Sleep, as it turns out, is hard to come by when your pillow is a dirt clump, your blanket is “ambient forest moisture,” and you’re being judged by a direwolf with the appetite of a bottomless pit.

  I lay there for hours, shifting and groaning, mentally composing scathing one-star reviews of Elarin’s interpretation of “camping.” Eventually, pure exhaustion wins. I pass out, curled around my trusty wine bottle like it’s a comfort plushie.

  I dream of my soft bed. My penthouse. Endless bottles of wine delivered without judgment.

  Then a wet tongue drags across my face.

  I jolt upright with a strangled scream and a flail of limbs, fully convinced I’m being devoured by some discount forest monster. Turns out, it’s just the direwolf. Staring at me. Licking its lips. Like breakfast is still on the table.

  Elarin is already packing up camp with the energy of someone who’s never once needed caffeine to function. She doesn’t look at me as she lashes down the bedrolls.

  “We’re leaving,” she says, deadpan.

  I blink at her, mouth dry, hair messy, soul cracked in three places. “But… breakfast?”

  Without a word, she tosses me a chunk of what might once have been bread. Feels like a stone.

  “Eat it or don’t,” she mutters.

  Right. Still in hell.

  I glance over at her again. In the daylight, she somehow looks smaller, maybe 5'6", slim build, silver hair catching the light like a shampoo commercial gone rogue.

  She’s dressed like every fantasy merchant I’ve ever half-described, a layered rust-red tunic beneath a faded green cloak, the fabric sun-bleached and dust-streaked from the road. A woven sash cinched at her waist held too many pouches to trust, each one likely full of spices, probably.

  And yet she radiates the exact same energy as a blade pulled halfway from its sheath. I still don’t trust her. Honestly, I think she hates me. Not that I blame her.

  Less than an hour into the ride, my spine is filing a formal complaint. The wagon rattles and bucks like it's training for a rodeo, and I’m the unlucky sack of potatoes bouncing in the back.

  Elarin sits up front, cool and collected, guiding the horse with the stone-faced focus of someone deeply committed to pretending I don’t exist. The direwolf rides beside her like an emotional support murder beast.

  As I jostle in the back, trying not to throw up, the scenery opens up beyond the forest. Rolling hills stretch into the distance, dotted with crooked wooden fences and patches of farmland. Shaggy goats munch on something that might be grass or might be plot filler. In the distance, jagged mountains claw at the sky like ominous set design from a low-budget fantasy film.

  That’s when it hits me.

  I’ve really been isekai’d.

  Like... actually isekai’d.

  I used to binge these stories as a kid, nerds whisked away to magical realms, discovering god-tier powers, collecting harems, saving kingdoms. You know, the usual.

  And now... it’s happening to me.

  Which means this is the moment. The one where the protagonist discovers his special ability. Some hidden gift awakens. Destiny whispers.

  Cue dramatic anime music.

  I rise to my feet in the back of the wagon, arms outstretched, posture heroic.

  “Specto Patrónus!”

  Nothing.

  I try a spin. A pose. I shout every cliché I can think of:

  “Awaken, inner strength!”

  “System ON! Show me my stats!”

  “Enable protagonist mode!”

  Still nothing. Who wrote this shit?

  Then we suddenly hit a pothole. And my face lands straight on the wagon floor.

  I groan, sprawled out on the floorboards in defeat. Elarin glances back with the faintest of sighs. Just one.

  She probably thinks I’m mental.

  I lie there, cheek pressed to the dusty wood, I eye the outside world and wonder what kind of isekai I’ve landed in. When am I getting my power?

  Do I have to unlock it?

  Do I need a special item?

  Is it DLC?

  Why must an author suffer like this?

  I spent years writing fantasy worlds just like this, the drama, the danger, the unnecessarily complicated kingdoms with apostrophes in their names. Hell, I wrote this one. You’d think that would count for something.

  A bonus. A buff. A single damn perk. But no. Apparently, because I was a high fantasy author and not an isekai guy, I’ve been dropped in with zero cheat skills, no overpowered starter pack, and not even a talking sword to pity me. They could have at least made me into a vending machine.

  I groaned and sat up, every bone in my back protesting like it had just survived a Renaissance Fair mosh pit. The wagon creaked beneath me as I scanned the floor for Winey, my emotional support wine bottle. Yes, I named it. No, I’m not ashamed. Winey is all I have left.

  There it was, rolling gently in a corner of the wagon like the forgotten relic of a better, drunker time. I shuffled over on hands and knees and hugged her close, cradling the bottle like it might whisper comfort back.

  My clothes felt stiff with dried sweat and forest grime. My brain? Absolute mush. I just wanted to go home. Home, where the worst thing I had to deal with was online drama and the pressure of finishing a novel. Sure, the world hated me there too, but at least I could face the hate with clean hair and warm showers.

  I leaned back against a sack of something vaguely spice-y and stared out the back of the wagon, Puffy clouds drifted lazily overhead like they had no idea I was still having a full existential crisis.

  That’s when her voice cut through the quiet; calm, direct, and, as always, vaguely annoyed.

  “I’m stopping in the next village to see if I can sell some stuff.”

