The sky was an open void of unfamiliar stars, deep and endless above the treetops, with three glowing moons hanging in sharp defiance of everything she once understood. One bled red across the canopy like a dying ember, the second shimmered pale and argent like bleached bone, and the third pulsed with an eerie green hue that made her skin crawl without reason. Kezra lay half-buried in damp loam beneath a gnarled root, naked save for a rough scrap of torn cloth clinging to her chest, her breath shallow, her limbs trembling with weakness she couldnât explain. Her ears twitched involuntarily, reacting to every nighttime soundâeach crackle of twig, distant screech, or flutter of wings like it was the whisper of death. It took several attempts before she dared to sit up, her new body unfamiliar, her balance wrong, her center of gravity strange. She glanced down at her handsâsmall, green-skinned, the fingers longer and slightly gnarled, tipped with short claws that looked like theyâd splinter if she hit something too hard. Her legs were stubby and strong, her arms wiry, and her chestâdifferent, foreign, sensitive in ways she hadnât expected. She was not Aaron anymore, not by name, not by frame. The memories of her past life didnât strike her in full clarity but instead dripped like candle waxâslow, warm, painful. A man once. Now a goblin. A royal one, whatever that meant. But in that moment, with the wind cold against her damp skin and the unknown forest pressing in from every direction, she wasnât a queen. She was barely alive.
She struggled to her feet and nearly fell twice, the second time catching herself against a moss-slicked tree trunk with a gasp of effort. Her body was lighter than expected, but not fragile; muscle memory hadnât yet caught up with her new proportions, and she moved like a child learning to walk again. Her throat was dry and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and when she tried to speak aloud, only a ragged croak came out. No help answered. No voice called back. She was alone, and the pressure of that realization settled heavily on her chest. There was no sign of civilizationâno firelight in the distance, no path worn into the dirt, no broken branches to mark intelligent passage. The world around her was untouched and wild, its silence not peaceful but expectant, as though it watched from every bush and shadow. Somewhere deep in her bones, instinct urged her to moveâto hide, to find water, to gather warmth. Not because it was strategy, but because her survival screamed for it with every beat of her newly goblin heart. Whatever else she had been, whatever dreams she once held, they meant nothing here. She was prey now, and the night didnât care about her tears or her confusion.
She wandered through the forest until her feet bled, each step a test of endurance and determination against brambles that clawed at her ankles and branches that slapped her face with careless malice. Hunger gnawed at her belly by mid-morning, a slow burn that churned alongside thirst and mounting fatigue. The trees grew denser as she pressed forward, their boughs twisting overhead into a canopy that let little sunlight reach the floor. Strange birds called from above, their cries sharp and haunting, followed by the low chittering of something unseen rustling through the underbrush. Kezra kept moving, dragging herself forward on sheer will, scanning every stone and crevice for somethingâanythingâto drink. When she finally stumbled upon a shallow trickling stream, she fell to her knees and drank greedily, ignoring the taste of silt and the stinging cold. The water was life, and for a moment, her mind quieted. That peace didnât last long; her ankle throbbed with pain, a blister torn open, and her fingers had begun to swell from small cuts filled with dirt. She needed shelter. Rest. Fire. But none of it came easy, and part of her wanted to curl up beneath a bush and let go.
Instead, she found a low patch of earth near a knotted root and clawed out a shallow depression with her bare hands. It wasnât a den, not truly, but it was low and hidden from the path and covered enough to offer some protection from wind and sight. She lined it with dead leaves and flattened grass, doing her best to ignore the bugs scuttling through them, and collapsed into it with her limbs curled tight around her chest. It wasnât comfort that settled over her, but numbnessâa fragile reprieve from panic, a thin blanket of denial wrapped around the realization that she was not going to wake up. This wasnât a coma. Not a dream. The stars were wrong, the moons alien, and her body⦠this strange, compact form was hers now. She didnât cry. Not because she wasnât afraid, but because the tears wouldnât come. Instead, she slept in fits, shallow and uneasy, haunted by whispers she couldnât name and shadows that shifted too fast to follow. When she awoke, the sun had begun to fall again, and her stomach felt like it was eating itself. Something had to die tonight, or she would.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The creature found her firstâsmall and scaly, with eyes that gleamed like dull sapphires and a forked tongue that hissed before sinking its teeth into her exposed foot. Kezra screamed, the pain waking her from the daze of exhaustion, and kicked wildly until the thing bounced off a rock and scurried back toward the brush. She didnât think. She chased. Every instinct told her it was suicide, but something primal pushed her faster. She caught up with it near a rotten log and hurled a stone without aiming. Dumb luck or divine pity, the rock struck the thing just behind the head, and it collapsed mid-sprint. She dropped beside it, panting, and stared at the limp body. It was no larger than a housecat, with a snakelike body and vestigial limbs, but it was warm, it had flesh, and it bled. Her hands shook as she lifted it. She had never killed anything beforeânot even in her old lifeâand now, she had taken a life with a rock and desperation. The nausea came, but she didnât let it take her. She couldnât. Hunger was stronger than guilt.
The fire took hours to coax from friction. Her fingers blistered. Her knuckles split. But eventually, a spark caught the bark she'd shredded from a branch, and the flame came to lifeâflickering, weak, but warm and real. She roasted the creature whole, not knowing what parts were poisonous or safe, not caring in the moment. The skin charred. The meat cooked unevenly. It tasted foul and metallic and made her gag after the second bite. But she ate it all. Chewing slowly. Forcing it down. Not out of discipline, but desperation. When she finished, she buried the bones and curled near the fire like a beaten animal guarding its only treasure. Her stomach turned, but the warmth in her gut kept the cold from sinking deeper into her soul. For now, she had wonânot a war, not even a battle, but a moment. And in this place, moments were all she had.
By the second night, the pain in her body had dulled to background noise, but the ache in her mind sharpened. She thought of her old name, the life sheâd lived in another worldâone of lab coats, research labs, plant cultures, and long hours watching cell growth through a microscope. A man with plans. With dreams. A career barely born. A life cut short in blood and betrayal. She didnât remember all the details. Just her. The one with the laugh too wide, the stare too deep. The one who ended it all. Now, there were no stalkers. No doors. No coworkers. Just trees and wind and the new weight of a body that didnât fit. But there was something else too. A flicker. A sense that maybe, just maybe, this wasnât a punishment. That perhaps⦠it could be something else.
She heard them before she saw themâshuffling feet, guttural speech, soft clicks of tongues against fangs. Kezra didnât breathe as three figures emerged from the dark, their skin gray-green, their eyes reflecting the firelight in unnatural ways. Goblins. Like her, and yet not. They were smaller, leaner, rougher. One held a bone spear, the other two nothing but sharpened sticks. They moved with caution, hunger in their gait, wariness in their posture. And as they approached her tiny fire, Kezra didnât stand. She didnât run. She sat, her legs tucked beneath her, the rock still clutched in her hand like a prayer. If they wanted blood, theyâd have to take it. But something passed between themâcuriosity, confusion, maybe even respect. And in the stillness of the third night beneath three strange moons, the tribe she didnât ask for began to form around the woman she never meant to become.