The wolves came in silence.
That was the thing Darien noticed first—not the howling he'd expected from old games and older movies, but a terrible, coordinated quiet. Six shapes moving through the underbrush like smoke, gray fur blending with mist, eyes catching the moonlight in pairs of pale gold. They'd been tracking him and Sin for ten minutes, he realized. Waiting for the right terrain.
"Ambush pattern," he muttered, fingers tensing on the keyboard. "Smart AI."
The first wolf broke cover at a sprint, not toward Devi but toward Sin—targeting the tank, the shield, the obvious threat. Sin's AI responded perfectly, Shield Bash stunning the lead wolf, Defensive Stance drawing the pack's attention. The remaining five circled, looking for angles, testing the squire's positioning.
Darien didn't wait. He triggered Stealth, the Veil of the First blending him into the forest shadows, then Phantom Step—the Shadow Duelist passive that boosted dodge after critical hits. He circled wide, rapier conjured and humming with ethereal edge, and struck the rearmost wolf from behind.
Backstab. Critical. The wolf's health bar vanished in a single crimson flash.
The pack faltered. Real AI, real tactics—they hadn't expected the healer to hit this hard, hadn't calculated for a damage-dealer who moved like fog. Sin pressed the advantage, Rush stunning a second wolf, and Darien weaved between them, blade flickering, each strike precise as a surgeon's incision.
Thirty seconds. The last wolf fell, gravestone blooming where it died.
Darien sat back. His hands ached from the intensity, knuckles white where they gripped the mouse. On screen, Devi performed a Praise emote—clapping Sin's shoulder, a nod of respect. The squire's happiness ticked up: 67/100. A small notification appeared:
[NPC Sin: Combat efficiency increased through praise reinforcement. Learning pattern established.]
"Good," Darien breathed. "Good boy."
He had Sin loot the corpses while Devi stood guard, the squire's inventory filling with wolf pelts, fangs, a few silver coins. The contract from Royal Dragons—exterminate a large pack threatening their logging operations—was nearly complete. This had been the third and largest group.
But there had been another contract too. The escort mission, guarding lumberjack NPCs for an hour while they worked the forest's edge. Darien had taken it on a whim, wanting to test Sin's abilities in a non-combat scenario. The squire had performed admirably, positioning himself to intercept wandering monsters before they reached the workers, using terrain to create natural barriers.
"They really have grown a lot in just a little while," Darien said, stretching until his spine popped. He'd been grinding with Sin for two hours straight, the pair completing two Royal Dragons contracts and gaining nearly a full level each. The way NPCs leveled was different from players—slower experience gain, but more frequent class advancements, more branching paths. Sin was already approaching his second class choice, the squire foundation opening into knight, paladin, or spellblade specializations.
"Kind of jealous," Darien muttered, hitting the microwave timer for a breakfast burrito. The machine hummed, reheating eggs and peppers into something edible-adjacent. He sat back down, inventory open, sorting through the morning's gains.
The wolf pelts stacked high—quality material for leatherworking. The Royal Dragons had traded generously: rare herbs, a bundle of iron ore, gear he couldn't use but could sell. Most interesting was a set of mage robes, enchanted with minor fire resistance, dropped from a wandering spellcaster mob that had stumbled into the wolf pack's territory.
"Maybe I could try recruiting?" The thought surfaced as he bit into the burrito, steam warming his face. "Branch out from comfort zones."
He'd been doing that already, in small ways. Talking to Fin. Taking contracts from player organizations. Building something visible, something with a name. The old Devi would have stayed solo, invisible, independent. The new Devi—this moon elf with a mercenary company and an NPC companion—was different. Darien wasn't sure if that was growth or desperation.
He finished the burrito in three more bites, wiped his fingers on his pants, and pulled up the public forum. His help wanted post for Shadow Corps sat among dozens of others now—mercenary groups were becoming common as players discovered the system. He'd been early, but not first. Not unique.
"Good," he said, surprising himself. "Means it's real. Means it matters."
He closed the forum, added Sin to his party, and set out for the Royal Dragons' town. The walk took half an hour at player speed, longer because Darien kept stopping to grind material spawns along the way. Giant boars in forest clearings, their health pools mini-boss thick. Carnivorous plants near stream beds that required fire damage to kill efficiently. A hidden cache beneath a waterfall, its chest containing a map fragment he couldn't identify.
