Logan blinked his eyes open. He was glad he still had eyes but having a head wasn’t so great. A migraine banged away on the inside of his skull.

Where in the hell was he? What happened?

Things were sort of hazy in his head. He remembered teeth, glowing purple tentacles, and a single large eye. Was it a nightmare maybe? It wouldn’t be the first.

Surviving Iraq often meant nightmares.

He glanced down and saw he was sitting on a padded leather chair with ornate wooden armrests. For reasons he couldn’t even begin to guess at, he wore a rough-spun cotton tunic. At least he wasn’t naked. Everything felt strange enough as it was.

The place smelled like lemon oil and wood polish. Brass lanterns hanging from the wall cast the room in a soft light. It kind of looked like a waiting room, but this was no doctor’s office. This reception area belonged in a fantasy novel—sort of medieval, from the stone floors, to the long ebony tables, to the brass lanterns attached to the corners of the square room. Four tapestries covered the walls: a snarling blue dragon, a crimson phoenix in flight, a crystalline tiger ready to pounce, and a gleaming black tortoise with chin raised high.

The blue dragon tapestry curled up, as if on its own, and a heavy door, impossibly tall and covered in brass rivets, swung open. Something strolled in. And it was definitely a something, not a someone, since it wasn’t even remotely human. It was a giant tree creature, at least eleven feet tall, wearing flowing robes, blue cloth with gold runes. Guy had a very wizardly look about him. A light-green mossy beard swung from a creased and weathered face made of bark. His nose was a sharp branch. Wild green grass, full of flowers, sprouted from his head. Golden specks floated in curiously bright blue eyes.

Logan was beyond flabbergasted. He didn’t know if he should fight or run.

The wizened old tree man noticed Logan’s sweat.

“Be calm, Logan Murray,” the creature said, his voice deep and sage. “I’m Headmaster Shadowcroft, and you are safe.” As he spoke, swirls of colorful light filled the air, settling over Logan like a cloud of pollen. Had those lights come from the flowers on Shadowcroft’s head?

Suddenly, Logan felt strangely at ease, his worry melting away in an instant. Had the tree wizard just done something to him? Sedated him somehow? The thought seemed curiously unimportant and drifted away. Instead, Logan found himself thinking about the name. Shadowcroft. That named seemed familiar.

The tree-like wizard continued with a nod. “That’s better. Should be a little more at ease. Now, I’m sure you have many questions, Mr. Murray, the first of which is usually… where am I? I do appreciate that you aren’t yelling, shrieking, or weeping. I get that a lot.” He paused and frowned. “It is very sad. But you seem to be taking your death in stride. Quite remarkable, all things considered.”

The words stopped Logan cold. Taking your death in stride. No, that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t be dead. He was here. Sitting here. Alive. Yet, he couldn’t forget the feel of slashing teeth and curling tentacles. Couldn’t forget the creature looming over the top of him.

“You’re wrong,” he said flatly, gripping the ornate armrests in a white-knuckled grip. “I can’t be dead if I’m here.”

Mossbeard sniffed. “Nonsense, Mr. Murray. Of course you can. I restored your corporeal form when you transitioned across the soul barrier—though I really should’ve removed your glands. Mammalian perspiration is rather repugnant.” He wrinkled his nose in clear distaste. “Regardless of your state, I would like to welcome you to the Shadowcroft Academy for Dungeons. We are the finest dungeon core academy in the entirety of the Ashvattha.”

Logan shivered. “That’s where I’ve heard that word before. Shadowcroft. Okay, I’m definitely not going to play any more pawnshop video gaming systems.” He blinked and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. Then it hit him. “You Jumanji’d me… Or it’s sunstroke,” he muttered to himself. “Probably sunstroke.”

“You’re talking to yourself,” Shadowcroft said gently. “If you talk directly to me, I can give you answers. As long as there is no weeping. I detest the weeping.”

