Areus Reys died on a quiet night.
Not in a dramatic way. No fire, no screaming, no heroic last stand. Just the dull silence of his room, the faint glow of a screen, and the slow, creeping feeling that something had gone terribly wrong inside his chest. His vision blurred. His breath caught. The world narrowed to a sharp ache and a single, simple thought.
So this is it.
Then everything fell away.
Cold dragged him back.
Not gently. Not slowly. The cold was violent, biting into his skin like teeth. Areus sucked in air so freezing it burned all the way down his throat. His body jerked once, then settled.
Snow filled his vision.
White. Endless white. Gray clouds drifting overhead. Dark shapes rising around him.
Trees.
He rolled onto his side with a low, controlled groan, his face scraping against packed ice. Pain flared in his ribs, sharp and clean. He watched his breath leave his mouth in a pale cloud and fade into the air.
So. Not over yet.
He pushed himself up. His hands sank into snow—thick, real, wet enough to soak through his sleeves and numb his fingers. He registered it, then let it go. The cold was just another fact.
He looked down at himself.
Heavy wool tunic, damp at the hem. Dark leather bracers strapped to his forearms. Thick trousers. Rugged boots crusted with ice. A fur-lined cloak hung from his shoulders, stiff with frost.
At his waist—strapped tight to a belt—was a short sword.
He felt the weight of it, the pull at his hip when he shifted.
"Better than a hospital gown," he murmured, voice low and steady.
He didn't waste time asking where his old clothes had gone. He didn't wonder who had dressed him or how his body had ended up here. Those questions wouldn't keep him warm.
He rose to his feet. His legs felt weak, as if he'd been sick for days, but they held.
The forest stretched in every direction—towering pines weighed down by snow, their branches creaking softly in the wind. The sky was a dull sheet of gray. No sun. No warmth. No roads. No buildings. No people.
Just wilderness.
Areus turned slowly, taking it in. He wasn't looking for an answer. Just information.
He remembered the room. The screen. The pain in his chest. The closing darkness.
Conclusion: he died.
Now he was here.
There was no point arguing with that.
A distant sound rolled through the air.
Low. Deep.
Not thunder.
The snow on the branches above him trembled. A few clumps fell loose and shattered at his feet.
Areus tilted his head slightly, listening.
The sound came again. A massive vibration that carried weight, power—something alive behind it.
His muscles tightened. Instinct, not panic. Whatever made that sound was big, airborne, and not human.
He didn't think long. He moved.
Areus headed downhill through the forest, boots slipping on hidden ice, lungs burning as the cold clawed at him from the inside. The pain of breathing was just another confirmation that his body worked. Good.
He ducked behind boulders and fallen logs, choosing his cover carefully, finally pressing himself into the narrow space between two massive rocks dusted with snow.
He held still. Not holding his breath, just keeping it slow and quiet.
The sound passed overhead this time—closer. A rush of displaced air swept through the treetops. The branches swayed violently, snow shaking loose in powdery sheets.
Then silence returned.
Areus stayed where he was for a while, letting his heartbeat slow from hard to steady.
Whatever it was, it hadn't seen him. That was enough for now.
He slid out from between the rocks and looked around.
The forest had gone back to pretending to be peaceful. Snow settled on branches, the wind sighed, the gray sky watched.
He patted his chest, his arms, his legs. No wounds. No blood. He noted the way his body felt—stronger in some places, leaner in others, but it all responded when he told it to move.
He touched his face once, fingertips tracing the sharper line of his jaw, the longer hair falling past his fingers. Not how he remembered.
He accepted it in one breath. New body. New place.
So this is where I ended up.
No fear, just adjustment.
A sharp pain flared in his stomach, sudden and intense. He grunted quietly and pressed a hand there.
Hunger. Real hunger. The kind that made his knees feel lighter than they should.
"Of course," he muttered. "No tutorial, straight into survival."
Staying still meant freezing. Freezing meant dying again, this time for good.
He listened.
Under the whisper of wind and creak of branches, something else—faint, but constant.
Water.
Areus turned toward the sound and began to walk. The slope carried him downhill. The forest thinned as he descended, the ground growing steeper, stones jutting through the snow in jagged rows.
He kept a hand near his sword. Not because he expected to use it well—he didn't—but because anything was better than empty fingers.
Then he saw the river.
It cut through the land like a black wound, water rushing fast and violent between icy banks. Steam rose faintly where the current fought the cold.
He moved toward it—then stopped.
Shapes lay on the far side.
Dark, half-buried in snow.
He narrowed his eyes, dropping into a slight crouch to make himself a smaller target.
