Green-gold flame devours the world.

A wave of heat and force blows past my hiding spot and scorches away the lichen coating the forest floor. I feel the shockwave in my bones and see the canopy shudder and catch fire. The tree behind me creaks and strains, but it holds. I hear an awful splintering as another tree is not so lucky, and I try to make myself even smaller against my shelter.

The shockwave passes, but the strange green fire clings to blackened dirt and patches of moss. The canopy above, still blazing, rains embers and ash on the forest floor. The fire is spreading, and soon my shelter will catch.

I stumble away from the tree that saved me and spare a glance back toward the stairwell, or what remains of it. There’s a wrecked pit where the stairwell once was, and around that pit the soil is scorched and the fire burns bright emerald. No going back.

I stare at the ruins as I back away, and then fury replaces self-preservation and I scream my frustrations to the canopy of leaves. “A FUCKING EXPLOSION!? WAS THAT REALLY FUCKING NECESSARY!? I nearly die to a bastard with a knife, I have to limp around that horrid little school with an injured leg, my very polite request gets mocked, and then you blow it all up!? When I find you, you little shit, I’m going to–”

My petulant whining dies in my throat when I see the first monster.

Imagine that someone took a dog and stretched it like taffy until it was in the rough shape of a giant spider, legs and all. A fluffy fur coat covers the bulbous back half of its body and the flattened front, and the fur continues onto eight segmented legs that twist up before coming back down and ending in horrible little stumps.

The face is the worst part: a cramped cluster of eight watery dog eyes, a squashed nose, shrunken ears, and jutting mandible-fangs that obscure its mouth. It is, in a word, hideous. And there are more of them crawling into view from deeper within the forest, moving toward the source of the shockwave…and circling around the inferno to come straight for the idiot girl who was making so much noise.

I think I might be incapable of learning from my mistakes, I muse.

Less self-deprecating, more running! We are not getting eaten by tarantula-mutts!

I sprint away from the flames and the horrible spider-dogs, and as I run I hear a chorus of very tarantula-like hissing rise up from behind me. I keep my gaze firmly focused on the path in front of me, watching for every bit of root and moss that might slow me down or trip me. I dodge and weave and I don’t dare look back.

And yet, despite the sense of urgency, I’m still not afraid. I understand rationally that I need to run because getting caught and dying would be bad, but all I feel is adrenaline and focus. Normally just errant consideration of my own mortality is enough to send me into a near-panic attack, but now I’m in mortal danger and I am not afraid.

Something is wrong, and I think I know who–or what–to blame.

I can hear the hissing getting closer as I make my winding path through the trees. Adrenaline gives me momentum but my legs are already burning and I curse my frail body for what feels like the dozenth time today.

Dirt, root, moss, dirt, just run, just keep running. If I stop moving, I die. Behind me, one of the hissing noises gets sharper and then falters. I find an even path in front of me and chance a quick look behind. The tarantula-dogs are still skittering toward me at top speed, but one of them is pulling itself off the ground, spidery legs all mixed up and being slowly untangled.

Flashbulb: they have legs like spiders, so they move like spiders, which means they’re clumsy like spiders!

I fix my gaze forward and start charting a new path, aiming for every bit of uneven terrain I can hit. It’s risky, but I have to bet that the spider-mutts will be clumsier than I am.

I clamber awkwardly over a giant root, crest a bump in the dirt, and nearly slip on a damp patch of moss, but the monstrous chorus behind me stops getting closer. Dodge that branch, jump that root, steady footing on the lichen. Run, run, keep running.

My breath is coming harder now, each gasping inhalation setting fire to my lungs, but after the way my day started this is only mildly torturous. I fight to keep one foot in front of the other no matter how loudly my body complains about mistreatment. Pillows and blankets for a whole day, I promise it. Every soft object I can find all piled in a nest, and pajamas if we can wrangle them. Just gotta keep moving a little further.

More sounds of spidery frustration reach my ears, and the noises are getting further back now. They’re losing ground, falling behind. I can do this. I can survive this.

My luck runs out.

I’m too slow cresting a root and my foot catches on it, sending me tumbling to the ground. I have just enough presence of mind to keep the knife angled away from my own body–it would be utterly humiliating to die by my own weapon–but I still hit the dirt hard and lose what breath I had left in my lungs. The shock of it keeps me pinned to the soil for precious seconds I can’t afford to burn, desperately trying to suck in air, and when I finally draw a good clean breath I scramble to push off the ground before the monster can catch up, but I’m too late.

The tarantula-dog skitters over the root I tripped on and swoops down at me with those giant fangs. I don’t have time to think; I duck low and lunge at the monster’s soft underbelly with my knife, aiming at what passes for a neck on its hideous misshapen body. One of its fangs gouges my arm and I scream at the fresh shock of agony, but my blade finds purchase in its flesh.

The monster rears back and hisses angrily at me before I can rip my knife out. Shouldn’t you be in excruciating pain!? Fucking die! I desperately want my weapon back but I can’t waste this opportunity, so I bolt before it can come crashing back down.

