Ethan sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of what must have once been someone's home. The wooden beams above him creaked whenever the wind passed through the broken shutters, and the smell of damp earth and rot clung to everything. His new leather bag lay beside him, its sturdy straps already more comforting than the flimsy plastic grocery bag he had been dragging around until now.
But his eyes weren't on the bag. They were fixed on the stack of old books spread before him.
He ran his hand over the cover of one. The leather was cracked, almost brittle, but the faded markings pressed into it were unlike anything he had ever seen. The script curved and spiraled like flowing vines, elegant yet unreadable. He flipped the pages carefully, afraid they might crumble if handled too roughly.
It was useless. He couldn't understand a single word.
"Why am I even bothering?" he muttered to himself. His voice sounded strange in the silence, swallowed quickly by the heavy stillness of the abandoned village. "This isn't a movie. I'm not going to suddenly learn some ancient language just because I stare hard enough at it."
And yet, he kept staring.
The truth was, he couldn't help it. Somewhere deep inside, his mind whispered the possibility that these books held answers—about the world, about the creatures, maybe even about how he had ended up here in the first place. He had already survived longer than he thought possible, but food, water, and shelter were only part of the equation. If this was really his new reality, knowledge would be more valuable than anything else.
He leaned closer to the page. His eyes narrowed as he traced a line of script with his finger. The curves almost seemed to shimmer faintly in the light seeping through the cracks in the wall. His rational brain told him it was just his tired eyes playing tricks on him. Still, the air seemed charged, like the faint tingle of static when you rubbed a balloon against your hair.
"Come on," he whispered, half mocking himself. "If this were one of those novels, this is where I'd discover my magic."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Except this isn't a novel. This is real, and real life doesn't work that way."
But his hand didn't stop moving. Almost without realizing it, he copied the shape of the markings into the dirt floor. His finger dragged carefully, forming loops and lines. It wasn't perfect, but it was close.
The air seemed heavier.
He frowned and sat back. His heart quickened, not with excitement but with caution. His mind screamed at him that he was being stupid. He didn't know what he was doing. What if these weren't just letters? What if they were symbols—rituals? He remembered the way the earth itself had shifted when that monstrous creature roared back in the forest. Magic. It had to have been magic. And if magic was real here, then what he was doing might be dangerous.
"Don't be an idiot, Ethan," he muttered, forcing himself to lean away. "You're not some chosen one."
He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, and paced the room. His stomach growled, reminding him that his last meal had been small. He should be focusing on rationing food, on finding clean water. Not on scribbling shapes he didn't understand.
But the pull was still there.
Against his better judgment, he crouched again and stared at the crude symbol he had drawn. His hand trembled as he extended a finger toward it. He wasn't even sure what he expected—nothing, probably. Maybe he'd feel foolish and move on.
But when his fingertip brushed the final curve of the mark, something happened.
A tiny spark leapt between his finger and the dirt.
It was no bigger than the static crack you'd get from touching a doorknob in winter, but it was real. His breath caught in his throat. The faint smell of ozone lingered in the air, sharp and electric.
Ethan jerked back so fast he nearly toppled over. His eyes widened, locked on the fading trace of light in the dirt. His heart hammered against his ribs, and sweat broke out across his forehead.
"That… that didn't just happen," he whispered, his voice shaky. "It couldn't have."
He pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, trying to calm himself. But when he looked again, the faint scorch mark was still there, proof that he hadn't imagined it.
Magic.
The word echoed in his mind, impossible yet undeniable. He had just made something happen—something that defied every rule he had grown up with.
For a long time he sat frozen, torn between awe and fear. On one hand, it was everything a part of him had secretly hoped for since arriving here. On the other, he remembered the earth-shattering power of that beast in the forest. If that was magic, then whatever he had just touched was like playing with fire in a room full of gasoline.
And fire spreads.
Finally, he wiped his hands on his pants and forced himself to think rationally. "It was small," he told himself. "Just a spark. That doesn't mean I know what I'm doing. It doesn't mean I can rely on it."
He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. "If I keep messing with this, I might get myself killed. I need to be careful. One test is enough. For now."
Still, he couldn't help the faint, almost reluctant smile tugging at his lips. Despite all his fear, despite all his denial, he had touched something impossible. For the first time since being thrown into this world, he felt a flicker of hope.
Not certainty. Not power. Just possibility.
That night, when he lay down on the rough floor of the abandoned house, he kept the books close by, his fingers brushing against the cracked leather covers as if to remind himself they were real. Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was filled with restless dreams—of sparks, of fire, and of a world that suddenly seemed much larger and far more dangerous than before.