Chapter Two

  Jay glanced at Spencer, still beaming with admiration, and Anna, clinging silently to his sleeve.

  She could leave. She could walk away and try to figure this strange world out on her own. It would be easier.

  But how could she?

  Jay had always had a soft spot for kids—especially ones like these. Ones the world had tossed aside. And now, they were hers. Her responsibility.

  She ran a hand through her hair and exhaled, long and slow.

  “So this is a fantasy world, huh…” she murmured. “Monsters, magic… are real and full of unknown danger.”

  Her eyes hardened.

  “Then I need to get stronger. Fast.”

  Sensing her older sister’s brooding silence, Anna—small and serious beyond her years—slipped quietly from the hut. Jay barely noticed until the girl returned, her footsteps soft but purposeful, clutching a wooden mug of water in both hands. She held it out without a word, her wide eyes flicking up to meet Jay’s with a question she was too scared to ask aloud.

  Jay took the mug and smiled faintly. The water was cool and slightly metallic on her tongue, but refreshing enough to clear her foggy head.

  “Thanks, Anna,” she murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of light brown hair behind the girl’s ear.

  Anna’s cheeks pinked, and she ducked her head, scurrying back to sit beside her brother.

  Jay let her gaze drift around the space—her new home.

  It was a crooked little hut with two rooms, thatched and patched and leaning slightly to the left as if tired of standing. The larger room doubled as kitchen and sleeping quarters, with a sagging bed shoved against one wall, straw mattresses on the floor, and a small stone hearth tucked into the corner. A few iron pots hung from rusted nails, their blackened undersides telling stories of fires burned too high and meals stretched too thin.

  Dishes were scattered carelessly about—some still with crusted remnants. The cold ashes in the fireplace told her it had been days since they’d had a real meal.

  Jay frowned. This place wouldn’t survive a strong storm. A heavy wind would knock it flat.

  Pushing herself up, she walked to the small adjoining room—the one her new memories told her hadn’t been entered since Marry died. The air was heavier here, stagnant with the silence of grief. Dust motes floated like spirits in the slanted sunlight streaming through a cracked window.

  Spencer and Anna hovered in the doorway, their faces a mix of curiosity and sorrow.

  Jay didn’t flinch. Sentimentality wouldn’t keep them alive.

  She knelt and began rummaging. The room was sparse: an old bedframe with a woven blanket, a low chest near the corner. In it, she found what must’ve been her father Geno’s belongings—a handmade knife, a few arrows, and a bow with no string. The knife’s handle was worn smooth from use, and the blade still held a sharp edge. She tested it against her thumb and nodded.

  A thick fur coat hung behind the door, smelling of pine and sweat. In one pocket, her fingers brushed metal—a silver coin stamped with the number ten. Jay squinted at it, trying to coax the original owner’s knowledge to reveal its worth, but nothing came.

  “Better than nothing,” she muttered, pocketing it.

  Among her mother’s things, tucked into a wooden box with dried lavender, she found a pair of earrings. They weren’t particularly ornate, but compared to everything else in the house, they looked almost elegant. Jay turned them over in her fingers before tucking them away, too.

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  With the knife in hand and new purpose in her stride, Jay stepped outside.

  The sunlight cut through the trees in narrow, golden blades, catching on rain-soaked leaves. A breeze moved through the underbrush—not soft, but restless.

  The hut stood at the frayed edge of the forest, half-hidden by creeping vines and crooked trees, with only a sliver of distance between it and the village below. This wasn’t the heart of the mountain, but it wasn’t safe either—it was the seam between two worlds: one with people, laws, and fences; the other wild, whispering, and watching.

  Here, the trees grew dense and uneven, their trunks gnarled like clenched fists. The path from the village ended in roots and moss, like even the road had given up coming this far. Jay could feel it in her bones: they weren’t meant to be here alone. Not for long.

  Still, she moved quickly, her knife steady in hand, eyes scanning the undergrowth. Just beyond the warped treeline, she began her work—setting traps at the threshold of whatever this forest might decide to send.

