“Come on,” Krysanthea's clawed hand closed around my wrist like a velvety vice. Each of her scales caught the rays of sunset like tiny violet-black mirrors as she guided me toward the door.

  "Wait—what?" I stammered as I glanced back at Nessy, whose expression had frozen in a mixture of disbelief and dawning outrage. The absurdity of the situations sent my mind careening sideways for a moment.

  "You can't just—" Nessy began, her voice rising with each syllable, but Krysanthea cut her off.

  "Official ranger business, Whitepaw," she stated, her tone carrying the weight of authority that brooked no argument. "Part of our agreement. You–stay here and continue... whatever it is you're doing with that broom."

  The dismissive flick of her wrist spoke volumes that her words didn't.

  "Hey! This wasn't part of any agreement!" Nessy protested, ears flattening as she stepped forward. "You can't just walk in here and—"

  "I can and I am," Krysanthea replied, amber eyes flashing. “Your continued freedom depends on your cooperation with my investigation." Her scaled thumb stroked once across my pulse point—a subtle, possessive gesture. "And tonight, my investigation requires dinner."

  Before I could formulate a coherent response, I found myself dragged outside the Airstream, the door closing on Nessy's thunderous expression and growling.

  "Krysanthea," I began, trying to extract my wrist from her grip. "Wait—"

  "No chattering," she murmured, her voice dropping to a register that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Wait until we're in the vehicle."

  The ranger cruiser sat waiting at the edge of the clearing, its engine already running. She opened the passenger door for me with an oddly formal gesture, as if we were attending a high school prom rather than whatever this strange kidnapping masquerading as "official business" was supposed to be.

  At least she was easy on the eyes unlike the cartel thugs.

  No, bad transient thoughts! I am not falling for a velociraptor! So what if she looks like a feathery Greek goddess carved from malachite and amethyst?

  The moment both doors closed, sealing us in the vehicle's intimate confines, Krysanthea slammed her foot on the accelerator. Tires spun against loose gravel before catching, lurching us forward with enough force to press me back into the seat. The Airstream and Nessy's increasingly diminutive figure vanished behind us as we sped away.

  "What the fuck?" I demanded. "Seriously, what the actual fuck? You’re dragging me to a date after telling me that you’re not gonna treat me like your Alec?”

  Krysanthea didn't respond immediately. Her profile was limned in the golden-hour light, scales catching fire along her jawline and crest. Her clawed hand shifted gears with a snap. Only when we had reached the main road, putting considerable distance between us and the campsite, did she finally speak.

  "It's… Just basic assessment," she said simply. "I need to observe your behavior in social settings. Around others.”

  "Bullshit," I countered.

  A small smile played at the corner of her beak—the barest suggestion of amusement.

  "You’re taking me out to a restaurant in a dress that appears to be woven from the actual night sky. That’s practically the definition of a date.”

  “My, my, how observant you are, my Undying Knight,” she smiled wistfully.

  “No, seriously, what is this? Didn't your Alec go missing recently? And you're what... already replacing him with me?" I glowered.

  Krysanthea's amber eyes flickered in the dashboard light as she drove, her scaled hands resting loosely on the steering wheel. There was something different about her now—a subtle shift in her demeanor, as if she'd shed a skin I hadn't even realized she was wearing.

  "Replacing him?" she echoed. "That's an interesting choice of words, Alec."

  "You told me you wouldn't project your feelings for him onto me," I reminded her.

  "And I'm not," she replied, eyes fixed on the winding forest road ahead. "This isn't simply about feelings. It's about... time."

  "Time?"

  Her claws tapped against the steering wheel. "Time," she repeated softly. “I’m technically twenty five, Alec. I was twenty three when I left Ferguson.”

  “Huh?”

  "In a way, I’m kind of like you.”

  “How?”

  “Two years," she said. "I’ve been gone from Ferguson for years. It's been over two years since I last saw or spoke to my Alec."

  "What?" I blinked, trying to process her words. "Did you two break up two years ago or something? Nessy said it's only been two weeks.”

  "For her. For Ferguson. Not for me. After I secured the town's perimeter, established the safety protocols and coordinated the volunteers... I went looking for my boyfriend." Her words came measured now, each one carefully extracted like splinters from a wound. "Highway 69. The long road of wheat fields and pastures leading from the mountains. The only drivable route down from Ferguson.”

  My mind suddenly flashed to the nameless city, to Nessy’s explanation of how she found me and of the conversation with Calvin about roads that no longer went anywhere.

  "Highway 69 isn't... normal anymore," she continued, gripping the wheel so hard the leather creaked. "A large section of it became an infinite M?bius strip… a roadway of broken time. A loop that folds back on itself, the same two weeks repeating over and over. Endlessly."

