The summer sun bore down on the cracked earth, its light almost white against the dusty brown of the village road. Heat shimmered above the ground, warping the view of the distant hills where the windmills creaked lazily. Children’s laughter drifted faintly from somewhere far away, but here in the middle of the square, there was no joy—only the sharp sound of mocking voices.

Saren stood alone, her back pressed against the rough wall of the grain storage shed. She was seventeen, thin enough that her patched dress seemed too loose for her frame. Her hands gripped the hem tightly as the taunts rained down.

“Look at her,” one boy snickered, tossing a pebble at her feet. “Too weak to even carry a bucket of water, but still eats more than she works.”

“She’s cursed,” another girl said with a smirk. “Ever since her mother died, bad luck follows her. No wonder her father’s sick in bed.”

The words stung, but Saren kept her head down. She had learned long ago that talking back only made things worse. Her father, once a strong farmer, now lay bedridden after a lingering fever left him unable to walk without pain. Since then, the family’s small plot had withered—half from neglect, half from the poor soil that had been exhausted long ago.

The village was unforgiving. Those who couldn’t pull their weight were left behind, and kindness was a luxury few could afford. Saren’s mother had been the only one who defended her, but that was before illness took her two winters ago. Now, Saren faced the world alone, except for the quiet presence of her father in their small hut.

The group finally grew bored, scattering like dust in the wind. Saren stayed still for a moment longer, staring at the deep cracks in the ground. Her chest felt heavy, not from their words, but from the quiet truth—they were right about one thing. She was weak. No matter how hard she tried to fetch water, weed the fields, or barter at the market, she could never keep up. And with her father’s condition worsening, she didn’t know how much longer they could survive.

By the time she returned home, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows over the withered stalks that once promised harvest. Inside, the air smelled faintly of herbs. Her father lay on the bed, his breathing shallow but steady.

“You’re late,” he murmured, a gentle smile breaking through his tired face.

Saren forced one back. “I stayed to fetch more water. The well’s running low.”

He didn’t need to know about the bullying. He never did.

Later that night, as the moon rose pale and distant, Saren sat outside, hugging her knees. The sky stretched endlessly above her, stars peeking through the haze. She wondered what it would feel like to live somewhere the soil was rich, where people didn’t go hungry, where a girl like her could be more than just a burden.

She never noticed the shadow moving at the edge of the path, or the faint rustle of boots on dirt. Not until it was too late.

The night air was cold enough to bite. Saren’s thin shawl clung to her shoulders, its frayed edges trembling in the breeze. Her bare toes curled into the dry dirt as she tried to hold in the warmth of her body. She stared at the stars, letting her mind drift to far-off lands—places where bread was soft, where water didn’t taste of rust, where people looked at her without scorn.

A twig snapped.

She stiffened. The sound came from behind, faint yet distinct against the quiet of the night. She turned her head slightly, eyes scanning the dim outline of the path. No one should be out here at this hour—most in the village were long asleep.

Another sound—boots brushing against loose soil.

Her heart quickened. She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her dress. “Who’s there?” she called, her voice small but steady.

Silence answered her. The moonlight pooled across the path, revealing nothing but the outline of the grain sheds in the distance. She sighed, thinking she had imagined it. But when she turned back toward her small home, laughter—low, mocking—broke the stillness.

From the shadows emerged Lira, the miller’s daughter, flanked by two others. The same three who had tormented her that morning.

“Well, look at this,” Lira said, stepping closer. “The little stray thinks she owns the night.”

Saren took a step back. “I don’t want trouble.”

“Oh, but trouble wants you.” Lira’s tone dripped with amusement. One of the girls shoved Saren’s shoulder, making her stumble. “Still weak as ever.”

They circled her like wolves. She knew she should run, but her legs felt rooted to the spot.

“I heard your father’s worse,” Lira said casually, almost smiling. “Maybe if you were worth anything, you could afford the medicine he needs.”

Saren’s lips trembled. “Stop…”

“Or what? You’ll cry?” Lira’s hand shot out, grabbing the shawl from Saren’s shoulders and tossing it into the dirt. “Pathetic.”

The first shove was hard enough to make her knees buckle. She tried to right herself, but another push sent her staggering into the grain shed wall. Pain shot up her arm.

One of the girls picked up a rock. “Bet she’d run if we really scared her.”

“Do it,” Lira said.

The first stone struck her back. The second hit her ribs. She gasped, the air knocked from her lungs.

And then Lira stepped forward, gripping a jagged piece of broken pottery from the ground. “Run, Saren,” she said, her voice cold. “If you can.”

Saren turned, but the blow came fast—a sharp stab to her side. Fire exploded in her stomach, the world lurching sideways. She fell to her knees, clutching the wound, warm blood seeping between her fingers.

The laughter stopped. For a moment, there was only the sound of her own ragged breathing.

Then the girls ran—footsteps fading into the night, leaving her alone.

