Jon Steinke
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Chapter 3: This isn't a dream
🕑 Added 2025-09-27 02:25:51 +0000 UTCCaleb’s first breath was a mistake. It was a raw, shallow gasp that scraped against a throat crushed by calloused fingers. Fire bloomed in his neck, a searing throb with every frantic heartbeat. Each attempt to draw in more air made his ribs scream in a dull, grinding protest. Consciousness wasn't a gentle return; it was a violent eviction from the quiet nothingness that came before.
His cheek pressed against rough, splintery wood that reeked of stale alcohol, accumulated grime, and something acrid like old sweat mixed with despair. The white void was gone.
Evelynn. Katie. Jack.
Grief hollowed him out, a sudden, soul-deep vacuum where his heart used to be. His family's faces flashed before him—Evelynn's sleepy smile over morning coffee, Katie frantically searching for her jacket, Jack's shy grin as he hummed superhero themes. All of it lost. All of it gone.
No, no, I was just with them... Breakfast was still warm... Evelynn was talking about Hawaii...
He wasn't in his kitchen. Wasn't in his car. The SUV, the impact, the white void, the voice. It all cascaded back in a rush of understanding that he desperately wanted to reject.
Caleb cracked open his eyes.
He lay sprawled on the floor of a dim, filthy room. A lone shaft of grimy light sliced through a streaked window, revealing decay. The illumination seemed wrong. A deeper, richer gold than Earth's sun. It threw elongated, harsh shadows that looked somehow incorrect.
Discarded clothes formed moldering piles in corners. Empty food containers—wooden bowls greasy with congealed remnants—cluttered what passed for furniture. Dark, sticky rings marred a rickety table of unfinished wood where countless bottles had left their mark.
A small counter space served as a kitchen, if the term could be applied so generously. Etched into the surface were several flowing geometric patterns that pulsed with soft blue light. Runes. The word surfaced from nowhere, carrying absolute certainty. One of the glowing symbols was cracked, causing it to flicker erratically and emit tiny, fizzing sparks that made the air smell of scorched metal.
At the table, a man hunched over with his back to Caleb. Broad shoulders spoke of former strength, but his frame had gone gaunt, his grimy tunic hanging loose on a body that had seen better days. He lifted a crude clay bottle to his lips and drank deeply. A peeling label on the container revealed the words "Steelbloom Brandy." The man set the bottle down with a heavy thud and cradled a small, tarnished silver locket in calloused fists.
A memory pierced him, unbidden and sharp as a shard of glass. A woman's hands, slender and with a soft green hue, fastening that same locket around her own neck. The scent of pine needles and damp earth. Her voice, a soothing melody. "It keeps you close to my heart, my little sprout."
"Feh." His voice was a low, gravelly slur, bitter as the dregs of whatever poison filled that bottle. "Thought I'd finally choked the life out of you this time, Thal." Another swig, followed by a wet, disgusted sound. "And now you're babbling in some made-up tongue like the village idiot. What's next, gonna start speaking to the spirits?" He let out a harsh, mirthless laugh that dissolved into a coughing fit. "So useless you can't even die right. Just like her." He set the bottle down harder than necessary, and the clink sounded through the cramped room as a death knell.
The pain in his throat vanished, replaced by a new, sharp awareness. It wasn't the stone floor making him shiver; it was the certainty of the man's gaze. The voice wasn't directed at him—Caleb Foster, suburban dad and middle manager. It was directed at the body he now inhabited. The realization seeped in, cold and absolute, filling the cracks in his fractured thoughts.
This isn't a dream. This is real. I'm... I'm in someone else's body.
The name "Thalorin" rose unbidden in his mind, carrying with it a phantom surge of fear and resentment so strong it tasted like copper. Not his emotions. Not his memories. But somehow present, lurking like shadows at the edges of consciousness.
My family is gone. I'm dead. And now I'm here, in a kid's body, and his... father? just tried to kill me.
His breath hitched. This body was small. Light. Wrong in every conceivable way. And the man at the table—Rufan, the name whispered itself with inherited dread—had just casually referenced strangling him.
Survival instincts screamed through the grief and confusion. Fight or flight kicked in with primal urgency, and with this bruised, battered vessel, fighting wasn't remotely an option.
Get out. Get out now.
Fueled by adrenaline and pure terror, Caleb forced his foreign limbs to obey. He pushed himself up, his limbs responding with a half-second delay that felt like trying to pilot a faulty machine. The world tilted. With his center of gravity far lower than he was used to, he had to pinwheel his arms just to stay upright. This body felt fundamentally wrong. But somehow, miraculously, he stayed upright. The [Savant of the Body] Impartment whispered its influence, granting just enough coordination to function despite the chaos.
He lunged for the door, movements clumsy and loud. His shoulder crashed into the frame with a sound like thunder, rattling the entire structure as he fumbled with the simple iron latch. Terror made his fingers stupid, slipping on metal slick with condensation and years of grime.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, Thal?!" Rufan bellowed, finally turning.
Caleb caught a glimpse of the man. Greasy and unkempt dark brown hair on a face booze-flushed with fury, bloodshot blue eyes filled with a hate so pure it took his breath away. This wasn't anger. This was something far more dangerous. Something that wanted to hurt.
"Get back here!"
Caleb didn't hesitate. He wrenched the door open and burst into cool morning air that tasted like freedom. The door slammed into the wall behind him with a crack like breaking bones, but he didn't stop to close it. He sprinted, bare feet slapping against stone.
The first three steps were a disaster.
Longer legs. My legs are supposed to be longer.
His mind commanded a stride that this body couldn't deliver, a chaotic scramble of a mind expecting a different center of mass.
Don't fall. Don't fall, crumb, don't fall.
