"You fight like a man possessed, yet you wield magic like a child playing with fire."
The voice cut through the haze of pain and exhaustion, dragging Salvatore back to consciousness for the second time in what felt like days. His eyes cracked open to find a figure crouched beside him, hood pulled low, face hidden in shadow. A campfire crackled nearby, casting dancing light across the charred remains of the wolf.
Salvatore's hand shot to his ribs, finding rough bandages wrapped around his torso, the wounds beneath throbbing but no longer bleeding.
"Who are you?" he rasped, his throat raw from smoke and screaming, his body tensing despite the pain.
The hooded figure tilted his head, and firelight caught the edge of a scarred jaw, a mouth curved in something that might have been amusement.
"Kaelen Duskbane, and you're lucky I happened to be tracking that shadowfang, or you'd be in its belly right now."
Salvatore pushed himself up to sitting, ignoring the way his vision swam and his chest screamed protest.
"I killed it myself," he said, the words coming out harder than intended, territorial, defensive.
Kaelen laughed, the sound rough and genuine, and pushed back his hood to reveal a face carved from hard living. Mid-thirties maybe, with eyes like chips of grey stone and a scar running from temple to jaw. His hair was dark, tied back with leather cord, and his hands, Salvatore noticed, bore calluses in all the right places.
"You killed it, yes, but barely, and with magic so raw it nearly consumed you along with the beast."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Salvatore said, even as he looked down at his hands, remembering the black energy, the shadows that had answered his desperation.
Kaelen reached into the fire without flinching, pulled out a burning branch, and casually extinguished the flames by closing his fist around them, steam hissing between his fingers.
"Magic, boy, the fundamental force of this world, and you've got it in spades even if you don't understand it."
This world, he said this world, meaning there are others, meaning I'm not crazy, meaning I actually died and woke up somewhere else.
Salvatore's mind raced, cataloging information, filing away details the way he'd learned to do in interrogation rooms and business deals.
"Where am I?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral, giving nothing away even as questions multiplied like rabbits in his head.
Kaelen settled back on his haunches, studying Salvatore with eyes that saw too much, that carried the weight of experience.
"The Ashen Woods, about three days' walk from the nearest settlement, and that's if you know the way and don't get eaten."
"What country, what continent?" Salvatore pressed, needing geography, needing context, needing something familiar to anchor himself to.
"The Kingdom of Valdris, on the continent of Aethermoor, and judging by your confusion, you're not from around here."
Salvatore said nothing, which was an answer in itself, and Kaelen nodded like he'd confirmed something.
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling up into the darkness where the canopy blocked out whatever stars this world might have. The smell of cooking meat made Salvatore's stomach clench with sudden hunger, and he noticed for the first time the skewered rabbit roasting over the flames.
"Eat," Kaelen said, tossing him a waterskin that Salvatore caught on instinct, "you've lost blood, and you'll need strength for what comes next."
"What comes next?" Salvatore uncorked the waterskin, sniffed cautiously, then drank when he detected nothing suspicious in the water.
Kaelen pulled the rabbit from the fire, tore it in half with his bare hands, and offered one portion to Salvatore.
"Training, unless you want every magical beast and ambitious mage in the kingdom sensing that raw power and coming to test you."
Salvatore took the meat, burned his fingers, didn't care, bit into it like a starving animal because he was.
Accept help when it's offered, learn what you can, trust no one completely, same rules as always.
"Why help me?" he asked between bites, watching Kaelen's face for tells, for lies, for hidden agendas.
Kaelen chewed thoughtfully, his eyes distant, reflecting firelight like coins at the bottom of a well.
"Because power like yours, untrained, is dangerous to everyone including yourself, and because I made a promise once to help those who stumble into magic without guidance."
It wasn't the whole truth, Salvatore could tell, but it was enough truth to work with for now.
"Show me," Salvatore said, finishing the rabbit and wiping grease on his pants, "show me how to control it."
Kaelen smiled, and it was the smile of a teacher who'd found an interesting student, dangerous and promising in equal measure.
