stretch wide, muscles groaning and joints crackling like dry twigs

  tossed into a hearth. A yawn tears out of me, loud enough to scatter

  the crows roosting above. There’s a haze still clinging to my

  thoughts.

  Morning already?

  The sky’s blushing

  pink at the edges, soft light filtering through the canopy like

  spilled gold.

  Shaq’Rai pings me early in the

  morning, all teeth and trouble.

  “’Bout time the princess rolled

  outta her silk sheets.”

  My eyes flick to Ember, sprawled out on her side, mouth slack and

  droolin’ like a cracked water skin.

  I blink. Slow.

  “What the hell you talkin’ ‘bout?” The words grind out

  like gravel.

  Then it hits—sharp, sour.

  “Oh. Real funny, Shaq’Rai.”

  Her voice leans in sweet as honey gone to rot.

  “Rise and shine, sugar.”

  I scrub the sleep from my eyes, still

  drifting somewhere between dream and wake. Shaq’Rai’s already off

  to the races—goin’ on about gatherin’ routes and craftin’

  nodes like she’s preachin’ gospel.

  So fast, no pause. You’d think she

  was conjurin’ miracles, not explainin’ survival mechanics.

  Man,

  I think bitterly, I’d

  kill for coffee. Black. Scalding. Real.

  “You listenin’, Grant?” Her

  voice slices through the morning stillness, all edge.

  I wince. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,”

  I mutter. “You sound just like my ex-wife.”

  Shaq’Rai’s tone sharpens. “And

  now I see why she’s your ex.”

  The jab lands—clean, smug—and she

  just keeps rollin’. Tutorial quests, daily grinds, skill trees like

  scripture. My head nods in survival mode while my fists clench

  against the urge to snap.

  Then her tone shifts. Voice low.

  Heavy.

  “I’m serious, Grant. Skip your

  dailies, skip your growth? This world’ll chew you up.”

  I sigh and roll my shoulders, lettin’

  her words slide off like rain off stone. Then I drop to the dirt.

  Palms flat. Cool earth against skin. Push-ups. Squats. Sit-ups. A

  hundred each. No cheats. No shortcuts. Just me and the grind. Like

  back in the old world, where strength was earned one rep at a time.

  Halfway through, Ember stirs. Her tiny

  fists rub at sleepy eyes. Then she yawns, wide enough to swallow the

  rising sun whole. Her voice is soft, sticky—sweet as syrup.

  “Mornin’, Daddy.”

  “Mornin’, pumpkin.”

  Like a switch flips—she bolts

  upright. Eyes sharp. Diggin’ under rocks, tossin’ sticks, even

  liftin’ the log bench like it weighs nothin’.

  My arms freeze mid-pushup.

  “Uh… honey? What’re you doin’?”

  She spins on me, bottom lip poked out

  in a pout that could curdle milk.

  “You lied, Daddy.”

  “’Bout what?” I groan. Headache

  knockin’ at the door.

  “The pumpkin!” she wails, betrayal

  raw in her voice. Like I’d shattered every dream she’s ever had.

  I snort—can’t help it. “Ember, sweetheart, you even know

  what a pumpkin is?”

  She tilts her head, gears visibly

  grindin’ behind those bright eyes. “Uh… yes?”

  I just stare. Long. Hard.

  She sighs. Shoulders sag. “No.”

  And that’s it—I lose it. Laughter

  bursts outta me, raw and loud, echoing through the trees like a

  coyote’s cry. For a second, it’s just me and the sound, shaking

  leaves loose from the branches.

  Ember crosses her arms, face scrunched

  like she’s chewin’ lemons. “What’re you doin’, anyway?”

  “Exercisin’.”

  She squints. Suspicious. “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  I push back up on my palms, breathless

  and stubborn. “Ember, sugar, you even know what

  exercisin’ is?”

  Her face lights up—so damn proud,

  like she’s about to drop some ancient forbidden wisdom. “I sure do! That’s when two

  grown-ups get naked and—”

  “Alright! Nope!” Heat flares up my neck, hits my ears

  like fire. “We’re done here.” I scramble to

  my feet, hands raised like I’m wardin’ off evil spirits. “Let’s…

  let’s talk about somethin’ else. How ‘bout we level you up?”