But on the fourth step, something shifted. Some deep, intuitive part of him was already learning, recalibrating. The half-second delay between his mind's command and the body's response began to shrink, the flailing smoothing into a desperate but surprisingly efficient run.
A soft chime resonated somewhere deep in his mind, barely audible over his ragged breathing. Blue light backed silver script flickered in the corner of his vision, impossible and undeniable:
[New Skill Gained: Balance (F) - Novice]
[New Skill Gained: Running (F) - Novice]
The impossible text flared in his vision, a shock so profound it nearly sent him sprawling. What in the world was that? A report card? For running? His mind, reeling from grief and terror, struggled to categorize the impossible. An F. Of course it's an F. The thought was a bitter spark in the overwhelming terror. He could not process it. Not now. He just had to keep moving.
The village street opened before him like a scene from a fever dream. Buildings of dark timber rose two stories high, their roofs capped with a thick, woven material that looked almost organic. As he ran, the strange, earthy scent of them hit him. A memory fragment returned, sharp and clear: Thal, as a small boy, standing under the eaves on a scorching day, cool mist drifting down from the roof above. His mother’s voice. “The spongeroot breathes for us when Aurum is high.” The memory was fleeting, but the sense of remembered relief from an unbearable heat was so real it made him notice the current chill in the air. He pushed the recollection away as he ran on.
Heads turned as the disheveled boy ran past, his flight wild and desperate. Their faces blurred together in Caleb's peripheral vision, but details registered with startling clarity. A woman in pristine white robes marked with golden thread stepped delicately aside, her nose wrinkling in distaste. An elderly man in rough-spun brown tunic and patched leather vest stopped his conversation to watch with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
Near what looked like a shop, a group of adults clustered around their equipment: leather armor reinforced with metal studs, weapons ranging from curved swords to carved staves that hummed with barely contained energy. A woman with fair skin and pointed ears—an elf, his mind supplied with dreamlike acceptance—wore flowing robes in deep purple, her fingers dancing with sparks of actual fire. Magic. Real magic.
Caleb stared wide-eyed. Of course there's magic. It was on the checklist, I'm sure.
They were dungeon delvers. A wave of Thal’s childhood awe washed over him, so potent it almost stopped him. A flash of memory: a warrior's boast, the glint of a reward on a tavern table. The deep, unearned longing to escape twisted in his gut. He tore his eyes away, forcing his legs to move.
Between the buildings, Caleb caught glimpses of the forest that surrounded the village. Towering evergreen trees rose like cathedral pillars, their trunks and branches draped in thick moss and lichens. Mist clung to their bases, softening edges and creating an almost ethereal quality to the wilderness. The forest felt alive in a way that suburban parks never had. Ancient, patient, and vast beyond comprehension.
Lost in the sensory overload of this new world, Caleb failed to watch where his panicked flight was taking him. He ran headlong into something that felt like a stone wall wrapped in leather.
He bounced off, stumbling but somehow managing to keep his feet through sheer momentum and the subtle influence of his borrowed coordination. Looking up, he found himself staring into the stern face of a human man in studded leather armor and a simple steel helmet. A sword hung at his hip, its hilt worn smooth from use. He stood with his feet planted, chin high, gaze sweeping over the street as if he owned every cobblestone.
Town guard. The identification was instant and absolute.
"Filthy shard-scum," the guard snarled, lips curling back from yellowed teeth.
Before Caleb could react, before he could even think to dodge, the guard planted a heavy boot squarely in his chest. The kick lifted him clean off his feet and sent him flying backward into the mouth of a nearby alleyway. He landed hard on damp cobblestones that bit into his back through the thin fabric of his tunic. The wind exploded from his lungs, leaving him gasping like a landed fish. His already bruised ribs protested the new abuse with sharp spikes of pain that made him wonder if something had cracked.
The guard spat, hitching his belt with a smug jerk. "Watch it, dull-ear," he snarled. "The Dominion should've stomped your kind out. Give me a reason to finish the job."
He turned and continued his patrol without a second glance, disappearing into the sparse morning foot traffic as if kicking children was just another routine duty.
Lying on the damp stone, gasping for breath that came in painful, shallow sips, Caleb's mind latched onto the insult with confused focus. Dull-ears?
He reached up instinctively and touched his ears. They felt... different. Higher than normal, narrowed at the top yet still rounded rather than truly pointed. A flicker of memory ignited—not his memory, but somehow present nonetheless. The sting of that word. Other children pointing and laughing. The shame of being different, of being something caught between categories.
Half-elf.
Caleb pushed himself into a sitting position, every muscle screaming protests. He watched the guard's retreating figure until it vanished around a corner. He was alone and exposed on the street, his thoughts a frantic scramble.
He needed to get out of sight. He could feel their eyes on him again, expressions ranging from curiosity to disgust. He needed somewhere to hide, to think, to just breathe without feeling the burden of strangers' judgment pressing down on him.
The dark maw of the alleyway beside him offered grim shelter. Shadows pooled between the buildings, promising concealment and solitude.
He staggered to his feet and turned toward the darkness. A visceral warning shot through him, an instinct that was not his own. It was a powerful, borrowed aversion to the deep shadows ahead. Every muscle in this new body tensed, primed to flee from a threat it remembered, even if he did not.
He paused for only a second. The fear was real, primal and immediate, but it felt distant. His own desperate need for solitude roared louder, drowning out inherited caution with immediate necessity.
Choosing the concrete promise of cover over vague, borrowed danger, Caleb ducked into the alley.
The sudden dimness enveloped him like a cold embrace. Damp, musty air filled his lungs, heavy with the scents of mold and decay. The oppressive silence felt more threatening than the bustling street he'd just fled, as if the shadows themselves were watching, waiting.
He had found his hiding place, but the certainty that he'd just traded one danger for another settled deep in his gut.