“No weeping,” Logan agreed numbly. He just sat there for a beat, replaying everything he could remember about the day. Firing Tyler… Digging posts… Feeding the pups… Beating Shadowcroft… That… that thing unfolding from the box and tearing after him down the hall. “This is a dream, right?” he finally said. “I must’ve hit my head. Or fallen asleep. Bad chicken? That chicken was from Thursday—definitely could’ve been the chicken. Or maybe too much time inhaling the fertilizer in my garage. There has to be a way to explain this.”

Shadowcroft shook his head. More glowing pollen leaked from his skull-flowers. “No, no, nothing of the sort. I can assure you, Mr. Murray, this is no dream. Nor is it a fantasy. This, my intrepid young student, is all quite real. Which segues nicely into the second question new recruits usually have. How did I get here?”

Memories hit Logan like a five-pound sledge. “The crazy monster thing. The video game frickin’ ate me.”

“Ah. Yes. That would be the mimic.” The headmaster nodded sagely as though this should all make perfect sense. “Hopefully, your transition didn’t hurt too much.” He paused and frowned. “Those mimics can be overzealous at times, I fear.”

“Wait.” Logan recalled the teeth and blood in grisly detail. “Are you telling me you sent that thing to eat me?” he growled, leaning forward in his seat, hands balling into tight fists.

“Well, not you personally, please understand. But someone with your skills, yes.” Shadowcroft’s moss-covered face split into a grin. He had white wooden teeth. “If you’ll kindly follow me, I’ll explain why.” He motioned toward the open door, previously concealed by the rolled-up dragon tapestry.

Logan rose from his seat to stand on unsteady feet. He froze. He had both his legs. Both legs and no pain. Despite what ol’ Mossbeard said, this had to be a dream. He didn’t particularly care right then. He was simply glad not to be hopping around.

He remembered waking up in the hospital, at the medical base. The first person he’d seen was Dave Baker, his command sergeant major. Sergeant Major Baker worked for the Battalion and was a good man—he’d come in to check on Logan and to tell him the bad news. Baker had a high-and-tight haircut, a scar splitting his lips, and steel-gray eyes. Baker was a straight shooter and he gave it to Logan straight as an arrow. Logan had lost his left leg below the knee. An IED—improvised explosive device—attack outside of Al-Fallujah. He’d get a purple heart, sure, but it would come with a medical discharge. He was also up for a Bronze Star.

And Logan would get it if the sergeant major had any say.

No one in his unit would ever forget what Logan had done. The weird thing was, Logan felt his leg, and he kept wanting to scratch his nonexistent toes. The idea he was missing a limb hadn’t seemed as harsh as being discharged. He’d leave both Iraq and his friends without finishing the job. It was a hard idea to take.

In the medieval waiting room, Logan stared at both his feet. It was as surreal as feeling the itch of a phantom limb.

Sergeant Major Baker, ever blunt, had said Logan shouldn’t waste a moment second-guessing himself or what he’d done. He said plain as day that Logan should value the rest of his limbs as well as his life because it was precious. Not every soldier got to go home with a heartbeat.

Logan swore to himself that he wouldn’t let his injury ruin his life.

Sergeant Major Baker was exactly right: living in regret would kill him.

Yet, if this was real and not a) food poisoning or b) some kind of fever dream, then that meant his whole life was gone. Unless… unless the tree guy could send him home. Was that possible?

Logan didn’t know, but he was glad his dogs were outside and they had plenty of water. It would save on the carpet cleaning.

Shadowcroft sighed—it sounded like wind rustling through pines. “Perhaps I was wrong in my initial assessment. Clearly, the transition is going to be hard on you after all. I can’t blame you, Mr. Murray. You come from a severely backward planet with an extremely limited understanding of the universe. To call it myopic is the understatement of the century.”

Traveling overseas, Logan was used to defending the United States. Now, he had to defend his whole world, and he was up for the task. “Slow your roll there,” he said, holding up his hands. “Earth is better than whatever this place is. For example, on my planet it’s considered bad manners to murder someone. So don’t come at me, talking about backwards.”

They stood in front of the doorway.

The moss-bearded tree man stooped down to speak. He smelled like spring flowers. “My apologies, Mr. Murray. I did not mean to give offense. I’m merely speaking from an analytic standpoint. Please, tell me of the awe you have for your world. I do so like it when creatures show pride in their homes.”

