Bound by Blood and Magic: My Journey Through a Dangerous Otherworld

The trail behind Rowen's apartment wound through a patch of woods so unremarkable it could hardly be called scenic. The same gravel crunch beneath her sneakers. The same skeletal trees reaching toward a washed-out sky. It wasn't a postcard, but it was hers—a lifeline of stillness after days spent glued to a monitor, brainstorming slogans for toothpaste or gluten-free pancake mixes.

Today was no different. Her headphones blasted a playlist she'd curated for mindless, repetitive tasks. She hummed along under her breath, her steps matching the beat as she navigated the winding path with the ease of muscle memory.

At least, it should have been no different.

Rowen stopped mid-step, tugging out one earbud. Her brow furrowed as she scanned the woods. Something was… off.

The path didn't fork here. It never had before.

Yet ahead of her, a narrow, unfamiliar trail carved through the dense underbrush, marked by jagged roots and brambles. It was as though the forest had suddenly decided to grow a secret.

Rowen hesitated, her pulse quickening.

She shouldn't follow it. That was the rational choice. A well-worn trail meant safety, predictability, no risks. But the new path tugged at her, the way a locked door or a half-finished story always did.

"Well, this is probably how every horror movie starts," she muttered, sliding her phone into her pocket and stepping cautiously off the main trail.

The further she walked, the quieter the woods became. The usual background hum of cicadas and distant traffic faded into an eerie silence, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves underfoot. She glanced over her shoulder, a nervous habit she couldn't shake.

It wasn't long before she saw it: the oak tree.

It stood in the center of a small clearing, ancient and gnarled, its roots snaking through the earth like veins. Its trunk was wide enough to dwarf any tree she'd ever seen, its bark weathered into patterns that resembled jagged scars.

And there, glowing faintly against the bark, was a symbol.

Rowen stepped closer, her breath hitching. The glow was subtle, like moonlight catching frost, but something about it stirred a strange, electric hum in her chest—faint but undeniably real. The symbol was intricate, made of interlocking curves and sharp points, like something out of a fantasy novel. It pulsed faintly, as if alive.

"What the hell…?"

She reached out before she could second-guess herself, her fingers brushing against the glowing mark.

The air shifted.

It was as if the world had exhaled all at once. The clearing seemed to tilt under her feet, and she staggered backward, clutching at the nearest root for balance. The wind picked up, whipping her ponytail into her face, and the light from the symbol grew brighter, blindingly so.

Then came the pull.

It wasn't physical, not at first—it was a pulse deep within her, a jolt that seemed to crackle through her veins. The air around her rippled like water, distorting the forest. Before she could scream, she was yanked forward, her body dissolving into that impossible glow. And then she was falling—falling into light, into silence, into something that wasn't the woods anymore.

When the pull stopped, Rowen hit the ground hard, gasping and blinking against the sudden dimness. Her ears rang, and her body ached as if she'd just gone ten rounds with gravity.

The first thing she noticed was the smell: earthy, rich, and sweet, like freshly turned soil and blooming flowers. The air felt heavier, thicker, buzzing faintly against her skin.

She wasn't in her woods.

Massive trees surrounded her, their trunks glowing faintly with the same ethereal light as the oak's symbol. Their leaves shimmered, catching and reflecting light from a sky that wasn't quite day or night but some surreal, shifting in-between.

"What the actual…" Rowen whispered, her voice trailing off as she turned in a slow circle.

"Stop moving."

The voice was low and sharp, cutting through her disorientation like a knife.

Rowen froze, her eyes darting toward the source.

A man stepped out from behind one of the glowing trees, his figure silhouetted against the otherworldly light. He was tall—taller than anyone had a right to be, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence that made her feel immediately, acutely small. His dark cloak swirled around him as he moved, the silver clasp catching the faint light.

His eyes, crimson and unrelenting, pinned her in place.

"Stay where you are," he said, his voice cold and precise. "You shouldn't be here."

Rowen's heart hammered in her chest. She tried to speak but couldn't quite find her voice. Finally, she managed a weak, "I could say the same about you."