By the time he reached the town walls, his inventory was full and Sin's experience bar sat at 89% toward level twenty.
"Devi! Welcome back!" Fin met him at the gate, crafting apron still stained, smile still easy. The town had grown again—new buildings, more guards, a training yard where NPCs practiced formations. "Here to sell some stuff? I was hoping I'd see you around. The guild master wanted us to give some of these out to players that had helped us."
He initiated trade. Two items appeared: a Trader's Permit and a Merchant's License.
"With these, we take a percentage of trades and purchases," Fin explained, "but you'd be able to trade with anyone here. Even guards, NPC crafters, the quartermaster. Early access before we open it to general players."
Darien accepted, the items binding to his inventory with golden light. "I appreciate it. Getting ahead of the game helps both of us."
"You guys really rushed a nation," he added, watching a patrol march past in matching armor.
Fin puffed up, visible even through the avatar's limited expressions. "Our guild leader did marketing before, I think. Organized everyone so we could do what we wanted while working toward the end goal." He paused, glancing at a group near the town hall. "Also helped that we've got streamers. Got people wanting to join before we even made leaderboards."
"Speaking of, there's a meeting being streamed right now." One of Fin's companions gestured toward the hall. "Gotta head out. Player marketplace is set up if you wanted to auction anything. Later, Devi! Thanks for all the help."
They left. Darien walked into the town center, past the stone walkways and magic-stone street lamps that cast soft blue light even in daytime. The market bustled—NPCs haggling, players comparing gear, a bard avatar playing a lute with actual musical skill, the notes floating as visible golden text.
He found the auction kiosk, listed the mage robes and excess materials, set minimum buyouts higher than he'd dared before. Within minutes, notifications pinged: SOLD. SOLD. SOLD.
"Am I that ahead right now?" He studied the nearby players—basic gear, starter weapons, faces still learning the interface. "None of these guys look like they have good gear yet."
He collected his gold, sent Sin back to auto-farm near the village, and stood at the town gate looking south.
The map showed unexplored territory. Forest giving way to hills, hills to marshland, marshland to a massive lake he'd seen referenced in forum posts but never visited. But Fin had mentioned something else, traded for leather and information.
A shrine. New lore event. South of here.
Darien checked his inventory. Potions, backup weapons, the Veil of the First still in prime condition. He had six hours before sleep, before the graveyard shift reclaimed him.
"North," he decided, looking at the lake icon on his minimap. "Haven't been there yet. Wonder what I can find."
He set Devi to auto-walk, the pathfinding system navigating around known monster spawns. Then he stood, stretched, and finally—finally —began sorting through the boxes in his living room.
An hour later, he'd made minimal progress. A yearbook, dusty and forgotten. Photo albums with faces he barely recognized. A sweater from an ex that he threw directly in the trash. The computer dinged: destination reached.
Darien lowered the map.
The lake was not what he expected.
It dominated the minimap, a vast inland sea that swallowed the screen's edges. But the reality of it—the rendering, the scale, the presence —made the map seem like a lie. Water stretched to a horizon that shouldn't exist in a game zone, surface rippling with light that came from nowhere and everywhere. The trees surrounding it were wrong. Not the manageable oaks and pines of Yshtol Forest, but giants that would shame California's redwoods, their trunks wider than city buses, branches interlocking hundreds of feet overhead to form a cathedral ceiling of bark and leaf.
The music changed. He hadn't noticed when, but his speakers now played something delicate—a flute and violin duet, notes falling like rain on still water. Peaceful. Too peaceful. The kind of music that preceded horror in every game he'd ever played.
"This beats the old environments by far," Darien whispered, turning up the volume.
He explored carefully, Devi's footsteps silent on moss that seemed to absorb sound. Giant roots formed natural tunnels, hollows large enough to walk through upright. Occasional boars—massive boars, horse-sized, with tusks like scythes—blocked paths and required wide detours or combat. Each fight drained potions, pushed skills to their limits. These weren't the beginner beasts near the temple; these were apex predators of a mature zone.
With the herbology skill, he found plants he'd never seen on forums. Glowing lichen that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Flowers with petals like glass, chiming when touched. Roots that twisted into shapes almost like letters, almost like warnings.
He made a mental note to post about them later. The question-mark descriptions—new feature, requiring actual use before identification—frustrated and fascinated him. Dangerous, with herbs. You could poison yourself learning.