  Her eyes go wide, stars sparklin’ in

  them. “Level up?” she echoes,

  breathless. Like I just handed her the keys to the whole damn world.

  “Yeah. Get stronger.” I rake a

  hand through my hair, still tryin’ to smother the blush torchin’

  my cheeks.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  She giggles—light, bright—and

  before I can blink, she flicks her wrist like it’s nothin’,

  hoists the log with one hand, and snaps her fingers. A rock ten paces

  off bursts into molten goo, hissin’ and steamin’ as it slumps

  like candle wax. I freeze. The air stills. Even the birds go silent.

  “Well…” I say, voice thin. “My

  kid’s got fireball powers now. Great. Totally normal.”

  I rub my face hard enough to leave red

  marks, somewhere between laughin’ and cryin’. “Look, sugar—”

  “Where?” she chirps, spinning in

  place. Eyes darting skyward like she expects sugar to fall from the

  clouds.

  Mental note: Southern charm?

  Sometimes backfires. Big time.

  “Ember,

  my darlin’ daughter—” I say, layin’ it on thick, sweeter than

  honey straight from the comb.

  Her cheeks bloom pink, just a

  little, but I catch it.

  I

  grin, leanin’ in, hopin’ to steer this back before her stubborn

  streak kicks in.

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ to

  get stronger, pumpkin. But you? You’re already a mile ahead.”

  What

  I don’t say—what sticks like grit in my throat—is the truth:

  she’s teachin’ me more just by breathin’ than I ever managed to

  teach her.

  But

  Ember’s already shiftin’. Chin up. Arms crossed like steel bands.

  Brows drawn tight enough to hum.

  She’s tryin’ to wear

  serious like armor, but I see straight through it. Right now, she’s

  bark, not bite.

  I

  stretch, joints poppin’ like old timber, still shakin’ off sleep,

  when she sighs loud enough to stir the trees.

  “Fiiine,”

  she groans, draggin’ it out like I’d just sentenced her to a week

  of wood-choppin’. “I’ll level up.”

  She even throws in

  air quotes—like it’s some joke.

  “But—only

  on one condition.”

  I

  arch a brow, already bracin’ for whatever fool thing’s about to

  come next.

  “And that is?”

  She

  glances around, and that grin creeps in—slow, sly, like a raccoon

  sniffin’ out an open pantry.

  “I

  made a deal with the critters,” she says, puffin’ up like she

  just brokered peace between kingdoms. “We give ‘em food and a

  place to stay—they help us out.”

  I

  blink. Once. Twice.

  “Wait… what now?”

  That

  ain’t a call a kid should be makin’ without runnin’ it past her

  Beast Lord daddy.

  Off

  to the side, Shaq’Rai cackles—sharp, smug, like she’s been

  sittin’ on this punchline for days.

  “Seems

  the young one’s got the knack, Beast Lord,” she drawls, voice

  thick as molasses and twice as heavy. “Tapped into her heritage

  before you even found the trail.”

  “Heritage?”

  I ask. “What exactly are you sayin’?”

  Ember

  tilts her head. Crimson eyes spark like coals catchin’ flame.

  Shaq’Rai’s

  voice drops—low, heavy, wrapped in silk and steel.

  “The bond

  with nature, fool. The gift of Beast-Tamin’. She feels it in her

  bones—even if you’re still stumblin’ in the dark.”

  Well.

  Hell.

  So much for today bein’ the easy kind.

  Shaq’Rai’s

  voice is rich and slow, like she’s recitin’ scripture from blood

  and bone.

  “Form a Familiar Contract,” she says. “Bind ‘em

  to your soul, and their strength becomes yours.”

  I

  turn to Sir Spudsworth—yeah, him. The sentient potato wearin’ a

  crown of wilted dandelions like he’s royalty.

  His beady eyes

  go wide. He stiffens like I just pulled a blade.

  “Please,

  nooo!” he squeals, root-arms windmillin’ in full-blown panic. “I

  have so much to live for!”

  I

  snort. Can’t help it.

  “Sorry, Spuds. Destiny calls.”

  Shaq’Rai

  snorts, like this is the best show she’s seen in centuries.

