesn't mind loaning you for… uh… educational purposes. Who am i kidding? I'm eating you!" He allowed himself a crooked smirk.

  Then he heard it.

  Slow, deliberate footsteps. The unmistakable tap-tap of a walking stick on packed earth. Namelessman turned.

  An old man stood at the edge of the garden path thin white hair, patched woolen coat, eyes narrowed to furious slits. In one gnarled hand he gripped a sturdy oak staff. In the other, faint motes of golden light were already beginning to swirl.

  "THIEF!" the old man bellowed. "THIEF! THIEF!"

  "I'm n-no wait, I can explain–!" Nameless tried to speak in panic. The golden light flared brighter. The air crackled. Namelessman didn't wait for the rest of the spell.

  He bolted.

  Down the hill he ran, bare feet sliding on loose soil and grass, the chicken flapping and screeching in his arms like a furious pillow. Branches whipped his face as he plunged back into the forest. He stumbled, nearly fell, caught himself, kept running deeper, darker, until the sounds of shouting and spell-fire faded behind layers of ancient trees.

  At last he staggered to a halt beside the massive root plate of a fallen giant. He collapsed against it, chest heaving, and carefully set the still-indignant chicken on the moss.

  "I can't eat you raw," he rasped, wiping sweat from his eyes. "We'd both regret it and die together ain't best choice for me." But his stomach snarled again now in protest than demanding.

  He looked up. A cluster of fat, crimson fruits dangled from a low branch bright, tempting, almost glowing against the gloom.

  "Food, at last…" He scanned the ground, found a small, smooth stone, weighed it in his palm.

  One throw.

  Perfect.

  The fruit dropped with a soft thud. He snatched it up, brushing dirt from its glossy skin.

  The chicken immediately pecked his bare foot. "Ow– hey! Eat grass or something if you're hungry!" He brought the fruit to his mouth and bit.

  Sweetness flooded his tongue intense, almost cloying. Then came the burn. His throat constricted. Heat raced up the back of his tongue. His vision tunneled. Foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth.

  He toppled backward, the half-eaten fruit rolling from nerveless fingers. The world tilted, smeared, darkened.

  The last thing he saw was the chicken head cocked curiously watching him die.

  Then everything went black.