  Time passed as she methodically worked, cutting sturdy branches and selecting heavy rocks. Spencer followed her like a shadow, mimicking her movements with wide, eager eyes. Though his stick-and-stone attempts were more play than trap, his presence warmed her in a way she hadn’t expected. Anna stayed a few steps behind, hands clasped nervously, eyes flicking through the woods like she expected them to move.

  Once Jay deemed the materials sufficient, she built several figure-four deadfall traps. Her hands moved on instinct, clumsily recalling old YouTube videos and survival documentaries she used to binge-watch when bored in her previous life.

  The figure-four trap was the simplest she remembered—just sticks and stones, no tools needed.

  As for bait, she used crumbs salvaged from their pitifully empty grain jars back home. In others, she added berries or wild greens they’d been surviving on for days. Hopefully, small creatures existed here—squirrels, maybe. Rabbits. Or something close enough.

  Or something close enough.

  It was strange—how some things she knew from memories about this world came easily, while others didn’t come at all. She had no idea what animals actually existed here.

  thus she didn’t dare venture too far into the mountain woods, but a quick look would do, and as they moved deeper into the brush, Jay spotted a tree with a small nest nestled in its crook. Her heart gave a hopeful leap.

  “Stay there,” she whispered to the twins, then began to climb.

  Her limbs trembled with weakness and hunger, but she pushed through. Each pull upward was a small triumph, until finally she reached the nest—three pale eggs nestled safely within.

  “Yes,” she breathed, grinning as she gently cradled them in her shirt and made her careful descent.

  On the walk back, Jay stopped to gather edible greens and berries from bushes she recognized—memories of foraging with Marry flashing briefly in her mind. She smiled, relieved, because the berries and greens, while slightly resembling Earth’s, were unfamiliar. She didn’t want to eat something harmful—especially not feed it to the twins.

  By the time they reached the hut again, dusk had begun to creep over the horizon. Shadows lengthened. The wind grew cooler.

  Jay got the fire going with kindling from a stack beside the hearth. She cracked one egg into a pot with water, mashed in the greens and berries, and stirred the concoction until it thickened into a simple, wild stew.

  She poured it into three bowls—wooden, uneven, worn from time—and handed one to each child.

  No one spoke.

  They ate in silence, slurping greedily, the warmth of the egg and vegetables filling their bellies like a miracle.

  Jay leaned back, the steam from her bowl rising into the dimming room. The fire popped softly beside them. She could tell this shared egg soup had been the first filling meal not only for this body—but for the two little ones seated by her side, licking their bowls.

  A deep sigh left her as burdensome thoughts settled on her shoulders.

  This world is real. And it’s dangerous.

  She stared into the flames.

  There are monsters here—goblins, beasts, and things that lurk in the woods I can’t even fathom. This isn’t just a new life. It’s a new reality.

  Not only would she have to tread carefully to survive, but she had to provide for two helpless children.

  Siblings.

  On Earth, she had never known her family—or if she even had siblings—so the change was new. Daunting, yes. But even bigger than that, in her heart, affection bloomed. A rare feeling for Jay, but it was nonetheless welcome.

  She glanced at Spencer.

  He was still just a child, but even children could feel when the world shifted.

  He stared at her, eyes wide with something more than relief. Awe, maybe.

  The soup he’d finished far too quickly had been the best meal he could remember, and even the thought of it made his stomach grumble louder than he’d ever admit. But it wasn’t just the warmth in his belly that filled him tonight—it was something else. Something heavier. Safer.

  Jay, his sister—his shy, timid, sometimes cowardly sister—seemed different now. More than capable. She had found eggs, made traps, and even fought like one of the heroes in the old tales.

  Since their mother died, Spencer hadn’t known what would happen to them. But now, watching her in the firelight, that uncertain space in his chest filled with something solid.

  Respect.

  He had always loved her.

  But now?

  Now he admired her.