  I didn’t even lift my head. Just a nod. A barely-audible “okay” mumbled into the neck of my wine bottle.

  I felt hollow. Utterly drained. Yesterday’s misadventure with the beach, the bathroom incident, the villagers screaming like I’d summoned Satan, the peasant chase scene, the direwolf, the peasant-chic travel camp, it all stacked up like a hangover made of narrative consequences.

  I wasn’t ready for another village. I wasn’t ready for anything. Not emotionally, not physically, not even narratively. I just wanted to sleep for a week and maybe die a little.

  And yet the wagon rattled on, Elarin saying nothing else, the road stretching ahead like the next chapter of a book I was no longer sure I wanted to read.

  The village came into view. It looked pretty similar to the first one I saw when I landed in this world, just bigger and busier. More people milling around, more carts stacked with produce and animal parts, and more suspicious goats chewing on anything that wasn’t nailed down.

  Crooked wooden houses lined the cobblestone paths, and the air smelled like bread, hay, and a faint suggestion of manure.

  We parked the wagon, not that I assume designated wagon parking is a thing here, and dismounted.

  The village wasn’t bad. It would’ve even been charming if everyone hadn’t been staring at me like I’d just crawled out of a grave and asked for directions..

  As we walked, the direwolf stayed behind curled up in the back of the wagon, probably so no one panicked and threw holy water.

  I, on the other hand, immediately drew attention.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  People were whispering behind their hands. Parents subtly herded their children away from me. Felt like some DejaVu. One guy even crossed himself and muttered something as he gave me a wide berth.

  Elarin slowed, her posture tense. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell she noticed.

  I leaned toward her. “So, uh… people here not big fans of outsiders? Or is it just my natural aura?”

  She sighed. “It’s your looks. You seem unstable to them.”

  “That’s unfair,” I said. “I use Head & Shoulders.” I try to tidy myself up a bit.

  “Keep following me,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “New clothes.” That was all she offered.

  I looked down at myself. Dirt-smudged pants. Torn shirt. Forest debris still clinging to me like needy burrs.

  “I’m going for a rugged survival aesthetic,” I offered.

  “They probably think you’re here to cause trouble, could be bad.”

  I waved it off. “It’s not that big a deal. They probably just think I’m poor. I’m used to attention.”

  But she looked... uncomfortable. And just for a moment, her hood shifted, and I caught a glimpse of the tip of one ear.

  Pointed. Pale. Subtle. Elf. Oh.

  Right. I wrote this world. Elves and humans had a complicated history in Lae’Mor. By which I mean centuries of war, racism, and at least two or three doomed love stories.

  I was a human. A very loud, very visible, very unclean human. She was trying to keep a low profile, and I was out here ruining it like an idiot.

  “Okay,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “Fine. You win. Dress me up. Make me pretty, Daddy.”

  Elarin gave me a long, unreadable look.

  And then we walked into the shop.

  The tailor’s place was small, dim, and smelled like wool, old dye, and sweat. Honestly, it reminded me of the thrift stores I used to dig through as a kid. I wasn’t always rich. My overwhelming brilliance and dazzling talent made me rich.

  Elarin did the talking while I hovered awkwardly in the background, wondering if I was allowed to sit. Or breathe. The tailor kept side-eying me like I might eat a bolt of fabric or steal a button just out of spite.

  I tried browsing, picked up something with an interesting cut, and was immediately told to put it down.

  Elarin selected a few pieces without consulting me: simple linen pants, a dull brown tunic, and a sleeveless vest that felt like it had been crafted from regret and old potato sacks. All neutral, earthy tones. Basically something you’d find in an over-the-top minimalist fashion show with a pretentious name like “Peasant, But for the Urban essence.”

  I held it up. “Am I dressing as a farmer or something?”

  “You’re dressing as someone no one notices,” she said.

  “Mission accomplished.”

  There wasn’t a changing room, but at this point I didn’t care anymore. I changed right there, grumbling the whole time. Elarin turned her back, not before I caught her sneaking a glance. Hah. So the ice queen does have some emotions.

  When I stepped out, she nodded once. “That’s better.”

  She’s definitely talking to me more today.

  “Is it?” I stretched the shirt. It barely fit. The pants itched. The vest was a joke. “I feel like I’m about to carry grain sacks.”

  She handed the tailor a coin, a silver one. Right. I vaguely remembered silver being the standard currency in this world. My books never went deep into economics, but I did make gold rarer. That Rolex I gave her must’ve been worth way more here than I realized, I wonder if she thinks I’m a lost Noble or royalty.

  I mean, I knew it was expensive in my world. But judging by the way the tailor bowed slightly as we left, I’m guessing it paid for the outfit, the silence, and probably funded a college education.

  Back outside, the change was immediate.

  People stopped staring. The whispers faded. The air even felt lighter. Elarin walked with a bit more confidence now, cutting through the crowd like she belonged.

  I swear I saw the tiniest smirk on her face.

  What is she plotting?

  And me?

  People would glance every now and then still… but differently.

  Now it was more like they were trying to figure out whether I was carrying her luggage, or just really dedicated to following her around.