  Understanding dawned on me. "You were caught in a time loop?"

  "Yes. I lived the same two weeks for about two years… maybe longer," she replied. "Searching for a way out. Fighting. Killing every System-spawned horror I encountered, getting better at it, becoming more sensitive to Systemfall corruption presence with each cycle.”

  We passed the "Welcome to Ferguson" sign, its cheerful, warmly lit facade a stark contrast to her dark tale.

  "I almost went mad in that endless nightmare of repeating days…” She said, “Persisted only through my focus to find you. One day, I discovered a buried door in the basement of one of the semi-abandoned gas stations. It led me to an old nuclear silo with a network of underground tunnels. One of the tunnels led me out of the loop, away from that cursed highway. I hiked back to Ferguson on foot across the wheat fields, half dead and starving. I discovered that way less time passed in Ferguson, that my hometown was still safe, not devoured by abominations as I had feared. That only days passed here, not years.”

  She shuddered.

  “I killed so many things over and over on that cursed, looped, endless road, Alec. So many things that wore human faces and bodies but weren't human anymore. Things that could speak and plead and cry. But I could smell the wrongness in them—the corruption that had hollowed them out and replaced them with... something else."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  We pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be Ferguson's nicest restaurant—a converted Victorian house with warm light spilling from its windows, the sign reading "Evergreen Pines" in elegant script.

  Krysanthea killed the engine but made no move to exit. In the sudden silence, I could hear the soft rustle of her feathers as she turned to face me.

  "So no, I'm not 'replacing' anyone," she said, her amber eyes locking with mine. "I've already mourned him. I've already accepted that my Alec is gone, a long time ago on that route 69 without an end. I couldn’t reach him and now I’m too afraid to try leaving again, terrified of getting stuck forevermore in that abominable loop again.”

  There was pain in her words—not the fresh, raw wound of recent loss, but the dull ache of something that had healed imperfectly, leaving old scars that pulled and twisted with each movement.

  "Ah,” I said. “Sorry. I didn't know."

  "No," she agreed, her voice softening slightly. "You didn't. Now you do." She reached for the door handle, then paused. "And just so we're clear—once again, this is simply an assessment of your behaviour in a mundane social situation, not a date. But if you want to call it one to make the dog jealous, I won't object."

  “I promised her that you wouldn't separate us,” I said.

  “Then tell her that I kidnapped you by force,” Kristi shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me. I need to know what you are. I need to understand if you’re really an Alec from another dimension or a bloom monster wearing the face of the boy I lost over two years ago.”

  “And you’re doing that by taking me to a nice restaurant in a nice dress?” I arched an eyebrow. “What if I’m a monster in disguise, won’t that cause collateral damage?”

  “The restaurant belongs to my family, Alec,” she said. “It's filled with raptors, which makes it rather… well armed compared to any other place. You know, these claws aren't just for show.” She snapped her fingers, sending a spark into the air. “You're getting assessed not just by me but also by my sisters.”

  I swallowed.

  “Shall we then?” She asked with a teeth-filled smile.

  I mentally collected what was left of my bravery and got out of the car.

  The evening air wrapped around us as we stepped from the vehicle—crisp, mountain-cold, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Krysanthea moved with liquid confidence. Her dress seemed to absorb the darkness around us, the embedded stars shifting and twinkling with her movements like a living galaxy draped across her form.

  "After you," she said, gesturing toward the restaurant's entrance with a subtle incline of her feathered head.

  The interior of Evergreen Pines was a study in understated elegance—polished hardwood floors, tables draped in white linen, soft lighting from antique fixtures casting pools of golden warmth throughout the space. A fire crackled in a stone hearth at the far end, painting the room with dancing shadows. The walls were adorned with Romanticism-style oil paintings of Ferguson's landscape through the seasons—the quarry in summer, the mountains shrouded in winter white, autumn forests ablaze with color.

  As we entered, conversations dipped momentarily as diners—a mix of humans and pradavarians—glanced our way. Recognition flickered across many faces, followed by something that looked like relief. Their chief ranger had returned, and with her, someone who wore a familiar face. In their eyes, I saw the reflection of what they wanted to see—the return of someone they thought lost, a small restoration of normalcy in their isolated sanctuary, maybe hope that others would find their way home.

  The restaurant staff were all female raptors of varying heights and similar scale patterns, their family resemblance to Krysanthea unmistakable in their amber eyes and emerald feathers. They navigated between tables with predatory grace, serving plates with precision that bordered on choreography.

  A slender raptor approached—younger than Krysanthea, her scales a brighter emerald with delicate gold flecks around her eyes, her movements carrying the same precise grace but with a youthful energy that reminded me of a coiled spring.

  "Hi Kris!" she greeted, her voice lighter but with the same melodic quality. Amber eyes, similar to Krysanthea's own, shifted to me, widening slightly.