I run through the woods, clutching my injured arm and blinking away the tears that are welling up in my eyes. Pain pulses with every step, every motion, and my exhaustion is mounting. The adrenaline keeps me going but it won’t last forever, and I am so tired. I can’t do this much longer. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

I take another step and the ground that was there a second ago vanishes, and then I’m falling.

I hit a slope and roll, keep rolling, all the way into water. I slip below the surface for an instant but the water is shallow and my hands find a bed of pebbles to push off of. I rise out of the water on hands and knees and stumble to my feet.

I look around wildly and find my surroundings have changed abruptly once more; where there was an endless forest before, now I’m standing in a rocky creek that stretches to the horizon both upstream and downstream. The water is crystal-clear, or was before my blood got mixed in. The slopes to either side of the river are steep but not so steep as to be impassable, and beyond those slopes I can see trees that sway with the breeze. The leaves are lighter in color than those of the canopy before, universally so, and the bark is lighter and smoother.

Above, I can finally see the sky: it’s clear and blue and utterly cloudless, and there’s not a trace of any sun. There seems to be light, at least; I could see just fine in the school and the forest but there was a coldness to the lighting, and now everything is cast in warm, pleasant tones. But there’s no sun.

This place just keeps getting weirder. The tarantula-dogs come skittering and tumbling over the ridge of the slope, which really only heightens my indignation at whatever bastard god built this hell-world.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth through the pain. I can’t outrun them. I can’t fight them. But I will be damned if I die before giving this crappy world and its shitty maker a piece of my mind. Maybe a tiny measure of my burning hatred will stick in my tormentor like a splinter, or a thorn, or a shard of broken glass.

“Come at me!” I scream. “Rip and tear! Kill me, eat me, send me to whatever sick god put me here so I can spit in her face!”

The first monster dips a leg into the water and a flaming arrow–green flame, not orange or red–sends it flying back with a furious hiss. I blink, stunned, and stare as arrows strike the second, third, fourth fifth sixth–all of them take perfect shots and are slammed against the dirt slope by the force of the projectiles.

The tarantula-dogs still twitch and struggle despite the arrows embedded in their vital parts. These things just won’t die. I hear the snap of fingers, and an instant later the entire slope erupts in that familiar green-gold flame.

They don’t die quickly, even with all the flame pouring in. They struggle and scream and writhe, and the flame writhes too; green fire pours past mandibles into mouths and builds, the glow of flame visible through stretched-out skin, until it explodes from the inside. The spider-dogs are torn apart from within, and the last horrible hiss fades as a dozen charred corpses lie in pieces on scorched earth. There is a second finger-snap, and the flames vanish.

What just happened? Magic? Definitely magic. Fire magic. Green fire magic. Just like the flames in the forest.

I hear footsteps from behind and whirl to see a pointy-eared redheaded hunter in a scarlet-trim fur cloak swaggering down the far slope. He’s got a quiver on his back, and an unstrung bow painted red-and-gold rests in the quiver. His features are too sharp, almost predatory, and the obnoxious smirk plastered on his face makes him look like a genuine grade-A asshole.

His glowing orange eyes entirely ignore me as he marches over the creek. The bastard’s gold-embroidered hunting boots don’t even get damp as he walks on water to reach the other side of the stream, and here I am with my everything soaked through. Little flames dance across the surface of the water as he passes, all of them green.

Fucker’s got a theme, that’s for sure. Elf or faerie. Is there a difference in this setting?

The elfy type strolls into the middle of the slope of charred corpses and holds his hand out, waves it in an arc, then brings it to his mouth and swallows. I don’t see anything enter his mouth, but his eyes glow a little brighter in response to some invisible stimulus.

He sniffs disdainfully at the messy assortment of dead spider-dogs. “A pitiful meal.” His voice is deep and throaty, but the tone is pure arrogance.

“Hey!” I shout in his direction as I stomp through the creek in my soggy shoes and soggy socks and soggy everything. “You piece of shit, you used me as bait!”

The maybe-fae turns at my exclamation and his eyes burn orange-gold as he shoots me a withering glare. “Watch your tone, little girl. Prey animals should know their place and be grateful for the charity of their betters. I did not have to save you from an excruciating death.”

I get right up in his face and poke his chest with my finger, finding his richly-detailed tunic oddly soft. Is this bastard actually wearing silk armor? Fucking what? “You used me as bait! I’m not an idiot, I recognize that fire. It’s the same fucking color as the fire that blew up the school. You know, the school I was right outside? You lured the monsters right to me with that flare, which makes all of this,” I gesture to my bloody arm wound and drenched clothing, “your fucking fault!”

He sneers down at me–he’s actually tall enough to do that, which is an unusual occurrence given that I’m 6’2”–but he doesn’t draw a weapon or burn my head off. “As if I would notice a gnat like you. I cannot be blamed if you happen to get in the way of my hunt. Accept that you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and be grateful I deigned to save your worthless life.”

I curl my lip and sneer right back. “If I’m beneath your notice then you weren’t really saving me, now were you? I just happened to get caught in the way of your hunt. So are you lying about saving me, or are you lying about not using me as bait? Either way you’re twisting the truth.”