The man raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something—amusement, irritation?—crossing his face. "And yet, here we are."

Rowen swallowed hard, eyeing the man warily. "Who even are you?"

"Dryanden," he said, his voice smooth and unhurried. "And you are?"

"Rowen," she replied cautiously. "Not that it matters. How did I get here?"

Dryanden's expression didn't shift. "You woke it."

Rowen nodded reluctantly. "Um, what?"

"You opened a seal. It answered to you."

"A what now?" She stuttered out.

Dryanden sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course. You have no idea what you've done."

Rowen bristled, her fear giving way to irritation. "Okay, maybe try explaining it instead of glaring at me like I just hit your pet."

That earned her another raised eyebrow, but this time there was no mistaking the faint curl of his lips. A smirk.

"You've seem to have entered a realm that is not your own, am I right?" he asked, his tone measured.

"Yes but…. a seal?" Rowen asked.

"The seals connect the realms. They're ancient, meant to remain dormant until someone strong enough—or foolish enough—touches them. By activating it, you've drawn yourself into Vireth, a realm that answers to magic. Magic that, I suspect, you didn't even know you had." he said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah that's because magic isn't real!" She snapped before taking a calming breath, and trying to gather herself. "Okay. Great. Fine. What does that mean?"

"It means," he said, taking a step closer, "that you've just painted a target on your back."

Rowen swallowed hard, her sarcasm faltering under the weight of his words.

"Stay close to me," he said, his voice dropping to a quieter, almost dangerous tone. "The forest is not safe at night."

Before she could protest, a low, guttural growl echoed through the trees.

Rowen's breath caught, and she turned toward the sound, her fingers tightening instinctively on her phone—though what good it would do, she had no idea.

He stepped in front of her, his posture shifting into something impossibly still, like a predator sizing up its prey. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword, and when he spoke again, his voice was a cold command.

"Don't move."

The growl rumbled again, closer this time, and Rowen felt a chill crawl up her spine. Whatever was out there wasn't small—and it wasn't friendly.

Dryanden didn't move. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword, his body a study in controlled tension. For a moment, Rowen wondered if he was more statue than man.

"You're really good at the whole dramatic silence thing," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. "But maybe a little context here? Like, what's growling at us, and how fast can I run from it?"

His eyes flicked to her, and even in the dim, shifting light, she could see the faintest glimmer of exasperation. "You're not running. That would only make you an easier target."

"Target for what?"

The growl turned into a snarl, and Rowen flinched as something massive moved in the shadows. She barely had time to process the flash of glowing yellow eyes before Dryanden shifted in front of her, his cloak billowing as he drew his sword.

The blade caught the faint light of the trees, its surface etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly. He held it steady, his stance perfectly balanced, as if he'd done this a thousand times before.

"Keep behind me," he said, his voice low and steady. "Do exactly as I say."

Rowen opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of heavy footfalls silenced her. The creature emerged from the shadows, its fur rippling like smoke caught in moonlight. Its glowing yellow eyes burned with an unnatural hunger, its snarl reverberating through the clearing like a growl from the abyss.

She took an involuntary step back. "That… is not a dog."

"It's a shadehound." Dryanden said dryly.

The shadehound circled them slowly, its movements deliberate, its glowing eyes fixed on Dryanden. For a moment, Rowen thought it might pounce, but it stopped short, its nose twitching as if sniffing the air.

Then its gaze shifted—to her.

"Uh, is it supposed to be doing that?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

Dryanden's grip on his sword tightened. "It senses the magic you have. You're a threat to it."

Her chest tightened as the creature's glowing eyes locked onto her. Magic? She didn't even believe in it, but the hound clearly did.

"Me? I'm not a threat! I don't even know how to use it!"

"Try telling that to the hound."

Before she could respond, the shadehound lunged. Dryanden moved faster than her eyes could follow, stepping into the creature's path and slashing his blade in a smooth, precise arc. The hound yelped as the sword struck its side, dark, shadowy blood spraying across the forest floor.