  “Alec…” The smaller version of Kristi blurted out. “You're back!”

  "Sister," Krysanthea replied evenly. "I'd like a table for two, please. Something private."

  The younger Strand studied me with unsettling intensity, her gaze seeming to peel back layers of my being.

  "Of course," she finally said, her tone carefully neutral though her eyes betrayed an ocean of curiosity. "Follow me."

  She led us to a secluded corner table, partially screened by an arrangement of ferns and small trees that created the illusion of dining in a forest clearing. The table was already set with fine china and crystal glasses that caught the light from a single candle at its center.

  "Your usual wine?" she asked Krysanthea.

  "Yes. And water for both of us."

  With a nod that somehow managed to convey volumes of unspoken questions, her sister departed, leaving us alone in our manufactured wilderness.

  "I don't need to tell you that everyone here thinks you're him, do I?" Krysanthea said quietly, settling into her chair with effortless poise.

  "I gathered that," I replied, taking my seat across from her. "It must be comforting for them."

  "It is," she agreed. "Ferguson has lost too many already. Having even the appearance of someone returned... it gives hope."

  "Hope based on a lie," I pointed out.

  Her scaled fingers arranged her napkin with precise movements. "Is it really a lie, though?" she asked, her amber eyes lifting to meet mine. "You are Alec Foster. Just... not exactly the one they lost. An unchanged Alex would not survive out there in the den of man-eating bloom monsters.”

  "Semantics," I countered.

  "Reality has become... A touch flexible since Systemfall. Who's to say which Alec is more real now? The one who disappeared, or the one sitting before me?"

  The question hung between us, unanswered as her sibling returned with a bottle of deep red wine and two glasses of water. She poured the wine, her eyes occasionally flicking to me with the same unsettling scrutiny.

  "The chef has prepared something special," she informed us. "I'll have it brought out momentarily."

  When she was gone again, Krysanthea lifted her wine glass in a small toast. "To assessment," she said

  "To not being dissected," I replied dryly, touching my water glass to her wine.

  She took a sip, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of her glass. "Tell me something," she said, setting it down. "What does it feel like?"

  "What does what feel like?"

  "Death," she replied simply. "Reconstitution. Being unmade and remade."

  "It's..." I searched for words that could possibly convey the sensation. "It's like being everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Like being reduced to your most fundamental elements and then reassembled, but with awareness throughout the process. Perhaps, like being spagghetified and falling forever into an event horizon.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, elbow feathers rising with interest. "You were conscious during your reconstruction from death?"

  "Yes," I nodded. "Sort of. It wasn't like normal consciousness. More like... fragments of awareness scattered across different points of existence, gradually pulled back together."

  "And the System," she pressed. "You communicate with it?"

  "Not directly," I explained. "It sends snarky messages… sometimes. But it's not a conversation. More like it's poking fun at me.”

  Her clawed fingers tapped thoughtfully against the tablecloth. "Curious," she murmured. “And the dog is tied to you by an invisible leash?”

  "I haven't thought of it that way," I admitted. “But yes. We are bound as a ‘pack’ according to the System.”

  "Perhaps you should," she suggested.

  The arrival of our food interrupted the conversation – two plates artfully arranged with what appeared to be venison, roasted root vegetables, and mushrooms.

  "Local specialties," Krysanthea explained as I eyed the food warily. "Perfectly safe, I assure you."

  I took a tentative bite, finding the mushrooms surprisingly delicate in flavor–earthy with notes of something almost floral. The venison was perfectly cooked, tender and rich.

  "This is exceptional," I commented.

  "My family accepts nothing less," she replied, a hint of pride in her voice. "We expect perfection in all things."

  “Seems like your thing, yes.” I commented.

  “It is.” A smile curved her snout-beak. “At first I had to outdo my siblings, then everyone else.”

  “If he was just like me, average at best… then why did you fall for him? Shouldn't someone like you seek the best out there or something?”

  “Raptor families are big and this is a rather small town,” she shrugged. “I guess that I can blame the husky for constantly ranting about how amazing her packmate is. She did a lot of marketing… for Alec’s everything. Constantly. Twenty four seven. So, I just had to find for myself and when I did… I couldn't let him go.”

  "What exactly do you want from me, Krysanthea?" I asked between steak bites.

  Her expression sobered, the smile fading as she set down her fork with deliberate care. "To understand you and why the System chose you as its Undying Knight," she replied.

  “Maybe dying when it connected to reality was a special event?” I shrugged. “Honestly, I've no idea. I don't even know what exactly the Mini-Mart manager Archmage did to be able to create his magic post-it note eyes.”

  “We'll figure it out together then,” the raptor smiled. “To keep Ferguson safe.”

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