The clock read 4:17 PM. Five hours until he should sleep, should prepare for the shift that started at 11. He positioned Devi in a hollow between roots, away from boar patrol paths, and shut down the game.
The forum post took ten minutes: herb names, locations, the question-mark problem. He asked if anyone had encountered them, if anyone knew their properties. Then he checked the water—working now, the maintenance finished—and ran a bath.
Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror. Darien sank into heat that hurt before it healed, water lapping at his chin. His thoughts wandered, as they always did, to the past. Family. Friends. The girl with frizzy brown hair and caramel skin, eyes that shifted green when she was emotional. The boy with glasses and ever-changing hair, ginger hidden beneath dye jobs that cycled through colors like seasons.
He'd emailed them today. Kate and... what was the ginger kid's name now? He couldn't remember. The message had been simple—"Hey, how ya doing?" —the kind of reaching out that felt desperate even as he typed it.
The water ran cold. He drained it, dried off, found clean clothes that weren't work uniforms or sleep-stained t-shirts. "Laundry day tomorrow," he promised the empty apartment, knowing he might not follow through.
He loaded his email while dressing. One response:
"Hey Darien it's Kate! Been a while huh? Was actually wondering yesterday what you might be up to and boom! Got a message from you today, must be fate right? LOL. Anyway how have you been? Doing anything new or still gaming and reading novels? I ended up moving back with my mom due to her health. Any book or game recommendations? Would love to hear back from you!"
Darien smiled. Small, wistful. "Sounds like she's doing okay for herself... kinda."
He typed a reply—work, Rune Union, no reading lately except forums—and sent it before he could overthink. Grabbed his phone, his keys, did the final apartment check. Locked up as rain began falling, fat drops that splattered against his jacket as he crossed to the gas station.
The shift passed in its usual blur. Angry customers. Price complaints. The manager dealing with a shrieking couple while Darien slipped out the back, grateful for the timing. Home by 6 AM, exhausted, leaning on his apartment door so hard he nearly fell through when it gave way.
"Alright!" he shouted, surprised, catching himself on the frame.
"You alright?!" A woman's voice—Mrs. Chen, three doors down, leaving for her morning walk.
"I'm okay! Lost my footing!" He waved, face burning, and ducked inside.
No bath. The water notice was back—four more hours of maintenance. Darien groaned, ran a hand over his head, and went straight to the computer. Rune Union loaded. He logged in.
The notification waited: FeverDreamer has accepted your contract proposal. Available Wednesday, 2 PM EST.
Darien smiled. Then he checked Sin's auto-farming progress and froze.
A rare sword sat in the storage chest, blade curved like a crescent moon, runes etched along its length that pulsed with soft silver light. Sin had found it during patrol, killed some elite spawn, looted without understanding its value.
"I plan on making Sin more of a damage-tank," Darien muttered, examining the weapon. "Magic weapon would've been better. But this..." He checked the auction values. Early-game rares were selling for hundreds of gold. "This works."
He moved it to his inventory, added other sale items, and set Devi walking north. The auto-path took him through the Royal Dragons' territory—now marked in gold on the map, nation borders applied, the Dragoon Imperium born while he slept. He shuddered, remembering the old version. Towns vanishing. Player wars erasing months of work in hours.
"Wait..." A thought chilled him. "I wonder if those banned players are coming back."
The lich. The godlike necromancer who'd maxed holy resistance until healing hurt him, who'd destroyed a nation single-handedly before the ban hammer fell. The health-regeneration exploiters who'd made PvP unplayable for months. The world was fresh, the systems new—perfect hunting ground for those who'd learned to break the old one.
"Bound to be people who find broken builds," he murmured, passing through the Dragoon Imperium's gates. Fin wasn't there, but the marketplace bustled. He listed his items, watched them sell instantly, collected gold that made his inventory feel heavy with possibility.
He left the city, set Sin to auto-farm again, and turned Devi north.
The lake waited.
He'd been walking for forty minutes when he found the first grave.
Not a monster gravestone—the temporary markers that dissolved after looting. This was permanent. Marble, weathered, carved with a name and date in flowing script:
HERE LIES KESTREL Level 14 Ranger Fell seeking what lies beneath "The door opens for the worthy"
Darien stopped. Devi's footsteps halted on moss that suddenly felt too quiet. He approached the grave slowly, as he would a real one, and read it again.
