The water was freezing, a shock that hit Noah like a punch to the teeth. Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating. His lungs burned, screaming for air, but he couldn’t tell which way was up. Everything was black, disorienting, and his arms flailed, grasping at nothing. His chest tightened, the pressure building, and panic started to claw at him. He tried to kick, to move, but his legs felt heavy, useless.

  Muffled sounds filtered through the water—low, distorted vibrations. Voices? Maybe. They were faint, warped, like someone shouting through a wall. He twisted his head, trying to pinpoint them, but the water dragged at him, pulling him deeper. His ears popped, and the cold bit into his skin, sharp and relentless. He needed air. Now. He kicked harder, following the sounds, hoping they’d lead him out.

  Finally, his head broke the surface, and he gasped, sucking in air so fast it hurt. His chest heaved, desperate, and water streamed down his face, stinging his eyes. He coughed, spitting out lake water, and blinked against the sudden brightness. The air was cold, too, but it felt like life, filling him up, pushing back the suffocating weight in his lungs.

  He treaded water, his arms shaking, and looked around. The lake was massive, stretching out into the distance. The shore was close, and there was a group of men there, their voices loud enough he could hear them from here. They were arguing and gesturing wildly.

  At first, their voices were a jumble of sounds that felt both alien and strangely familiar, like a song he’d forgotten but could sort of hum. The cadence was sharp, the syllables clipped and rolling in strange ways.

  It wasn’t English—he knew that much immediately. The way they shaped their mouths to make the sounds was different. Noah squinted and tried to make sense of them, his mind straining to understand.

  The more he listened, the more the sounds began to untangle themselves, like threads loosening from a knot. It was as if his brain was recalibrating, like a radio tuning itself to this strange new frequency. And then, suddenly, it clicked—he could understand them, which was bizarre, since Noah only spoke English.

  But their speech wasn’t the only strange thing. They wore short tunics ending at the hips, paired with rough, patched pants underneath, like something out of a history book. Their boots were scuffed, caked with mud, and a few of them had what looked like odd weapons strapped to their belts.

  “We’re screwed,” snapped a young man on the shore, with a sharp nose and a twitchy way of moving, like he couldn’t stand still. He was short and underfed, with wide eyes that darted around like he expected something to jump out at him. “This fist must’ve been looking for the Walking Stone, alone! Only the most powerful fists search for it by themselves, and you just killed him! He’s going to come back tonight and eat us alive!”

  “Don’t be stupid,” growled an older man, his voice rough and dismissive. He was stocky, with a patchy beard and a scar cutting through one cheek. “That lordling didn’t even have a core. How the hell was he supposed to last five minutes against other fists? Nah. His House must’ve lied to him, saying he was on some secret mission to spy on the rebels, but really they sent him out here hoping he’d get killed. He’s useless to them."

  Another man, tall, with a long, red beard added in a calculating tone, "I know someone in Drien who pays good money for House guts."

  Noah’s head spun, the words tangling in his mind. Lordling? House? Core? None of that makes any sense. But his ears had perked up at the mention of the Walking Stone. What was that? The strange phrase lingered, pulling at his curiosity despite the chaos.

  He was treading water, his arms on fire from the effort, trying to keep his focus. The men hadn’t spotted him yet—they were too caught up in their argument. But then the twitchy one stopped dead, his eyes locking onto Noah. His face went white, and with a shaky hand, he pointed right at Noah.

  “By the river’s tide, he’s already back!” he shouted, his voice breaking with panic. "I told you he was a damn fist! We’re done for!" He spun and fled, boots churning up mud as he sprinted into the trees, vanishing into the shadows.

  The others froze, jaws dropping, staring at Noah as if he’d sprouted a second head. Noah glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone—or something—behind him, but there was only the still, empty lake.

  “He ain’t no whip,” the scarred man muttered, his voice low, wary. "If he were, we'd be dead by now. I told you, he’s got no core."

  “Then how’s he back, huh?” the red-bearded man shot back. “You drowned him. We all saw it.”

  "He must’ve faked drowning," the scarred man said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "And now I’ll make sure he stays dead. We can’t risk this lordling running back to his House and ratting us out."

  Noah’s stomach plummeted. Drowned? He pressed trembling hands to his soaked chest, fingers clumsy from the cold. He felt solid, real. His skin was clammy, his clothes sodden and clinging, but he was alive. Or at least, he thought he was.

  He looked down at himself.

  A shiver hit him, colder and sharper than the lake water.

  His clothes—they weren’t his. He had on some rough tunic and pants, like the men on the shore. His arms were skinny, way too skinny, and his hands—small, smooth, like a kid’s. Not his hands. Not the rough, scarred hands of a twenty-five-year-old. He flexed his fingers, staring at them, and his chest tightened. His body felt off. Too short. Too small. This wasn’t his body.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The scarred man advanced, boots crunching on the rocky shore, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. His face was set, resolute. This man had drowned him—or whoever this body once belonged to. And now he was coming to finish the job.

  Noah’s mind spun, thoughts colliding in a frantic mess. What’s happening? Just moments ago, he’d been in a gas station, paying for fuel, and then, gunshot. Pain. Darkness.

  My watch!

  Instinctively, his hand darted to his left side, patting the empty spot where it should have been, as if he could summon it back. That watch had been with him for years. A sudden wave of grief crashed over him, momentarily drowning the panic. But this wasn’t the time to mourn.

  Focus Noah.

  Was this the afterlife? No, everything felt too solid. The water was too cold, the air too sharp, the fear too raw. He patted his chest again, harder, like he could wake himself up from a nightmare. Maybe he was in a coma, drugged up in a hospital somewhere, dreaming this. But he knew there was no way he could have survived a bullet to the heart.