This is such a gamble. He could kill me just for being impudent, but if he’s a fae and fae have rules here then I might be able to weasel some kind of debt out of this.

His eyes narrow but he doesn’t counter my retort, so I push my luck and insist, “Grievances are owed, for reckless endangerment if nothing more. Do you not respect your debts? Or are you a creature without honor?”

In a flash there’s a sword at my throat, and I idly note the unique design: it looks like a hunting sword, short and straight and single-edged, but the blade shines in all the hues of sunset and the golden cross-guard is shaped into a breathtaking facsimile of leaves and branches. A truly beautiful weapon.

The hunter is less pleasing to look at, his eyes smoldering with barely-contained rage. A vein pulses on his forehead. “You would dare impugn my honor? You mock a Rider of the Wild Hunt, a Huntsman hand-picked by the Wolf-Queen herself. Recant, or I will stain this river with your blood.”

I meet his gaze and let the frustration I feel drip from my every word. “In the past few hours I have been stabbed, bitten, soaked, and nearly blown up. I know which of us is in the wrong. If you want to make me recant, then fucking make me.”

Those glowing eyes blaze bright and I’m already composing the tirade I’ll throw at this world’s god when I meet her, but he still doesn’t kill me. The fire goes out, leaving an altogether more curious light in his eyes, and for the first time he really looks at me. His gaze lingers on my hair longer than the rest of me–the hairpin, maybe–before snapping back. “You know I am more than capable of killing you. Are you truly not afraid to die at my hand?”

“Do I seem afraid?” And I’m not. I should be, I really should be, but I’m not. Why am I not scared? I have diagnosed thanatophobia and I’m mouthing off with a blade at my throat. I should be a gibbering wreck incapable of stringing words together beyond pleading for my life, but instead I’m talking shit to a fucking fae.

“...No, I don’t taste even an ounce of fear from you. What a strange little creature you are.” He snorts and sheathes his sword in a fancy scabbard I’m only now noticing. The Huntsman shakes his head and scolds, “There is little pleasure in hunting a beast that does not know the fear of death. Killing you would be a waste of a curiosity. I will entertain your accusations, mortal. For petty slights, a petty concession will be afforded.”

I rub my throat and consider the offer. What I need is more than petty. For all his fire and fury earlier, he actually seems more intrigued by my boldness than offended by it. Let’s see how far we can push that. “Alright. Dry me off.”

The Huntsman raises a solitary eyebrow.

“I’m sodden. My socks are soggy, my stupid uniform is soaked, and I’ve got notebooks in this bag that are undoubtedly suffering severe water damage right now. You’re a big strong faerie with badass fire magic, can’t you dry me off without burning me?”

Annoyance creeps back into the Rider’s voice as he says, “Is that really what you would ask of one who rides with the Wild Hunt? My patience has limits, even for curiosities.”

“You offered a petty concession, so I made a petty request.” I give him my best worst look of innocence and flutter my eyelashes.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “My Queen would like you, curiosity.”

“Thank you,” I preen. “I’m very likable.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Oh. “I’m choosing to interpret it as one regardless. Consider it death of the author.”

The Huntsman sighs. “Oh yes, she would like you very much. [Controlled Flame].” He snaps his fingers and a wave of heat washes over me.

Okay, um, the fuck was that? Did I hear that right? Are we in litRPG territory now?

I shake out my clothing and find it all perfectly dry. A quick glance inside the glittery pink abomination shows that the contents are unharmed, even the notebooks! I zip it back up and grin, though a spike of pain from my arm makes me wince. Okay, we should deal with that soon, but we have a healing potion so it’s not a big deal.

“Thank you, Huntsman. You can consider my grievance addressed.”

“But I suspect,” the Rider leads, “that you are not done taking up my time.” He crosses his arms and looks down at me through half-lidded eyes. “Speak your piece, mortal.”

Deep breath. Okay. “I want to make a deal.” Faeries like deals, that just has to be true.

Golden eyes sharpen. “Do you, now?”

“I don’t know where I’m going, and I need to. I need a compass, or something like a compass, that can lead me to where I need to be. Something that can find what I tell it to find, even if I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

I had contemplated asking for a taste of fire magic or maybe some kind of travel magic, but the former won’t help me leave this weird place and I don’t know any destinations for the latter. A magic compass won’t help me fight, but the potential resource gains vastly outweigh anything else I could bargain for. I have to think long-term here.

The Huntsman laughs at me, a full-bellied chuckle that reverberates through the air. When the laughter stops, he asks me, “And who are you, child, to risk your life for sodden socks and make such brazen demands of a Rider of the Wild Hunt?”

I straighten up and smile with teeth. Okay, okay. Just like we’ve rehearsed a hundred times in the mirror. This is our moment. “I am the girl who will do whatever it takes to seize her ambitions. It is my nature to push at limits until they or I break. I will have all the world, Huntsman, or I will have nothing at all. My hunger is boundless and unceasing.”

The Rider smirks. “What prideful words. But can you back them up? What could you offer me, famished little girl? What do you have to bargain with that I could not take by force?”

I roll my shoulders, match his smirk with my toothy grin, and reply, “My name. I’ll sell you my name.”