Level 14. Early in the game's lifespan, but not a beginner. Someone who'd ventured this far, found something, died for it. And the quote—"The door opens for the worthy" —not standard gravestone text. Personalized. Player-written, or system-generated from some death-dialogue he didn't know about.
He looked around. The forest here was older, the giant trees closer together, roots forming walls and archways that guided movement like a maze. Light filtered through the canopy in thin shafts, illuminating dust motes that drifted like ash.
Another grave, twenty feet ahead:
HERE LIES THORNHEART Level 19 Paladin The guardians do not sleep "Come back stronger, or do not come back"
Darien's throat tightened.
He counted seven more as he walked. Different classes, different levels, different quotes. A mage at level 22: "The egg remembers." A dual-wielding berserker at level 17: "Two axes were not enough." A summoner at level 20: "My companions abandoned me. Do not let yours."
The path grew clearer as he followed the graves, as if the forest itself wanted him to see them. To understand what awaited. Darien moved Devi carefully, checking corners, using Stealth even when no enemies showed on his radar.
He didn't loot them. The graves offered no interaction prompt—no "search remains," no "recover equipment." But even if they had, he wouldn't have. These were markers of courage, of ambition, of players who'd pushed further than he had and paid for it. Taking their things would feel like theft from the dead.
"Respect," he whispered to the screen. "You tried. You discovered something. I'll try too."
The last grave sat directly before a stone structure that emerged from the forest like a memory half-forgotten. The marker read:
HERE LIES ASHEN Level 24 Spellblade Closest to the truth "She is waiting. She has always been waiting."
Level twenty-four. Higher than Sin. The quote sent something cold down his spine—not fear of death, but fear of something larger. She. The dragon goddess? Aetheria? Or something else, something the game hadn't revealed yet?
He stepped past the grave.
The structure was a temple, or what remained of one. Stone walls embedded directly into a rock face, as if the mountain had grown around it or it had been built from the mountain's bones. Pillars flanked the entrance, some broken, their stubs still standing like rotten teeth. But the doorway—arched, carved with serpentine patterns that coiled around each other in impossible geometry—was intact. Whole. Waiting.
A notification appeared:
[You have discovered: The Shrine of First Scales] [Recommended Level: 25+] [Party Size: 2-4] [Warning: Unique Instance Zone]
Darien's hands hovered over the keyboard. Unique instance. The old game had them—rare dungeons with one-time rewards, unique skills, classes that could only be unlocked through specific challenges. He'd heard rumors of players finding them, never experienced one himself.
He was level 24. Close to the recommendation. Sin was 20, approaching his second class advancement. They were two, not the recommended four.
The graves behind him whispered their warnings.
He entered.
The interior defied the exterior's ruin.
Where the outside was crumbling stone and moss, the inside was... preserved. Not restored, not maintained—held . As if time itself had been asked to wait outside. The walls glowed with faint bioluminescence, patterns shifting slowly like breath. The air smelled of ozone and something older, something that reminded Darien of the sea.
He moved through chambers that seemed to rearrange slightly in his peripheral vision. A library, shelves empty but for a single book that pulsed with purple light: Archmage's Diary. The description required a master in History to translate—master rank, not just high skill, a commitment of months or years that few players would make.
"I can only imagine what mastering a skill takes now," Darien muttered, leaving the book where it sat. Its presence felt like bait, a distraction from deeper chambers.
The path sloped downward. The bioluminescence shifted from blue to green, matching the emerald he'd seen in Aetheria's scales. The music changed too—the peaceful flute-violin duet replaced by something deeper. A hum, barely audible, that resonated in his chest through the speakers.
Sin stopped.
A chat bubble appeared above the squire's head—not scripted, not prompted. Generated.
"I have a bad feeling about this next room."
Darien choked on his own spit. He'd never seen an NPC generate unprompted dialogue. Never seen an AI companion express fear .
A system notification followed:
[NPC Sin has gained the unique skill: Danger Sense] [Description: Sin can detect threats beyond normal perception. Happiness and loyalty affect accuracy.]
"An NPC can gain unique skills?!" Darien stared, then used Acknowledge—the praise variant for serious moments, a nod that said I hear you, I trust you.
Sin's happiness ticked: 72/100. The squire's posture shifted, readying shield and sword, green eyes fixed on the door ahead.
It was massive. Stone, like everything here, but different in quality—smoother, older, carved with a single image that covered its entire surface. A dragon coiled around an egg, wings sheltering, eyes closed in protection or prayer. The serpentine patterns from the entrance continued here, weaving through the dragon's scales, connecting egg to wings to eyes in a circuit that seemed to pulse with the room's hum.