Bodies.
Three of them.
They wore armor—rusted chain and battered leather. One lay face-down in the snow. Another had fallen against a rock, neck bent at an angle that said everything. The third lay closer to the river, chest torn open so badly bone showed through shredded cloth.
The metallic smell reached him next—thick, undeniable.
Blood.
He had seen death on screens, in games, in videos people shouldn't have shared but did anyway.
This was different. Close enough to smell. Close enough to feel how the cold tried to swallow it.
His breath stayed steady, but something inside him tightened.
Then something moved.
Areus's hand went to the sword at his waist in the same moment his eyes snapped to the movement.
A figure crouched near the torn-open body by the river, hunched and thin. Its back rose and fell with wet, tearing sounds.
Eating.
His heart slammed harder—but his thoughts stayed clear.
The figure straightened slowly.
Humanoid. Bare arms, pale and raw-looking, stretched too thin over bone. Its face was slick with red. Its mouth was wrong, jaw unhinged wider than it should be.
It turned its head.
Its eyes locked onto him.
Milky. Unfocused. But it saw him anyway.
It shrieked.
The sound was high and broken, scraping along his nerves like rusted metal. Then it launched itself across the snow with shocking speed, fingers clawed, mouth open.
Areus didn't try to think of a plan. There wasn't time.
He tore the sword free—his grip clumsy on the unfamiliar hilt—and swung.
The blade bit into the creature's shoulder with a wet crunch. It didn't stop. It slammed into him, knocking him onto his back. His head cracked against ice. Light burst in his vision.
Cold teeth and hot breath lunged for his throat.
Instinct moved faster than fear.
Areus drove the sword upward with both hands.
The blade punched into soft flesh under its jaw. The creature jerked violently, shriek turning into a choking gurgle. Hot blood poured down over his hands and chest, thick and almost burning against the cold.
He shoved.
The body toppled sideways, twitching weakly before going still.
Areus lay there, chest heaving, watching his breath rise and mix with the faint steam from fresh blood on snow.
Pain rang in his skull. His fingers ached from the impact.
He waited for panic. For breakdown. For shaking confusion.
None came. Just a hard, solid weight settling deeper in his chest.
He rolled to his side and forced himself up onto his knees. His stomach clenched and tried to twist itself inside out, but there was nothing in it. The nausea came anyway, dry and sharp.
His hands were slick with red. The sword dripped onto the snow in slow, heavy drops.
He looked at the thing he'd killed.
Human. Young. Starved-looking. Teeth filed to points.
A cannibal.
The word rose in his mind, clear and precise, as if it belonged here.
"This place really doesn't waste time," he said quietly.
The river rushed on, indifferent to all of it.
Areus wiped the blade against the snow, cleaning it as best he could, and sheathed it with steady movements. His hands wanted to shake; he didn't let them.
He scanned the far bank again.
One of the bodies moved.
A man lay on his side near the river, shallow breaths puffing faint mist from his lips. His armor was soaked black at the hip where something had torn into him. Blood pooled beneath him, already beginning to crust and freeze at the edges.
Areus paused.
Approaching a dying stranger in a world like this was asking for trouble.
Leaving him felt worse.
He stepped onto the half-frozen stones, crossing the river carefully, weight tested with each footfall. The water roared just beneath him, spray biting at his face. He nearly slipped once, boot skidding on ice, but he caught himself on a protruding rock and pushed on.
When he reached the man, the stranger's eyes fluttered open weakly.
Dark eyes. Tired. Afraid.
"Cold… reach…" the man rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over stone.
Areus leaned closer. "What?"
"City… to the west…" the man whispered. "Walls… fire…"
His gaze shifted past Areus, to the dead cannibal on the other bank. Fear flickered there, even now.
"They've been hunting the roads," he murmured. "Taking the lost… the weak…"
His chest hitched violently. Blood bubbled at his lips.
"Don't… let the dark take you…"
His eyes slid out of focus.
The man went still.
Areus watched him for a few breaths, waiting for movement that didn't come.
Dead.
Snowflakes landed on the man's lashes and didn't melt.
"Coldreach," Areus said softly, testing the word. "City. Walls. Fire."
A place. A direction. A goal.
That was enough.
He stayed kneeling beside the stranger for a few moments longer. Not in mourning—he hadn't known him—but in acknowledgement. The man had given him something in his last seconds. A name that might keep him alive.
"That's more than most get," Areus said quietly. "I'll make it there."
He stood.
Fear was still there, coiled somewhere deep, but it was quiet now. Under it sat something heavier.
Resolve.
Areus Reys turned west.
And began to walk.