Her vision blurred. The stars above smeared into streaks of silver as she sank onto her side. Each breath was shallower than the last. The cold earth pressed against her cheek, and the scent of distant rain drifted on the wind.

Her last thought was a wish—just one more chance, somewhere else, to live without being hunted by cruelty.

And then—nothing.

---

Somewhere else, far from the dusty village…

A woman sat hunched over a desk, surrounded by stacks of reports and maps. Her sharp eyes scanned the parchment in front of her, filled with data on soil acidity, crop yields, and irrigation patterns. Her name was Elena Reyes—an agricultural and fisheries expert whose life revolved around fixing what others thought was beyond saving.

But on this night, her world ended in an instant. A sudden pain tore through her chest, white-hot and blinding. She gasped, clutching at her shirt, papers scattering to the floor. She couldn’t breathe—the air felt thick, her vision tunneling.

Before she could cry for help, her chair tipped backward. Her body hit the floor, the ceiling lights above fracturing into shards of color. The pounding of her heart slowed… and then stopped.

Everything went black.

Then—light.

Elena’s eyes flew open, but she was no longer in her office. A heavy weight pressed on her chest, and the ground beneath her was rough, cold… and wet. She smelled dirt and iron, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. Her limbs were weak, trembling.

When she looked down, she saw small, thin hands stained red. The wound in her stomach throbbed sharply—and the realization hit her like thunder.

She wasn’t in her own body anymore.

The pain was the first thing she understood.

It pulsed hot and deep in her side, every throb pushing her closer to the edge of darkness. Her fingers—too thin, too small—pressed desperately against the wound, but no matter how much pressure she applied, the warmth kept spilling through them.

Elena’s mind screamed this isn’t possible, but her body… this frail, alien body… was dying.

She tasted blood in her mouth, coppery and sharp. The cold dirt beneath her cheek was rough, and the night air slid icy fingers down her back. The sky above spun in dizzying arcs, stars blurring into streaks of light. She remembered falling from her chair, the crushing weight in her chest, the fluorescent lights in her office—then nothing—until this.

Where am I? Whose hands are these?

A shadow moved above her. Torchlight flared, briefly revealing three frightened faces. Not the mocking sneers she’d expected, but wide-eyed horror. A boy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“She’s—she’s still breathing!”

Another voice, sharper, older. “Go get the healer! Hurry!”

Boots pounded away, fading into the distance.

Elena tried to speak, to tell them she wasn’t who they thought she was, but only a weak gurgle escaped her lips. She tried to push herself upright, but her limbs gave way instantly. The effort made the pain explode white-hot in her side, and her vision swam.

Rough hands—calloused from labor—slid under her shoulders. A man’s face hovered above, jaw tight, eyes scanning her wound. His clothes were plain: a linen tunic, worn leather belt, trousers dusted with dry earth.

“She’s lost too much blood,” he muttered. “We’ll have to carry her.”

Two sets of hands lifted her carefully, but the movement tore a cry from her throat. Her head lolled against a stranger’s chest as they moved through the dark. The flicker of torchlight revealed narrow dirt paths lined with squat houses—walls of rough timber, roofs thatched with straw. Chickens scattered at their approach, clucking in protest. The air smelled of smoke, damp earth, and something faintly rotten.

Her mind spun. This isn’t the city. This isn’t anywhere I know.

They pushed through a low wooden door into a dimly lit space that seemed both home and shelter. A fire smoldered weakly in the hearth. Wooden shelves lined the walls, holding clay jars, bundles of dried herbs, and a few crude tools. A low table sat in the center, its surface scarred by years of use.

They laid her on a straw mattress. The sharp rustle and the faint scent of hay made her stomach twist. A woman hurried over—middle-aged, hair pulled back in a loose braid, her dress plain but clean. She knelt beside Elena, hands steady as she peeled back the blood-soaked fabric.

“Gods above…” the woman whispered. “It’s deep.”

Elena tried to focus, but her eyelids drooped. Her thoughts tangled—half her mind screaming in disbelief, the other half trapped in the reality of this frail body’s pain.

The woman pressed a folded cloth to the wound, firm but gentle. “Stay awake, Saren. Stay with me.”

That name again. It rang in her ears like a bell she didn’t want to answer. She wasn’t Saren. She was Elena Reyes—an agricultural specialist from a world with concrete buildings, irrigation systems, and solar panels. But here… here she was bleeding out in a stranger’s bed, surrounded by people who thought she was someone else.

Her breathing slowed. The fire’s light blurred. Somewhere in the haze, she caught snatches of their hushed conversation—words like village, drought, poor harvest, healer’s away.

And then, as her mind fought to hold on, something strange happened. A wave of warmth washed through her—foreign, yet comforting. The sharp pain dulled just enough for her to breathe. The room around her sharpened, every detail clear: the soot on the hearth stones, the cracks in the clay jars, the frayed ends of the woman’s braid.

Her heart pounded. She didn’t know if she was dying or waking up. But one thing was certain—she wasn’t in her world anymore.

And whoever this Saren had been… her life was now Elena’s to live.