—D—

  Holy moly, that was wild.

  My head throbbed like a goblin had used it for drum practice. My mouth tasted like something small and furry had crawled in there, died, then invited its grieving family over for the wake. I cracked an eye open. Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, stabbed at my brain through a gap in some unfamiliar curtains.

  Unfamiliar curtains. Unfamiliar room.

  Unfamiliar, very soft, very female warmth pressed against my side.

  My other eye snapped open.

  Oh. Oh, wow.

  Okay, D, play it cool. Don't panic. You're an adventurer! A hero in the making! This is… character development? Maybe?

  I slowly, carefully, turned my head.

  Yep. Definitely a woman. Asleep. Her dark hair was a glorious, tangled mess spread across the pillow, one delicate hand curled near her face. Even in sleep, with a faint smudge of what might have been yesterday's ale on her cheek, she was… wow.

  Elara. That was her name. Elara.

  My brain, bless its cotton-pickin' soul, decided this was the perfect moment to try and piece together the fragmented, booze-soaked jigsaw puzzle of last night. What in the name of all that was holy and pixelated had actually happened?

  Yesterday…

  The airships. That’s where it all went sideways. One minute I was following Jay and Zeta, trying to process the sheer, unadulterated awesome of actual flying sailing ships above Veridia, the next… I wasn’t.

  The crowd was a living, breathing, shoving beast. I’d craned my neck, trying to get a better look at the intricate rigging on one of the larger vessels, a majestic beast with sails the color of sunset, and when I looked back, Jay’s ridiculously oversized straw hat and Zeta’s mummy-chic bandages were gone. Swallowed by the human tide.

  "Jay? Zeta?" I called out, a little thread of panic stitching itself into my voice. "Guys? Hubby? Bro-in-law?" Okay, maybe lay off the role-play nicknames when they weren't around.

  Hours. I swear, I wandered those packed, winding streets for actual hours. Veridia was huge! A glorious, confusing, smelly labyrinth. Every alley looked the same, every market stall a riot of color and noise. My initial awe at the city’s scale slowly morphed into a dull ache of loneliness and a growing suspicion that I was going to die alone, dressed as a slightly frumpy farmer’s wife, in a city that probably didn't even have decent Wi-Fi.

  My feet ached. My stomach grumbled. The sun beat down.

  It was late afternoon when I, quite literally, crashed into trouble. I rounded a corner too fast, still craning my neck for any sign of my companions, and slammed right into a wall of… very solid, very angry-looking dudes.

  Three of them. Scars like angry red rivers crisscrossed their faces. One had a patch over his eye that looked suspiciously like it was made from a rat’s pelt. They reeked of stale ale and bad intentions. Classic bandit-types, straight out of a low-budget RPG.

  "Well, well, what have we here?" Eye-patch Leered, his gaze slimy as it raked over my… uh… my rather fetching borrowed dress. "Lost, little dove?"

  "Oh! Uh, sorry!" I stammered, trying to channel my inner innocent farm girl. "Just looking for my… my husband and brother!"

  "A pretty thing like you, all alone?" another one, a hulking brute with a nose that looked like it had lost a fight with a brick wall, rumbled. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers like iron bands. "Maybe we can help you… pass the time."

  Their grins were not friendly. Not friendly at all.

  This was bad. This was very, very bad.

  Then, as Brute-Nose gave my arm a rough yank, disaster struck a new, unforeseen, and utterly mortifying blow.

  My carefully constructed—if somewhat lopsided—"bosom," fashioned from two melon-like fruits wrapped in wads of spare cloth, dislodged itself from the neckline of Lyra’s dress.

  With a soft thump-thump, my carefully arranged assets hit the grimy cobblestones.

  Oh no.

  Silence. Even the bustling street noise seemed to dim.

  The three bandits stared at the fallen cloth wads. Then at my now conspicuously flat chest. Then back at the cloth. Eye-Patch’s visible eye twitched.

  "What… ?" he finally managed, his voice a dangerous growl.

  Brute-Nose, still gripping my wrist, looked from the cloth to my face, his expression shifting from lecherous to confused, then to pure, unadulterated rage. "You… you trickster! A man?!"

  "A pretty boy playing dress-up!" the third one spat, revealing a charming collection of missing teeth. "You think you can make fools of the Pitborn and walk away?"

  The Pitborn? That sounded… ominous. Like something you really didn't want to be on the wrong side of.