  No. This was real life.

  A second chance.

  The scarred man was closer now, his boots splashing through the water, his eyes locked on Noah. “No more tricks, lordling Ravenskin,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “I’m sending you back to the river, for good.” As he spoke, he did something strange: when he said the word “river,” his left hand moved to his chest, then pointed upward toward the sky.

  Noah, dazed, followed the gesture with his eyes.

  Shock froze him.

  High in the sky, in the middle of swirling auroras, was an impossibly massive arch. No—not an arch. A ring. Like the rings around Saturn. It shone as if it were forged from metal, and reflected the sunlight. It glowed so brightly it seemed like liquid gold, like a lake at sunrise.

  Or a river.

  Noah’s breath caught in his throat. But there was no time to think about anything except survival. He had to move. Now. His legs felt numb and heavy, the icy water pulling him down like dead weight.

  Desperate, he looked around. To his left, the shore stretched out, rocky and uneven, but past it were thick, dark trees. If he could make it there, maybe he could hide. To his right, the lake curved out of sight around a bend. He could swim, try to lose the guy, but his arms were going numb, and his head was all foggy. Why was he feeling so confused?

  Hypothermia.

  If this man doesn’t kill me, the cold will.

  Noah looked back at the man, now waist-deep in the water, his sword half-drawn. Noah’s chest tightened. He’d died once already—or at least, he thought he had. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt it deep down, this was his last chance to do something with his life. And this man was going to take it away.

  No. Noah wouldn’t let that happen.

  The man lunged, his sword slicing through the water. Noah dove to the side, the blade slicing though his right forearm. His arms flailed, splashing wildly, and he kicked hard, trying to put distance between them. The man cursed, splashing after him, and Noah’s heart pounded, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

  He had to decide. Now. Swim, dive, or fight. Each choice felt like a gamble, each one risky, but he couldn’t just float here, waiting to die. He glanced at the shore again, the trees calling to him. But the man was too close, blocking his path.

  The scarred guy kept swinging at him, his sword cutting through the water every time Noah dodged. Noah’s chest tightened, his breaths coming in short, panicked gasps. He could see the man’s face now, hard, weathered, with so much hate that it twisted his expression into something monstrous.

  The water was freezing, the kind of cold that sank into Noah’s bones and made his teeth chatter uncontrollably. Every move felt harder to make, and slower than the last, as if the water was turning into molasses.

  Noah knew he was running out of time, his body feeling heavier by the second. The soaked tunic was like a dead weight, clinging to his chest and arms like it was glued there. His mind was racing, trying to figure out something to give him a chance. Escape? No, he couldn’t outswim this man. Fight? With what? His hands were empty.

  Then it clicked—the tunic. It was slowing him down, but maybe it could also slow down the scarred man. Noah took a quick breath and ducked under the freezing lake water, hoping the murky surface would hide him for a second. The chilly water stung, but he ignored it, focusing on the tunic.

  His fingers, numb and shaky from the cold, fumbled with the fabric, he gripped the hem and yanked it upward with force, his hands trembling. With a grunt, he finally peeled it off him.

  He shaped the tunic as best as he could, then, he popped back up, breaking the surface with a gasp. The freezing air felt like a brutal slap, but he carried on. He locked eyes on the scarred man and chucked the tunic as hard as he could, aiming right for his face.

  The tunic hit with a wet slap, draping over the man’s face like a soggy blanket, blinding him. For a second, the man stopped, his arms flailing as he tried to claw the fabric away while holding the sword. His sword slashed wildly, cutting through air and water, but his movements were clumsy, off-balance.

  Noah’s heart pounded. This was it—his chance. He didn’t think, didn’t second-guess. He lunged forward, his hand reaching for the sword. His fingers brushed the hilt, cold and slick, and he grabbed it, his grip awkward but tight. The scarred man snarled, the sound muffled by the tunic, and Noah felt the resistance as the man tried to hold on. But Noah pulled harder, his whole body twisting with the effort, and the sword came free.

  The sword was way heavier than he thought it’d be, and he sank a bit. He fumbled with the sword, almost dropping it, but somehow managed to thrust it forward, driving the blade into the scarred man’s exposed throat. Blood spurted everywhere, hitting Noah in the eyes.

  Noah dipped beneath the water for a moment, scrubbing the blood from his face, then hesitated as he let the sword slip from his grasp into the dark water. It was too heavy to carry while swimming.

  His lungs were on fire, every breath was like a fight. His arms felt like they were made of cement, but he kept pushing, stroke after stroke.

  The shore was almost there. He could make out the jagged edge of rocks and dirt, the dark shapes of trees beyond. And the men. They were still there, arguing, their voices sharp and loud even from this distance. Some of them had stopped, and turned their heads toward him. He could feel their eyes on him. Some looked scared. Others glared like they wanted to carve him open and yank out whatever was inside.

  His toes finally brushed against mud, then rocks. Noah stumbled forward, half-crawling, half-wading himself out of the water. His knees scraped against the stones, and he winced, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was shivering so hard it felt like his body was shaking itself apart, and his chest was tight, like he couldn’t get enough air. His legs wobbled under him, barely holding his weight.

  Noah looked back.

  The scarred man was nowhere to be seen in the lake and Noah felt a wave of relief, but it didn’t last long. The other men on the shore were on the move now. Three of them—the ones who’d been glaring—split off from the group and headed his way. Noah’s stomach dropped. They were at least twice his size, with belts loaded up with clubs and knives.

  Noah ran. Or tried to. The cold had seeped into his muscles, weighing them like lead. His arm hurt, barely able to move, throwing his balance off with every awkward step. Behind him, the men’s footsteps got louder, their angry voices closing in fast.

  Noah didn’t look back.