Chapter Text
Light came first.
It poured over my skin like honey; slow, golden, and warm. Like the kind of summer afternoon that feels like it could last forever. Then it intensified, growing brighter, heavier, until it burned through my lids and forced them open. The world vanished in a wash of white. Tears came instantly, and the sky above blurred into a streak of blue through the sting.
Something gritty rolled across my tongue. Sand—everywhere. In my mouth, between my teeth, grinding into every crease of skin and fabric, as if it had always belonged there. Above, seabirds wheeled and cried.
Maybe it's just a very vivid dream, I told myself. The kind that tricks you into thinking you're awake. Any second now I would actually wake up and this would all fade like smoke.
I pushed myself upright, my palms sinking into warm sand. Everything felt heavy, like I was moving through thick glue. My limbs didn't quite respond the way they should, and the simple act of sitting up left me dizzy, the horizon swaying like a pendulum. I could taste the bitterness of seawater and sand on my tongue when I tried to swallow.
That's odd. Dreams don't usually taste like anything, do they?
The salt air kept making my eyes water. These unfamiliar clothes kept clinging to a body that didn't feel like mine, and each sensation drove itself deeper into my awareness like a nail being hammered home.
I closed my eyes again. Counted to three. Tried to wake up.
Nothing changed.
I pinched the soft skin of my forearm, harder than I meant to. Hard enough to leave crescent marks from my nails. The pain bloomed bright and immediate, and with it came a terrible understanding that crashed over me like the waves nearby.
This was real. The world solidified around me—no longer floating, no longer dreamlike. As I forced myself to look around, everything tilted into sharp, impossible focus.
I knew this place.
The jagged rocks jutting from the shoreline, the swaying grasses in the distance, the eerie beauty of the landscape—it was impossible, but I recognized every detail. My pulse raced as my mind scrambled to make sense of what I was seeing.
The soft crunch of footsteps on sand broke through my spiraling thoughts. A shadow fell across me, blocking the harsh sunlight. I looked up to see a figure standing over me, and my heart nearly stopped.
“Hey,” the voice called out, full with concern. “Are you all right?”
I blinked, and she came into focus with devastating clarity. Tall and lean, with the unmistakable elongated features of the githyanki—sharp cheekbones, pointed ears, skin that held a faint olive undertone. Her dark complexion was marked by patches of vitiligo that created abstract patterns across her face and arms. Platinum blonde hair streaked with pink had mostly escaped its ponytail, framing her face in wild strands. She held herself like a warrior, even in this moment of apparent kindness—weight balanced, ready to move, one hand resting casually near the staff at her side.
I knew every detail of her appearance because I had chosen every detail of her appearance. Hours spent in character creation, adjusting sliders, selecting colors, crafting her story.
“Freya?” I whispered, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the waves.
Her entire body went rigid. Those amber eyes—Shit, even her eyes are exactly right—narrowed to slits. The concern vanished from her face, replaced by the cold calculation of a predator sizing up potential prey.
“How do you know my name?” Her tone was accusing.
I froze, my heart hammering. How could I tell her that I knew her name because I had given it to her? That she wasn't supposed to be real, wasn't supposed to be standing here with suspicion radiating from every line of her body?
I wanted to answer her, to explain, but my gaze fell to my hands instead. I stared, transfixed by fingers that were too thin, too delicate, nails too clean and well-kept.
These aren't my hands.
Panic crept back. I shifted my gaze downward, taking in the rest—a tattered, mud-stained dress clung to curves that weren't mine, its intricate fabric whispering of a life far removed from my own.
“What…” I choked out, my voice cracking. “What is this?”
Freya's hand moved to the hilt of her staff, the motion fluid and threatening. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
I wanted to answer, needed to answer, but the words wouldn't come.
Freya stepped closer, her presence commanding, her voice low but firm. “Start talking, or I’ll assume you’re a threat.”
Her words jolted me back to the moment. My breaths came quick and shallow, the edges of my vision starting to blur. "I don’t… I don’t know,” I stammered. “I... I don’t know what is happening… But this isn't my body.”