Darien pressed against it.
The door opened without sound, without resistance, as if it had been waiting for exactly this pressure, exactly this person. Beyond:
[Old Incubation Chamber]
The words faded. The door slammed shut behind them—not a crash, but a finality , stone grinding against stone with the sound of a tomb sealing.
The room was a dome, vast enough to swallow sound. Torches ignited in sequence around the walls, each flame emerald green, each one closer to the center until a ring of fire surrounded the chamber's heart.
An egg.
Not large—maybe three feet tall, shaped like a smoothed stone rather than the oblong form of natural eggs. Its surface was gray, unremarkable, until the flames touched it. Then color bled through like dawn breaking: emerald, then deeper green, then gold at the edges where the fire kissed closest. The hum that had followed Darien through the temple rose to a crescendo, became music—choir voices, instruments he couldn't name, a harmony that made his eyes burn with something that wasn't quite tears.
The ground shook.
Two statues flanked the egg, previously indistinguishable from the walls. They were knights of a kind Darien had never seen—armor that came to points like dragon teeth, helmets that concealed everything, axes held in resting positions that suddenly shifted to ready. Their stone eyes glowed the same emerald as the flames, the egg, the dragon goddess's scales.
They moved.
Not slowly, as stone should. Fast. Terribly fast, ground cracking beneath their weight, axes singing through air that suddenly smelled of violence.
Sin moved without command. Taunt—the squire's basic aggro skill—drew both statues' attention, shield raised against the first axe strike that would have shattered a lesser defender. The impact rang through Darien's speakers, a bass note that made his desk vibrate.
Darien triggered Stealth, Phantom Step, circling wide. The statues tracked Sin, predictable in their focus, and Darien struck from behind—the first critical hit, Backstab activating, his rapier's ethereal edge carving sparks from stone that should have been immune.
They fought.
An hour in, Darien realized they were losing.
Not immediately, not obviously. But the pattern was clear: the statues regenerated. Slowly, barely visible, but each time he and Sin backed off to heal, to regroup, the stone knights' health bars crept upward. And they learned. The first time Darien used the same flanking route, the statue anticipated, axe sweeping where he would have been. The second time Sin used Shield Bash at the same moment in their rotation, the knight caught the shield and threw Sin across the room.
Darien's potion supply dwindled. Health flasks, gone. Mana potions, three remaining. The statues stood at 60% health—both of them, somehow synchronized—and he and Sin were at 40%, bleeding virtual wounds that slowed movement, reduced accuracy, made every dodge a gamble.
"Come on," he whispered, fingers cramping. "Think. There's always a mechanic."
He watched the statues' patterns. They fought as a pair, never separating more than ten feet. When one took significant damage, the other redoubled its defense. When both were threatened, they entered a synchronized stance—axes crossed, stone humming—that reduced all incoming damage by half.
Not two enemies, Darien realized. One enemy in two bodies.
The theory crystallized: they had to die simultaneously. Or near enough that regeneration couldn't compensate.
He tested it. Waited for the right moment, both statues at 55%, Sin's health critical but his taunt still holding. Darien used Dagger Throw with conjured blades, raining damage on the left statue while he closed on the right. Sin, understanding or programmed to follow damage focus, shifted his attacks to match.
55%. 50%. The statues tried to enter their defensive stance, but Darien interrupted with a Rush—Sin's knockback skill, perfectly timed—and the synchronization broke.
45%. 40%. Darien's mana ran dry. He threw his last conjured dagger, switched to basic attacks with the rapier, each strike chipping stone that should have been invincible at this level.
35%. 30%. Sin fell to one knee, health bar flashing red, Defensive Stance the only thing keeping him alive.
25%. Darien found a mana potion in his inventory—small, weak, forgotten in a corner. He used it on Sin, not himself. The squire's Rush came off cooldown. Stun. Knockback. Critical window.
Darien struck. Again. Again. The right statue's health hit 15%, 10%, 5%—
He spun, rapier flashing, and threw his last conjured blade at the left. It hit as the right statue crumbled, both health bars vanishing in the same frame, the same instant, the same breath.
Silence.