  "We don't take kindly to being played, you little deviant!" Brute-Nose roared, his grip tightening painfully on my wrist. "We're gonna teach you a lesson—"

  My brain, bless its panicked, self-preservation instincts, didn't even wait for him to finish. Almost by reflex, my leg shot out. My heel connected with a truly satisfying thwack right where it would cause maximum ouchies for Brute-Nose.

  His eyes bulged. He made a sound like a strangled goose. His grip on my wrist vanished.

  And I ran.

  I ran like a character in a horror movie who actually makes smart decisions. I bolted, dress flapping, heart hammering, the enraged shouts of "Get him!"

  Dodging market stalls, vaulting over startled dogs, nearly colliding with an old woman peddling suspicious-looking pies—I was a whirlwind of frantic, cross-dressing escape.

  It was as I skidded around another corner, gasping for breath, that the thought hit me with the force of a charging rhino: being a woman, or even pretending to be one, in a world like this? Way too dangerous. The disguise had to go.

  My eyes darted around. A narrow alleyway. A clothesline strung between two leaning buildings, laden with freshly washed garments. Perfect!

  It wasn't exactly stealing, I reasoned as I shimmied out of Lyra’s dress (sorry, Lyra!) and snatched a loose-fitting linen shirt and a pair of sturdy-looking, if slightly damp, breeches from the line. It was… tactical borrowing. From persons unknown. For the greater good. My greater good, mostly. I even left the dress neatly folded on a doorstep. See? Considerate.

  Clad in my new, blessedly male attire, I felt a hundred times better. More agile. Less… target-like. I took a deep breath. Okay, D. Focus. Find Jay. Find Zeta.

  The sky was starting to bruise into evening hues when I saw her. She was kneeling on the cobblestones near a busy thoroughfare, small and slender, her shoulders slumped, frantically sifting through the dirt and grime. She looked utterly dejected.

  My inner hero, never one to resist a damsel in distress, kicked in.

  "Hey! You okay?" I asked, approaching cautiously.

  She looked up, startled. And wow. Even with tears welling in her big, expressive brown eyes and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, she was… really pretty. Anime protagonist hair, a cascade of dark waves framing a delicate face.

  "I… I've lost it," she sniffled, her voice small. "My earring. My grandmother gave it to me. It must have fallen off here somewhere."

  "An earring, huh?" I said, squatting down beside her. "Two pairs of eyes are better than one! What's it look like?"

  She described a small, silver crescent moon. We introduced ourselves – she was Elara, a barmaid at the nearby Sleeping Dragon tavern. Together, we began the painstaking search, combing every inch of the grimy street. Minutes ticked by. The crowd thinned as dusk deepened. Just as I was about to suggest giving up for the night, my fingers brushed against something small and metallic, half-hidden beneath a loose cobblestone.

  The silver crescent!

  "Aha!" I exclaimed, holding it up.

  At that exact moment, a soft ding chimed in my head, and a familiar translucent message shimmered into existence before my eyes:

  [Skill Acquired: Scavenger’s Eye Level 1 – Passive ability to spot small, overlooked items slightly enhanced.]

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  YES! A new skill! And a passive one! Awesome! I was practically beaming.

  Elara, understandably, misread my sudden elation. "You found it!" she cried, her face lighting up with a smile that could melt glaciers. "Oh, thank you, thank you!"

  She insisted on repaying my kindness. The Sleeping Dragon, she said, was just around the corner. A drink, on the house. Or several.

  And, well, who was I to refuse a pretty girl offering free booze after a day of near-death experiences and sartorial crises?

  The tavern was lively, noisy, and surprisingly welcoming. The ale was strong. Elara was… captivating. She laughed at my terrible jokes. She listened, wide-eyed, as I (heavily edited and embellished) recounted some of my "adventures." One drink led to another. And another.

  The last thing I clearly remembered was her hand resting on mine, her eyes sparkling in the lantern light, and thinking, "Holy moly, this is nice…"

  And then… nothing. Just a warm, fuzzy, ale-soaked blank.

  Now in the present…

  Right. So that explained Elara. It did not explain the pounding in my skull or the distinct feeling that my tongue had been used as a welcome mat by a herd of particularly muddy goblins.

  I heard a soft sigh from beside me. Elara stirred, her eyelashes fluttering.

  Holy moly. Now what?

  This was uncharted territory. What was the protocol here? Did I offer to make breakfast? Did people even make breakfast in fantasy worlds, or was it all gruel and existential dread first thing in the morning?

