He called me Spera.
The name bounced around my head - totally unfamiliar but weirdly final. I wracked my brain trying to remember who Spera was supposed to be in the story. Blank. Nothing.
The cabin's mirror showed someone else staring back: some pale, gothic-lite girl with dark hair and red lips straight out of a vampire romance. Exactly the kind of character that'd get described as "dangerously beautiful" in bad fantasy novels. And now it was me. Great.
So…am I the bad guy here?
I turned sideways, half-expecting to see some evil aura or creepy long nails. Nope. Just regular me (well, regular new me) in a frumpy wool dress, internally freaking out. Dominic and I looked nothing alike - he's the Witch Doctor, so what does that make me?
What kind of messed-up plot twist is this?
My hands shook as I went through "my" stuff on the bed - a fancy dagger with snake designs, some ancient-looking herbs in a pouch. Right, in the original story the villain tricks the hero into falling down a well and then gets killed. Cool. So just avoid wells and the main character. Easy.
But what if I die here for real? The thought stuck in my throat. I was so lost in panic I almost missed the knock at the door.
Dominic filled the doorway like a human wall, all broad shoulders blocking the light. His smile was weirdly gentle for someone who looked like he could snap me in half. "Made you something. For the shock." He put down a steaming cup that smelled like flowers and dirt.
"Thanks," I mumbled, my voice sounding all wrong in this body.
So many questions burned in my chest: Why am I the villain? Why's he helping me? In the story, Dominic was the guy who accidentally helped the hero win - so why was he looking at me like I mattered?
The cup trembled in my grasp. Answers could wait—survival came first. I drained the tonic in one swift motion and set the cup down with deliberate control. Play the part, stay alive. Dominic's gaze remained fixed on me, unreadable.
"You seem distracted," he murmured, stepping backward toward the door. "I'll leave you to rest." With a soft click, the latch fell into place.
Did I slip up? The thought coiled tight in my chest. Or worse—was that drink more than it seemed? My limbs grew leaden as I shoved my belongings aside, collapsing onto the bed. Darkness swallowed me whole.
Voices clawed me back to consciousness.
"Since when does she trip over rabbits?" a shrill voice demanded.
"I said she might have hit her head," Dominic countered, infuriatingly calm. "After she fell. Face-first."
"That's practically the same thing!"
"Must you all bellow like drunken minstrels?" A deeper voice dripped with disdain.
I edged toward the door, pressing my ear to the wood. How many were out there?
Dominic's sigh carried through the timber. "The tonic will—"
The door flew open—crack!—smashing into my forehead. I reeled backward, landing hard on the floor.
"Spera!"
Stars danced behind my eyelids as I clutched my skull.
"Ow—"
Six voices erupted at once. Six.
I blinked up—and froze. Six men loomed over me, their expressions ranging from concern to exasperation. My pulse spiked. No. No, no, no. Only Dominic's face was familiar—until recognition slammed into me like a battering ram.
The hero's companions.
My throat went dry as I cataloged them:
Garric. A mountain of a man, his golden-brown eyes warm beneath a tousled blond mane. The insatiable glutton who'd out-eaten a giant to win the hero's freedom.
Dryven. All sharp angles and restless energy, his pale eyes glistening with either mirth or tears. The fool who'd drained an enchanted well in one impossible gulp.
Lucian. Violet eyes gleaming with otherworldly perception, silver-black hair perpetually mussed. The scholar whose uncanny foresight had unraveled every ambush.
Dominic. The witch doctor himself, lips pressed thin as he assessed the damage.
Eisvan. A walking winter, his frost-scarred skin and ice-pale hair a testament to battles with elements. The man who'd frozen a lake solid for the hero's escape.
Altair. Grace incarnate, his raven braid swinging as he waved a hand before my dazed eyes. The messenger who flew on wings of legend.
"Spera?" Altair's voice cut through my panic.
"Brilliant work, Altair," Dryven snapped. "You've scrambled her wits!"
Garric thrust three fingers in my face. "How many?"
A hysterical laugh bubbled up. This wasn't happening. The hero's entire circle stood before me—which meant my careful plans to avoid destiny were crumbling down. I need to make sure I am friendly. That I myself also help the hero, so I won't end up dead.