Logan raised his chin defiantly and stared Shadowcroft right in his twinkling eyes. “What’s not to be in awe of? Until you’ve seen the sun rise over the Atlantic or set over the Rockies, you ain’t seen shit. We have people—good people who care for each other. People that are willing to risk their lives for one another, to shelter those that need it, to serve others even at the expense of themselves. We have nurses, police officers, firemen, and soldiers who would give you the shirt off their backs. Earth is a place of dreams and dreamers. And best of all, we have cold beer and dogs, so I think that it’s you who are backwards.”

Shadowcroft was silent for a moment. “Perhaps you will do well here after all. It seems, perhaps, that I was mistaken about you. Now come. I can appreciate you taking a moment to enjoy both of your two fleshy leg stalks.”

“Fleshy leg stalks.” Logan said each word carefully.

Shadowcroft walked on long, skinny tree trunks with twigs and leaves poking out here and there.

In a haze, Logan followed the tree man into a plush office.

The carpet was soft under all of Logan’s ten toes. Unlike the waiting room, the office had wooden floors, as polished as the walls. Stained-glass windows showed different forests in a variety of seasons, though each had a domineering central tree. The ceiling was a dome thirty feet above his head. More stained glass decorated the peak. Shelves stood against the walls stuffed full of books, statues—even a sword or two. A crystal figure danced on a nearby table, swaying her gemstone hips to silent music. On another table was a rose in a vase, only the rose had a face, complete with fangs, and leafy fingers.

The rose flipped him the bird then chuckled, which made its petals shake.

Logan smiled. He’d always thought roses were overrated. He wasn’t even remotely surprised by the flower’s obscene finger gesture.

A gigantic chair, circled in ivy, grew out of the floor behind a vast desk. The desktop was a map, showing a circular island that floated in the clouds. To the north was a desert, then mountains, then a lake, with swamps to the southeast and a massive forest to the west. The details of the map were flawless—it almost looked like a video screen.

Behind the ivy chair, on a pedestal all its own, floated a crazy crystal several feet long and at least a foot wide. Glyphs, runes, and images appeared on the facets. It rotated, flashing constantly, like a beacon.

Shadowcroft took a seat on the ivy throne. He gestured to an equally green chair in front of the desk. The wood looked soft. Those green leaves, though, made Logan nervous. He could imagine them snagging him, securing him so the tree guy could torture him.

The headmaster appraised him with his ageless blue eyes, so interesting with those flecks of gold. In those eyes were patience, wisdom, and understanding—sometimes one of Logan’s dogs would look at him like that. Anything that had a dog’s eyes should be trustworthy. So, after a moment of hesitation, Logan took a seat, the ivy leaves moving so he wouldn’t crush them.

“So, let me get this straight. You sent a mimic to kill me. Is that right?”

“No. Not at all,” the headmaster said. “We sent it to recruit you.”

“Did recruiting me involve murdering me?” Logan replied, feeling a dull fury burning inside him.

Shadowcroft considered the question, brows knit. “Well, I suppose if you looked at it in a certain light it might appear that way. But what is one death when balanced against all of reality, hmm? This is an honor. You have been chosen, Logan Murray. Chosen to fight in a battle older than the universe itself.”

That sounded a whole lot like murder with extra steps. Logan clenched his teeth, thinking about what kind of monster would do such a thing to him. What kind of asshole would deploy a supernatural assassin to kill a civilian noncombatant in the sanctity of his own home? Suddenly, he was pissed, and Shadowcroft seemed to know it.

“Please, Mr. Murray. Let us not be hasty.”

“You were awfully hasty in murdering me,” he spit back.

“There is more going on than you see. Than you could ever begin to imagine. There are thousands of worlds, young one, all connected to the Ashvattha, the Tree of Souls. You come from such a world, however distant, and we need you to help save the universe.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “You have about two minutes to spell this out for me in plain English before I get out of this chair and rip your arms from your body and beat you with ’em. Now tell me in the hell all of that means.”