  I

  shut my eyes. Reach inward. Search for that thread she

  mentioned.

  It’s there—faint, but real.

  A

  tug. Electric.

  Like a string drawn tight between heartbeats.

  Then—snap.

  The

  bond clicks into place.

  I

  feel it settle in my chest, solid as breath.

  And

  just like that, I’m linked.

  To Sir Spudsworth.

  To four

  raccoons with sticky paws and bandit eyes.

  To two chipmunks

  jitterin’ like they drank the sun.

  I can

  feel ‘em all now—small, wild pulses hummin’ inside me. Threads

  woven into my soul.

  It’s

  strange.

  Not bad.

  Just… different.

  Shaq’Rai’s voice cuts through the clearing like a blade dipped in honey—sharp, sweet, and smug.

  “Now, name them. It is tradition.”

  I glance at the raccoons first—already elbow-deep in Ember’s pack, ransacking it like it’s a sacred buffet laid out just for them. Their little paws fling apples and jerky aside with the confidence of veteran thieves.

  I sigh. “Rocky, Scraps, Nibbler… and Chonk.”

  The last one glares at me—round, waddling, his belly wobbling in protest. I hold the deadpan.

  Next, my eyes flick to the chipmunks—zipping in and out like sparks caught on wind.

  “Twitch and Sprocket.” It fits. A little too well.

  And then there’s the potato. A so-called noble spud, shaking in his roots like I’m about to fry him up for breakfast. I stare him down just long enough to make him squirm.

  “You’re Mr. Spuds now.”

  His leafy crown droops as he lets out a groan. “My legacy… shattered.”

  That does it. I crack. A laugh bursts from my chest—loud, sudden, the kind that leaves your ribs sore. Ember giggles too, trying to muffle it behind her hands. She fails.

  Above us, the sun climbs higher—bold, golden beams slicing through the canopy. The light feels warmer now, like it’s watching. Like it approves. I square my shoulders, the weight of this strange world settling into place. Ember and the critters gather close, eyes wide, breath held.

  This is it—my first real task in this land. Tool crafting. No turning back now. If I want to make it here, I’ve got to get serious.

  I start small. Stone and wood—humble offerings pulled from the dirt. Ember’s nearby, laughing as raccoons tumble through heaps of amber leaves. But she stays close. Her presence hums behind my focus, steady as a heartbeat.

  My hands move with purpose. First, a stone axe—rough, but solid in my grip. Then a pickaxe—jagged, eager. A shovel comes next, broad and ready. A scythe, curved like a predator’s claw. And last, a hammer—blunt, heavy, final. Each tool shaped by sweat and instinct. No polish. Just purpose.

  As I set the last one down, Shaq’Rai’s voice chimes in, crystal-clear and impossible to ignore.

  I lay the tools out in front of Ember like treasures pulled from some ancient tomb.

  “Pick three.”

  Her eyes spark, fire catching tinder. No hesitation—she grabs the scythe first, hands curling around the handle like she was born for it.

  “Slice and dice,” she grins.

  I chuckle, low and knowing. “Figured.”

  Next, she picks the axe, holding it with quiet pride.

  “It’s got ‘pick’ in the name,” she says, flat as a board.

  I raise a brow. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Before she can change her mind, I hand her the wood axe. Her grin spreads, like she just won something she didn’t know she wanted.

  “Like daughter, like father,” Shaq’Rai drawls, voice dripping with sass, curling like smoke through my thoughts.

  I huff a laugh, shoulders finally easing. “Yeah… you’re not wrong.”

  And then we get to work.

  Training kicks off quick and raw. I show Ember how to swing without bashing her toes. Her small hands blister fast, but she’s got grit. She learns.

  The raccoons go wild with the scythes, carving through plant fibers like tiny, furry reapers on a sugar rush. The chipmunks dig up worms with little shovels, chirping like it’s buried treasure. Even Mr. Spuds joins in—map in leafy hands, grumbling as he charts resource veins like a dethroned monarch clinging to duty.

  Me? I split logs. Shape them into baskets and lopsided backpack frames.

  It feels… familiar. Like muscle memory from a life I never lived. My hands know what to do. They move with purpose, carving order from the wild.

  Shaq’Rai’s voice purrs again, smug as ever.