Chapter 1: A Stranger in a Strange Land
by SlivvoJordan awoke to the sound of pounding on the trash can, the vibrations jolting him from his restless slumber. His body ached, his muscles stiff from curling up in the cramped space. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the lid.
The pounding continued.
“Ey, you, we know you’re in there. Come on out.”
The accent threw him off. It wasn’t the sharp, clipped voice of the cops he was used to—it had a rough, almost Manchester-like lilt to it.
Jordan hesitated, then slowly pushed the lid open, peering out cautiously.
“Look at ‘im,” one of the guards sneered as Jordan crawled out—over a wooden frame? His brows furrowed in confusion. He had jumped into a metal dumpster.
Cobblestone streets replaced the cracked asphalt he was used to. Wooden compost bins stood where industrial dumpsters should have been. The men in front of him weren’t cops but guards dressed in medieval livery. The cityscape was gone, replaced by something that looked straight out of Camelot.
“Pathetic trash, Jeffers. No wonder Ms. Biggins reported hearing someone snoring in the garbage.”
Jordan flushed, embarrassment mixing with confusion. The guard, Jeffers, curled his lip in disgust.
“C’mon, filth. We’ll take you to the city gates. Might I give you some advice? There’s a nice stream about an hour south. Go clean yourself up.”
Before Jordan could protest, the guards grabbed him roughly by the arms and marched him through the streets.
What the hell was going on?
Jordan followed the stream as the sun climbed higher, the world around him entirely foreign. The countryside stretched wide and green, nothing like the concrete jungle he’d known all his life.
He stopped by the water’s edge, shedding his clothes. The cool stream washed away the grime, but as he reached for his clothes, a fresh wave of shock hit him.
They weren’t his clothes.
His hoodie, his jeans, his sneakers—gone. Instead, he had rough, scratchy fabric stitched into a tunic and short boots that looked handmade.
“What the FUCK?!”
His pulse pounded as he splashed his face. Okay, think, Jordan. You’re lost in an unknown place. But how? No Renaissance fairs were in town, and this was way too elaborate for a prank.
Had the dealer laced his stash? Drugged him? Kidnapped him?
He forced himself to take deep breaths. Panicking won’t help. He needed answers.
Jordan wandered the streets as the sun dipped low, arriving back at the city gates just before nightfall.
The guards from that morning were still there.
“Well, Moffie, look at ‘im. No longer smells like garbage,” Jeffers rumbled, folding his arms. “Tell you what, lad, if you’ve got enough coin, we’ll take you to the tavern. Otherwise, you’ll be sleeping outside.”
Jordan frowned. “I just need to know how to get back home. Do you guys know the way to Tulsa?”
Jeffers and Moffie exchanged a puzzled glance. “Tulsa?” Jeffers repeated, as if tasting the word. “Ever heard of it, Moffie?”
The two men bantered, speculating wildly—maybe it was near Aerwyni, the last human city before the blighted lands? Or maybe Jordan was from the blighted lands, which explained his sleeping habits.
Jordan cut them off. “Thanks for the help,” he muttered, turning back toward the woods.
His stomach growled. His body ached. His mind raced.
He’d never had to survive like this before. He could steal cash, find places to sleep—but he’d always had city streets to fall back on. This was different.
“Okay, think, Jordan,” he muttered. “You need to make it through the night.”
He remembered something about starting fires with sticks. It sounded ridiculous, but he didn’t have many options. Gathering dried grass and twigs, he twisted a straight stick between his palms against a log, hoping for friction.
His muscles screamed in protest.
“Come on, come on,” he growled, sweat beading on his brow.
A spark. Then smoke. Then, finally, a tiny, flickering flame.
Relief crashed over him.
As he stared into the fire, memories of his past surfaced.
The first time he stood up for a friend, Darren, against some local jock-turned-used-car-salesman bully. The way people only wanted him around for what he could get them. The police at his door when he was seven, telling his grandmother about the drunk driver that stole his parents.
He closed his eyes, trying to push the memories away.
The night stretched on.
The forest pulsed with unfamiliar sounds. Jordan sat by the fire, nibbling on a handful of berries he hoped weren’t poisonous. He chuckled bitterly.
“Okay, Jordan. Just like camping. Except without a tent. Or food. Or any idea what you’re doing.”
He missed the city’s noise. The hum of traffic. The buzz of his phone. Here, there was only silence and the unknown.
His exhaustion won out, pulling him into uneasy sleep.
In the dense underbrush, two figures crouched low, their eyes glinting in the firelight.
They exchanged guttural clicks and hisses, speaking in a language not meant for human ears.
“Noisy human,” one muttered.
“Strange clothes. Strange behavior.”
The first figure tilted its head. “What does he want here?”
“Don’t know. Should we report to the Master?”
A pause. Then a low, growling answer. “Yes. Master will want to know about the human.”
The two figures slipped into the darkness, leaving Jordan blissfully unaware.
As the fire burned low, his body curled tight for warmth, he remained lost in restless dreams—unaware that eyes were watching.
And that his presence in this world had not gone unnoticed.
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