  A woman passed by with a basket and smiled at Elarin. “Good day, Mistress,” she said.

  She didn’t even acknowledge me.

  Two old men sitting on a bench nodded at Elarin and gave me a look that screamed “hope she feeds you well.”

  One of them actually said it out loud.

  It started to irk me. Back in my world, I wasn’t exactly loved, not by my fans, not by the studio execs, not by my publishers, but I was still filthy rich. Here, I probably looked like her personal pack mule.

  A man walked by, gave me a pitying look, and started chatting with Elarin.

  While they talked, something kept bugging me. There was something... off.

  I looked around at the villagers. The signs above the shops. The snippets of conversations drifting through the air.

  All English.

  Not some made-up fantasy language. Not even a Tolkien knock-off dialect. Just plain, modern, English.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Wait a minute… why is everyone speaking English?”

  Did I luck out? Did I just land in the one region that speaks my language?

  I guess the magical translator in my brain finally decided to clock in, or maybe that first village just preferred communicating exclusively through grunts, gargles, and pitchforks.

  As I get lost in thought, I turn and realize, of course, I’ve lost Elarin.

  Just my luck. I looked around for her.

  I must’ve taken a series of increasingly confident wrong turns, because somehow I end up standing in front of a massive stone church. Tall. Gothic. Stoney? Covered in statues. Naturally, it’s the only building in this village that doesn’t look like it’s been chewed on by goats or time.

  I push the heavy wooden door open. It creaks like it’s judging me.

  Inside, it’s quiet. Not peaceful-quiet, more like haunted library after hours quiet. Rows of dark wood pews, a vaulted ceiling overhead, stained glass windows leaking colored light like someone spilled wine across the floor.

  Near the altar, there’s a man, older, bald, draped in a black robe, sweeping with monk-like disinterest.

  A priest?

  No… a Vossen.

  Now I remember….

  Back when I was a more prolific writer, and possibly high on a few things with delusions of grandeur. I built out a whole religious hierarchy for this world. I was really into deism at the time, so I made a religion that was structured around Ashem, a word that meant “Guilt” in some foreign language.

  In my mythology Ashem was not a god exactly, but an all-encompassing spirit. And Teshim, are these angelic fragments of Ashem’s will, basically echoes sent to guide the faithful. Each statue outside? Yeah, those were supposed to be Teshim.

  I even made a whole language for them. I can barely remember how my taxes work, but sure, I created a sacred lexicon for fictional clergy. I had way too much time.

  I slump into a pew near the back. “I’m so tired”

  My legs feel like concrete. My boots are still damp. My soul? Two steps from handing in its resignation.

  I lean back, close my eyes, and breathe.

  A poem comes to mind, one that used to help calm my nerves. From my favorite poet, A.E. Housman. I murmur it without thinking:

  Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,

  Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong,

  Think rather,--call to thought, if now you grieve a little,

  The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long

  Silence.

  Not normal silence — real silence. The kind where the air itself feels like it’s holding its breath.

  For a moment, I feel… peaceful. Weightless. Like the world paused.

  I hear a broom drop. I crack one eye open.

  The priest, the Vossen, is standing still, broom forgotten, staring at me with a surprise glare.

  I glance around. "You okay, old man?"

  He starts walking toward me, slowly, reverently. His voice is deep, steady, full of weight:

  “Norul Velesh tae Ora’tesh,

  Ishen Teshim aran ven Dara’tesh —

  Ashem’vos, veyra’tae vehlan.

  Thae’kel ishen saren dor hessan,

  Vos’tar ishen thul’shae ul kae’vos.”

  And then… I start muttering.

  Not because I want to, because something in me moves. Like I’m translating words I didn’t know I knew:

  “In the era of veiled light,

  Shall the Hallowed walk among the lost —

  The breath of Ashem in mortal skin.

  The deceivers will flee from his stillness,

  And the faithful shall feel the hush in their souls.”

  He falls to his knees in front of me, his voice trembling with reverence:

  “Nel’tor ishen ish’tar sel,

  Ae Ora’tesh nelor sen,

  Telesh’ul ishen shaelan thennul.

  Varesh toran sen ul,

  Terenul ishen dor thennul.”

  And still, I respond:

  “By no sign shall he take his claim,

  Yet the Light shall know him,

  And in its glow, the heavens will fall silent.

  Peace shall follow in his steps,

  And the path will open in sacred silence.”

  I look into his eyes, wide, wet with awe, and whisper the final line:

  “Lae’tesh Tesharim.”

  He lowers his head, whispering: “Blessed are the Hallowed.”

  The moment breaks.

  I blink. The weight lifts. The air returns to normal. And all I can think is:

  Nope.

  I stand up. Hands raised. “Okay. No. Nope. Not today.”

  I backpedal down the aisle.

  The Vossan remains kneeling, head bowed, whispering over and over:

  “Voresh Tesharim.”

  I throw open the door, practically trip over a potted plant shaped like a goat, and don’t stop running until I’m several alleys away, hunched over, panting like I just sprinted out of an exorcism.

  “I ain’t having this Dune shit today,” I mutter. And so I kept looking for Elarin.