  Okay, D, be cool. Be suave. Be… not here when she wakes up and potentially regrets her ale-fueled decisions.

  Tactical retreat!

  I slid out of bed with the stealth of a highly caffeinated ninja. My clothes from yesterday – the "borrowed" shirt and breeches – were in a heap on the floor. I started pulling them on, wincing as my head throbbed in protest at the sudden movement. Shirt on. Breeches… nearly there.

  CRASH!

  The door to the room didn't just open. It exploded inwards, ripped from its hinges by a booted foot the size of a small ham.

  Framed in the splintered doorway stood two men. Burly was an understatement. These guys looked like they wrestled owlbears for fun and used boulders as stress balls. One had a scar that split his lip into a permanent sneer. The other just looked… mean. Really, really mean. Their eyes, cold and hard, fixed on me.

  "Well, well," Sneer-Lip growled, his voice like rocks in a blender. "Look what the cat dragged in. Or, rather, what our little Elara brought home."

  Elara gasped from the bed, clutching the sheets to her chest, suddenly very much awake.

  The other one, Mr. Mean, just cracked his knuckles, a sound like dry twigs snapping. "Thought you could have your fun and sneak out, pretty boy? Boss wants a word."

  Holy. Moly. Moly. MOLY.

  This was not how I'd pictured my morning after a night of... well, whatever last night had been.

  Sneer-Lip took a step into the room, his bulk seeming to shrink the already small space.

  "So, pretty boy," he rumbled, his gaze flicking dismissively towards Elara, who was now sitting up, clutching the sheets to her chin, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and… resignation?

  "Thought you could just waltz in here, enjoy the hospitality, and then sneak out without settling the tab?"

  "Tab?" I squeaked, my half-on breeches suddenly feeling very drafty. "What tab?"

  "The drinks, genius," Mr. Mean grunted, folding his tree-trunk arms. "Lots of drinks, from what Elara told the boss. And," his eyes narrowed, "the… extra services."

  Extra services? My mind reeled. The pieces of the booze-soaked puzzle from last night slammed together with the horrifying clarity of a train wreck. This wasn't just a friendly drink with a pretty barmaid. This was… oh. Oh. It was like that one episode of Firefly, but without the charming space cowboys and definitely without the happy ending. I was the idiot who'd stumbled into the high-class companion establishment and forgotten his wallet.

  My hands flew to my pockets, a desperate, fumbling search. Empty. Of course, they were empty. Lorens’ meager stash of coins, our entire escape fund, was with Jay. Because Jay was the responsible one. The one who didn't get blackout drunk and apparently rack up a bill for "extra services" he didn't even remember.

  Oh, crap. Oh, crap, crap, crap.

  "Elara?" I croaked, turning a pleading gaze to the woman in the bed. "Help me out here?"

  She looked back at me, her pretty face now etched with a weary sort of pity—but no actual help.

  "He's right, Dante," she said, her voice small. "You have to pay. For the drinks. And… for my time. I don't work for free."

  Oh no. Who the hell was Dante?

  Oh no. I was Dante.

  What was I thinking? I should have gone with Drake from Uncharted or Duke from Duke Nukem.

  Damn. Damn, damn.

  I was doing it again—escaping reality instead of dealing with it.

  I needed to focus.

  "Didn’t we have those destiny encounters…?" I asked, looking hurt, then added for effect:

  "My love?"

  "HA?" She frowned at me.

  My stomach plummeted. Pay? For a night I couldn't even recall? For a hangover that felt like a troll was using my skull as a bongo drum? This was a nightmare. A very expensive, very embarrassing nightmare.

  What could I do? Argue? With these two mountains of angry muscle who looked like they ate arguments for breakfast and washed them down with the tears of their victims? Not a winning strategy.

  Before I could even formulate a coherent plea for mercy (or perhaps a desperate offer to pay them back in exciting, if currently intangible, future quest rewards), Sneer-Lip grabbed my arm. His grip was like a vise.

  "Time to see the boss, pretty boy," he snarled, yanking me towards the door. Mr. Mean followed, a silent, menacing shadow.

  They dragged me out of the room—half-dressed, wholly terrified.

  The corridor of the Sleeping Dragon was suddenly alive.

  Other doors stood open. Faces peered out—curious, pitying, openly smirking.

  I was the morning’s entertainment.

