Dead Reckoning

Chapter 2: A Hero in the Making (Sort of)

The new world was far too green.

That was Rory's first impression as she stood at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a valley that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a tourist's Photoshop fever dream. Rolling hills, dense forests, and a river that sparkled like it had something to prove wound through the landscape. Even the birds seemed to sing in harmonious intervals, as if this was their moment to shine, and the whole scene screamed Look at me, I'm fantastical.

Rory squinted against the sunlight. "So... this is it?"

The stranger, standing just beside her and looking utterly at ease in this new setting, gave a small, nonchalant shrug. "This is where you start."

"Start what, exactly? A farm? Because that looks like farmland," she muttered, gesturing to the peaceful scenery below. "Where are the dragons and the sword fights?"

"Oh, they're there." His voice was all-too amused, again. "You just have to go looking for them. And if you ask nicely, they might come to you."

Rory shot him a sideways glance, already regretting her decision to trust a man who looked like a celestial Instagram model. "Right, because asking a dragon to burn me alive is really high on my to-do list."

The stranger only smiled, a mysterious curve of his lips that managed to both reassure her and make her question his sanity. "It's all part of the adventure. Speaking of which—" He paused, turning toward her with that same unsettling, amused calmness. "We never really got to do formal introductions, did we?"

Rory blinked. "I guess not."

He stepped closer, his presence commanding yet effortless, as though the very air bent to accommodate him. He extended his hand, the pale skin catching the light in a way that made it seem otherworldly, even though they were technically on the same plane now. His dark brown eyes gleamed with the same dangerous curiosity he'd shown at the gates.

"Cassander. God of the Afterlife. Keeper of souls, purveyor of second chances... among other titles." He let the words hang in the air, his lips curving into that smile again, the one that made Rory feel like she was missing a joke.

She hesitated, then took his hand. His grip was warm, firm, and—unsettlingly—familiar. "Rory," she replied, her tone dry. "Mortal. Vending machine victim. Not exactly in the market for second chances, but here I am."

He chuckled, a low, melodious sound that seemed to vibrate through the air. "You may find, Rory, that second chances are often thrust upon those least expecting them."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure how much I trust a guy who shows up after a freak vending machine accident." She released his hand, folding her arms across her chest. "You didn't strike me as the reincarnation type, Cassander."

"Did I not?" His tone was light, playful, but there was a depth in his gaze now, a quiet intensity. "And what did I strike you as?"

Rory stared at him for a beat. What did he strike her as? Certainly not the stereotypical grim reaper, not with those perfect cheekbones and the air of someone who'd probably been a deity since the dawn of time but somehow never dealt with anything as mundane as death.

"You look like an ad for cologne," she said bluntly.

Cassander's lips quirked again, but he said nothing. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, he conjured something from the air. A small, shimmering orb hovered between his fingers, its surface swirling with faint images she couldn't quite make out. He held it out to her. "Your first task."

"Let me guess, fetch quest?" Rory took the orb gingerly, as if it might explode. Which, given how things had been going so far, wasn't entirely out of the question.

"Something like that," he said, turning away with an amused smile. "Think of it as a tutorial. Head to the village just beyond those trees." He gestured to a path winding down from the cliff. "Find the mayor. He'll tell you what you need to do."

Rory stared at him, then back at the orb, then back at him. "You're seriously not going to give me any more details than that?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Cassander shot her a wink, and before she could protest further, he added, "I've given you enough. You've got your mission—and your armor." His gaze shifted briefly to the pile of discarded gear at her feet.

Rory followed his eyes, and her expression soured. Lying there in the dirt and grass was what could only be described as the least impressive set of armor she had ever seen. Calling it armor was generous. A mismatched set of leather pieces that had clearly seen better centuries, a rusty sword that looked like it would snap before it cut anything, and a shield that might have been a large dinner plate in another life.

She knelt down, poking the sword with a frown. "You've got to be kidding me."

Cassander chuckled softly. "You'll fit right in."

"Fit in with what? A troupe of traveling jesters?" Rory picked up the sword, which was heavier than it looked, and gave it a half-hearted swing. It made a sad whistling sound through the air, like a wind chime trying too hard.

"Well, everyone has to start somewhere." He stepped back, folding his arms as though watching a particularly entertaining show. "It's a good look for you."

Rory rolled her eyes, slipping the belt and scabbard around her waist and fastening the leather tunic that didn't quite fit right. "Yeah, I look like a medieval thrift store exploded on me."

But despite her grumbling, there was something oddly satisfying about strapping on the gear. Maybe it was the feeling of doing something outside of the ordinary, or maybe it was just the fantasy nerd in her that couldn't help but be a little excited. She gave the shield a dubious look before slinging it over her back.

Cassander stepped forward, brushing a piece of grass off her shoulder in an annoyingly casual gesture. "You'll need to find your footing quickly. This world isn't as kind as it looks."

Rory raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."

With one final amused glance, Cassander turned away. "Remember, Rory, this world tests everyone differently. Some find strength, some find fear. Which will you find?"

Rory opened her mouth to respond with something clever—probably sarcastic—but Cassander vanished before she could get the words out, disappearing in a shimmer of light, leaving her standing there with her ill-fitting armor, a sword of questionable value, and way more questions than answers.

"Great," Rory muttered, stuffing the orb into a pouch on her belt. "This is totally fine. I've died, been reincarnated, and now I'm on some kind of magical scavenger hunt. Nothing weird about that at all."

The path leading down the cliffside was surprisingly smooth, almost like it had been designed specifically for new adventurers who hadn't yet learned how to walk in bulky armor. Rory descended cautiously, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword like it might spring to life at any moment. Every rustle in the bushes, every distant bird call made her twitch, half-expecting something to leap out at her.

But nothing did. Not yet, anyway.

The village appeared after a short trek through the trees, a quaint little cluster of cottages with thatched roofs and chimneys puffing out smoke. It looked like something straight out of a postcard—charmingly picturesque and wholly unsuspecting. A few villagers milled about, dressed in simple tunics and trousers, going about their day as though they weren't living in a world where dragons apparently existed.

Rory paused at the entrance, glancing down at her cobbled-together armor. "Okay," she muttered to herself, "just act natural. You belong here. Sort of."

She walked into the village, trying her best to look like someone who totally knew what they were doing. It was going well, too—until she tripped over an uneven cobblestone and nearly face-planted in front of a group of children playing with a wooden ball. One of them stared at her with wide eyes, before whispering loudly to his friend, "Is she supposed to be a hero?"

Rory shot them a glare as she straightened up. "Yes. Yes, I am."

The kids exchanged looks and snickered.

This was going to be a long adventure.