"Hold out your hand, palm up, and think about the feeling you had when the magic first came."
Salvatore extended his right hand, remembering the desperation, the rage, the absolute refusal to die again so soon after the first time. Nothing happened. His palm remained empty, unmarked, normal.
"Stop trying to force it," Kaelen said, his voice taking on the cadence of instruction, "magic responds to will, not effort, to intent, not desperation."
"That's not helpful," Salvatore growled, frustration building in his chest like pressure in a sealed container.
Kaelen leaned forward, his grey eyes boring into Salvatore's with uncomfortable intensity.
"Then try this, remember what you were fighting for, not against, what you wanted to protect or claim, what drove you forward."
Empire, loyalty, respect, the family I built from nothing, the power I earned through blood and cunning.
A small flicker of black energy sparked in Salvatore's palm, no bigger than a candle flame, but there, real, controlled.
Kaelen's expression shifted to something like satisfaction mixed with concern.
"Good, now hold it, don't let emotion dictate its strength, you command it, not the other way around."
The flame guttered and grew, responding to Salvatore's thoughts, shrinking when he focused, expanding when his concentration slipped. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort, from the strange sensation of pulling something from inside himself and giving it form.
"What is this?" Salvatore asked, watching the shadows dance across his palm, feeling them respond to his will like soldiers following orders.
"Shadowfire, rare magic, the kind that marks you as either exceptionally dangerous or exceptionally dead, depending on who finds you first."
The black flame flickered and died as Salvatore's concentration broke, the effort leaving him dizzy and drained.
Kaelen stood, brushing ash from his pants, and retrieved something from a pack Salvatore hadn't noticed before, a sword, simple and functional.
"Magic alone won't keep you alive in this world," Kaelen said, tossing the weapon to Salvatore, who caught it awkwardly, "you need steel, technique, the fundamentals that have kept warriors alive since the first kingdom rose."
Salvatore stood on unsteady legs, the sword heavy and unfamiliar in his hand, nothing like the guns he'd carried his whole life.
"I don't know how to use this," he admitted, hating the admission but seeing no point in pretending otherwise.
"Then you'll learn, starting now, basic guard position, blade angled across your body, feet shoulder-width apart."
Kaelen moved into position with the fluid grace of long practice, his own blade appearing in his hand like magic.
Salvatore mimicked the stance, feeling clumsy and exposed, every instinct screaming that this was wrong, that he needed distance, needed range.
"Good, now when I strike, you deflect and counter, let the blade's momentum do the work."
Kaelen's sword came at him in a slow, controlled arc, and Salvatore reacted, metal clanging against metal with a sound that echoed through the forest. His arms vibrated with the impact, nearly losing his grip, but he held on, adjusted, tried to counter like instructed.
"Sloppy, but you've got good instincts, you move like someone who's been in real fights, life or death struggles."
They continued like that, Kaelen attacking in measured sequences, Salvatore learning by painful repetition, each clash teaching him something about leverage, about timing.
Not so different from close-quarters combat, just different tools, different distances, same principles of violence.
The training was interrupted by a sound in the distance, multiple footsteps, careless and loud, accompanied by rough laughter and the clink of weapons. Kaelen's head snapped up, his casual demeanor evaporating into something predatory and alert.
"Put out the fire," he hissed, already moving to kick dirt over the flames, "bandits, at least six, maybe more."
Salvatore helped smother the fire, his heart rate picking up, adrenaline flooding his system like an old friend returning.
"Do we run?" he whispered, gripping the borrowed sword tighter, his other hand tingling with the memory of shadowfire.
Kaelen smiled in the sudden darkness, his teeth catching the last glimmer of moonlight filtering through the canopy.
"No, we let them come to us, and I see what you learned in our very first lesson."
The voices grew louder, closer, and Salvatore could make out individual words now, crude jokes about what they'd do with whatever they found. His muscles tensed, his breathing steadied, and somewhere deep inside, the shadows stirred in anticipation.
The first figure emerged from between the trees, torch held high, crossbow in his other hand, scanning the clearing where the fire had been.