  The walk of shame, but with added goons and impending financial ruin

  They didn't take me to an office. They dragged me out the back of the tavern, through a muddy yard, and into a stable. The air reeked of hay, manure, and despair. My despair, mostly.

  And then, the beating started.

  It wasn't a movie fight. There was no heroic comeback, no witty banter. Just pain. Sneer-Lip held me while Mr. Mean used me as a punching bag. A fist slammed into my gut, driving the air from my lungs in a wheezing gasp. Another caught me on the jaw, sending stars exploding behind my eyes.

  For the first time since waking up in this crazy, mixed-up, sometimes-awesome-but-mostly-terrifying world, the game-like veneer shattered. This wasn't a quest. These weren't NPCs with predictable attack patterns.

  This was real.

  The pain was real—sharp, searing, undeniable. The fear that clawed at my throat, cold and choking, was real.

  Every instinct screamed at me to find an escape, to use some cool new skill, but there was nothing. Just the relentless thud of fists, the burning agony, and the humiliating, terrifying realization of my own helplessness.

  My bravado, my optimism, my carefully constructed geek-hero persona—it all crumbled, leaving behind a raw, shaking core of pure terror.

  I wasn’t a hero.

  I wasn’t a cool warrior.

  In that moment, I was just a miserable kid with nothing—no money, no girlfriend, no future.

  Nothing.

  When they were done, or just bored, they hauled me to a sturdy wooden post in the middle of the stables. Rough ropes bit into my wrists as they tied me to it.

  "The boss will decide what to do with you later," Sneer—Lip grunted, wiping a smear of my blood from his knuckles. "Maybe we'll find you some… honest work to pay off that debt." His laugh was ugly.

  They left.

  Alone. Tied up. Aching. Every inch of me throbbed. I could taste blood in my mouth. My vision was blurry.

  And for the first time since I’d woken up in that forest with no memory and a 'D' tattooed on my hand, I cried. Not silent, stoic hero tears. Ugly, messy, snot-and-hiccups sobs of pain, fear, and utter, crushing loneliness. Jay, Zeta…

  Where were you guys?

  Hours passed. The stables grew cold as the sun climbed higher, its indifferent light filtering through cracks in the wooden walls. My initial wave of despair slowly numbed into a dull, throbbing misery. My stomach growled, a pathetic counterpoint to my aching body.

  Just as I was drifting into a hazy, pain-filled stupor, the stable doors creaked open.

  Sneer-Lip and Mr. Mean stomped back in. They weren't alone.

  Trailing behind them was a figure who looked completely out of place in the grimy stables. He was tall, slender, impeccably dressed in robes the color of rich earth, almost golden in the dim light. Intricate embroidery, threads of a deeper brown and shimmering gold, adorned the cuffs and hem.

  On his chest, clearly visible, was a distinctive symbol: a perfect square, and nestled within it, the stylized outline of a three-peaked mountain. His face was sharp, intelligent, with eyes that seemed to see right through me. He carried an air of quiet authority, and… something else. A faint, almost imperceptible hum, like distant power.

  "We've found you a job, miserable welp," Sneer-Lip announced, jerking a thumb towards me. "A way to pay back what you owe."

  He then turned to the well-dressed man, his tone suddenly deferential, almost fawning. "Master Fendrel, here he is. As promised. Strong back, if a bit… roughed up. I'm sure he'll be of service to the Earthen Wardens Guild."

  The Earthen Wardens Guild? That sounded… important. And earthy.

  The robed man, Master Fendrel, observed me for a long, silent minute.

  His gaze was disconcertingly intense, as if he were cataloging my every flaw, every bruise, every tearstain.

  I tried to look… useful? Employable? It was hard to project competence when you were tied to a post and looked like you'd lost a fight with a threshing machine.

  Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth, cultured, with a hint of amusement. "He'll certainly need a bath. And perhaps some instruction in basic financial responsibility." He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "But yes. He will serve. The Guild has… tasks suited to those with a willingness to get their hands dirty."

  His eyes flicked to Sneer-Lip. "Package him for transport. And see that his… outstanding debt to this establishment is settled from my Guild account."

  Sneer-Lip and Mr. Mean practically bowed. "Yes, Master Fendrel! Right away, Master Fendrel!"

  Package me? Like a sack of particularly unappetizing potatoes?

  This day just kept getting weirder. And more painful. And now, apparently, I was being sold to a fancy dirt-themed guild to pay off a bar tab I didn't even remember racking up.

  Holy moly. This was so not how I'd planned my first few days in the big city.