The creature staggered but didn't retreat. Instead, it snarled again, its movements more erratic, as if the wound had only enraged it.

Dryanden stood his ground, his sword gleaming faintly in the dim light. "It won't stop until it's dead. Stay where you are."

Rowen didn't need to be told twice. She pressed herself against the nearest tree, her backpack pressing into her back, her fingers digging into the bark as she watched the fight unfold.

The shadehound charged again, faster this time, its claws raking the ground as it leapt toward Dryanden. He sidestepped effortlessly, his cloak sweeping behind him as he struck again, this time aiming for the creature's throat. The blade met its mark, and the hound let out a final, piercing howl before collapsing in a heap of shadows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Rowen's legs felt like jelly, but she forced herself to move, stepping cautiously toward Dryanden, who stood over the creature's remains. The hound's body was already dissolving, its dark form breaking apart into wisps of smoke that drifted upward and vanished into the night.

"Well," she said, her voice shaky, "that was horrifying. Is this… normal here?"

Dryanden wiped his blade on the edge of his cloak before sheathing it with practiced ease. "For the forest, yes."

Rowen stared at him. "You say that like it's supposed to be comforting."

"It's not."

"Great. Good talk."

Dryanden turned to her, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly. "You're remarkably calm for someone who just entered a world that wasn't their own, let alone encountered a shadehound."

"Calm?" Rowen let out a nervous laugh. "I'm barely holding it together. But freaking out doesn't exactly help, does it?"

For the first time, Dryanden seemed to hesitate, as if reevaluating her. Whatever conclusion he came to, he didn't share it.

Instead, he gestured toward the path ahead. ""If one found you this quickly, others will follow. The hound won't be the only one drawn to you."

"Drawn to me? Why? And while we're at it, why were you just hanging out behind that tree?"

"Because of your magic, do try to keep up," he said, already walking. "It awoke something in you. That's why it pulled you here—you've carried magic, buried deep, without knowing it. And you can consider yourself incredibly lucky that I was just passing through on my way home when I felt your magic."

"Yeah, okay, sure. You were just passing through." Rowen hurried to keep up, her sneakers crunching loudly against the forest floor. "But you keep saying 'magic' like that explains everything. I touched a glowing tree. Why does that suddenly make me monster bait?"

Dryanden stopped abruptly, and Rowen nearly ran into him. He turned to face her, his expression colder than before.

"Because magic is the foundation of this world. It connects everything—places, people, power. By touching the seal, you didn't just open a door—you lit a smoke signal. And trust me, you don't want the things that answer to come looking."

Rowen opened her mouth to argue, but the weight of his words sank in, and she closed it again.

"Magic isn't something you can walk away from, not once it's woken. And here, it'll draw things to you. Creatures, people—things you're not ready for."

Her stomach twisted. "So, what? I'm just supposed to live with a giant target on my back?"

"No." Dryanden's gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. "You're supposed to stay close to me. I can keep you alive."

Rowen frowned. "You're awfully confident for someone who nearly got eaten by a giant shadow wolf."

Dryanden smirked faintly, his first real hint of humor. "I wasn't in danger."

"Sure, because cockiness totally repels monsters."

"Keep it up, and we'll see how well sarcasm works on the next one." he said smirking, turning back toward the path.

Rowen jogged after him, but unease prickled at the back of her neck. She glanced back at the clearing, half-expecting to see those glowing yellow eyes again.

Instead, the massive oak tree stood quiet, uncaring.

Her gaze dropped to the symbol. Its glow pulsed softly, steady as a heartbeat. A strange chill curled in her chest, the rhythm unnervingly in sync with her own.

"Dryanden?" she called, her voice unsteady.

He didn't stop walking. "Don't fall behind."

Rowen hesitated, the faint hum in her chest growing louder, more insistent. She flexed her fingers, half-expecting to see sparks. Whatever she had done, whatever she had touched, it wasn't finished with her yet.

She tore her gaze from the glowing mark and hurried after him, her footsteps echoing in the unnatural stillness.