Then: music. Not the battle's intensity, but victory—chimes and strings and a choir that sounded like Aetheria's voice, if Aetheria could sing. A notification blazed across his screen, gold and impossible to miss:
[Devi of Shadow Corps has finished the Trial of the Dragon]
Darien stared. Then, slowly, the shock gave way to something else. Not pride, not exactly. Something quieter. The graves outside hadn't been warnings to turn back. They'd been milestones . Proof that this was worth attempting, worth dying for, worth the hours of grinding and planning and hoping.
The dropped items appeared in a loot window. Gold, substantial. Materials he didn't recognize. And—
An egg.
[Dragon's Heir] [Bound to: Devi] [Requires: Level 5 Tamer to hatch] [Quest Item: Quest of the Dragon]
A second notification, quieter, appeared only in his quest log:
[Conditions for secret quest met. Continue the Quest of the Dragon by obtaining Tamer level 5 and hatching the Dragon's Heir.]
Darien sat back. His hands shook. Two hours of combat—he checked the clock, confirmed it, 8:47 PM where he'd started at 6:30—and the reward was a quest, not an item. A path, not a destination. Something that would require more grinding, more planning, more of the life he'd been pouring into this world.
He should have felt tired. Instead, he felt hungry .
He tabbed out, checked the game's notification site. Sure enough, his name appeared:
[SERVER FIRST: Devi of Shadow Corps clears Trial of the Dragon]
Below it, another notification he'd missed during the fight:
[Royal Dragons guild has founded the nation: Dragoon Imperium]
"So they did it." He sat back, chair creaking. The Dragoon Imperium, born while he fought alone in a hidden temple. Giel's guild, or a guild Giel might join. The world moving forward with or without him.
He looked at the clock. 8:52 PM. He worked tomorrow night. The last day of his three-day break, almost gone.
"Exciting last day off," he laughed, the sound hollow in his empty apartment. He stretched, vertebrae popping, and looked at the screen where Devi stood in the now-silent chamber, the egg cradled in his inventory like a secret.
Nothing else in the room. No hidden doors, no additional loot, no second boss. Just the space, the memory of combat, and the weight of what he'd found.
He set Devi and Sin to auto-walk back to Yshtol. The path was long, dangerous, but the auto-system would avoid combat, take safe routes, deliver them home while he...
While he did what?
Darien stood. The boxes waited. The yearbook he'd found, dusty, barely touched. He opened it at random, found his high school class photo—a younger Darien, forced smile, standing at the edge of the group as if ready to escape. He remembered not joining clubs, not going to dances, not doing anything that required showing up and being seen.
"Not much of me in this thing," he murmured. He flipped pages, found the after-school activities section. Sports teams, debate club, drama society. Names he didn't know, faces that meant nothing. "Not much has really changed there."
He closed the book, tucked it between others on the shelf. The computer dinged: Devi had reached Yshtol, entered the mercenary building, and—
Darien froze.
The mailbox was swarming . Notifications stacked upon notifications, each one a contract request, a recruitment offer, a message from players he'd never met. Leveling requests. Quest help. Guild invitations—three of them, from names he didn't recognize, promising ranks and resources if Shadow Corps would merge or affiliate.
"Oh dear," he whispered.
He sorted them methodically, the same precision he applied to inventory management. Deadlines. Requirements. Payment offers. The server-first notification had put his name, his company's name, in front of thousands of players. Some wanted to hire him. More wanted to be him, to learn how he'd done it, to follow the path he'd carved through graves and guardians.
Before answering any, he sent a message to Fin. Simple, brief: "Congratulations on the nation. Well earned."
Then he sat back, looked at the darkening apartment, the computer's glow the only light. Sin was auto-farming again, gaining experience, growing stronger. The egg waited in his inventory, a promise of something he couldn't yet understand. The graves waited in the forest, markers for those who'd tried and failed and would try again.
And somewhere, in the real world that felt less real every day, Darien Hughes had a graveyard shift in fourteen hours, an apartment full of unpacked boxes, and an email from a friend he hadn't seen in years asking how he was doing.
He flopped onto the bed without changing, without brushing teeth, without any ritual of normalcy. The mattress groaned. His eyes closed on visions of emerald flames and stone knights and an egg that pulsed with the heartbeat of a world being born.
"I start work again tomorrow night," he told the darkness. "Was a decent three days off."
Sleep took him slowly, reluctantly, like a game that didn't want to log out. His last conscious thought was of Giel, of whether he'd sent that congratulations message, of whether it mattered if he had or hadn't.