Alex Okoye’s fingers rattled across his laptop keyboard like an old typist hammering a broken machine-gun. The glow from three browser tabs painted his glasses: one with a walkthrough for a complicated fantasy RPG, another with a debate thread titled “Why Heroes Are Idiots”, and the third with a list of scholarships he would never apply for.

The scholarship page mocked him. “Be a leader. Save your community. Inspire others.” Alex snorted. “Yeah. Be a hero. Get stabbed in the back. No thanks.”

His room was small and hot, Lagos dusk pressing against the window like molten glass. A fan wheezed in the corner, barely keeping the air moving. The only things he’d splurged on were his laptop and a shelf stacked with fantasy novels—elves, magic, reincarnation, antiheroes who outsmarted kings. That was the life he wanted. Not noble, not self-sacrificing—clever.

He clicked back to the debate thread and typed: If you really got sent to a fantasy world, playing the hero is suicide. Use your brain. Make deals. Control the board.

He grinned at his own words and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Ten ways to outwit elves,” he muttered. “I should turn this into a book.”

His mother’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Alex, come and eat.”

“In a minute!” he called back. He hit save and leaned back in his chair. The screen flickered. For a moment he thought NEPA had struck again, but the light outside was still on.

Then came the screech. Tyres on asphalt. A thud like a door slamming. He barely had time to twist in his seat before something white and heavy crashed through his window.

Pain bloomed. Not the sharp kind from cutting yourself on a tin, but a spreading, crushing pressure that drowned out thought. His chair tipped. Glass and metal screamed.

Figures, he thought dimly. Die in a random accident. No hero’s death. Not even a decent story.

Darkness swallowed him.

He opened his eyes to wind. Sweet wind, cool and fresh, carrying scents he had never known: wildflowers, wet earth, the faint musk of animals. He inhaled greedily.

“Hospital?” he croaked. But the word came out wrong, high-pitched, like a squeaky toy.

His body felt… off. Heavy in some places, light in others. He tried to sit up and toppled forward onto four legs. Hooves clacked against stone. His head was low, his vision wider. Wool brushed his face.

“What the—” he tried again.

“Baa,” said his mouth.

He froze. Slowly he lifted one foreleg. Hoof. Black, shiny, split. He stared at it, then at the tuft of cream-coloured wool spilling into his peripheral vision.

“No,” he whispered internally. “This is not happening.”

The landscape was impossibly vivid. Rolling green hills under a sky the colour of lapis. Trees with silver leaves whispered in a breeze that carried a hum of power. Magic. He could feel it buzzing like static across his skin—no, his fleece.

A sound drifted from somewhere beyond a stand of trees. Musical, sharp, half-whispered words in a language he had memorised from game wikis. Elvish.

He ducked automatically, heart hammering. The voices grew clearer.

“…the marked beast…” one said. “The oracle was right.”

Marked beast? Alex glanced down at himself. Beneath the wool on his chest a faint blue glow pulsed, like a tattoo carved in light.

His mouth tried to form a curse; only a low bleat came out. But inside, something else stirred—an edge of excitement.

Elves. Magic. Prophecy. And me, a lamb.

He crouched lower in the grass, forcing his breathing to slow. Time to stop playing hero.

The voices on the other side of the trees came closer. Alex crouched until his belly brushed the grass, ears swivelling instinctively to catch every sound. His new body moved with a strange combination of clumsiness and instinct; part of him wanted to bolt downhill, another part wanted to freeze.

Through the silver-leafed branches he glimpsed them: three figures, tall and slender, with hair like poured gold and skin that caught the sun. Elves. Real, breathing, bow-carrying elves. Every game, every book he’d ever consumed had prepared him for this moment, but his heart still jack-hammered.

They wore dark green tunics and light leather armour. One knelt and pressed a palm to the earth as if feeling its pulse. Another scanned the horizon, eyes glowing faintly. The third held a staff carved with runes, its tip glimmering.

“The mark moved here,” the staff-bearer murmured. “It’s close.”

Alex clamped his mouth shut to keep from bleating. Mark? Do they mean me? He edged backward a few inches, hooves sinking into soft soil.

He’d written countless forum posts about what he’d do if thrown into a fantasy world. Now he had to actually do it. The first rule of survival: information before action. Let them talk.

“They say it will be born among the beasts,” the kneeling elf said. “But this—this feels different.”

“They also said it would be clever,” the one with the bow added. His eyes flicked towards the grass where Alex hid. “Clever enough to hide.”

A flicker of amusement cut through Alex’s fear. Compliment accepted. But the blue glow beneath his wool pulsed faster, like a heartbeat. He pressed his foreleg over it, trying to smother the light.

His mind raced. Play dumb animal? Run? Approach? In all his games, elves were beautiful but dangerous—masters of magic, suspicious of outsiders. A lamb with a glowing rune might look like a prophecy or a sacrifice.

The staff-bearer straightened, eyes narrowing. “There,” he whispered.

Alex bolted.

His body launched forward without warning, hooves drumming the ground, fleece bouncing. Wind tore at his ears. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity: his first minutes in a magical kingdom and he was already running for his life as livestock.

A flash of light scorched the grass where he’d been. A spell? He zigzagged instinctively, trying to make himself a harder target. His legs moved faster than he thought possible, a four-beat rhythm that kicked up dirt and flowers.

Okay, he thought, I’m fast. That’s something. Use it.

He darted downhill and into a thicket of silver-leaf trees. Branches slapped his fleece but didn’t slow him much. Behind him the elves’ voices rose—commands, incantations. A gust of magic whooshed past, flattening the grass.

He skidded to a halt at a creek. Clear water rushed over stones, sparkling like liquid crystal. On the opposite bank the forest thickened into shadow. He hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then he leapt.

For a terrifying moment he thought he’d misjudged; his front hooves hit the far bank but his back ones slipped. He scrambled, wool dragging in the water, and hauled himself out, dripping. The cold shocked him awake.

He stumbled into the shadows under the trees. His lungs heaved; his heart thundered. He pressed himself against the rough bark and risked a glance back.

The elves stood on the other side of the creek, watching. The staff-bearer lowered his glowing rod. “Let it go,” he said. “The river’s border wards will hold it for now. We’ll find it again.”

The bowman frowned. “It moved like no beast I’ve seen.”

“That’s because it isn’t just a beast,” the staff-bearer replied. “And if the oracle is right, it will come to us on its own. Curiosity always wins.”

They turned and melted into the silver-leaf forest, their footsteps soundless.

Alex let out a long breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Water dripped from his fleece in tiny rivulets. His hooves trembled from exertion but also from excitement.

Elves. Magic. A glowing mark. And they thought he was clever. Not some helpless animal. A player on the board.

He lowered his head and laughed silently. I’m not going to be their pet prophecy. I’m going to figure this world out first, then decide who uses who.

A rustling above interrupted his thoughts. He looked up. Two yellow eyes peered down from a branch—a fox-like creature with feathered ears and a tail tipped in fire. It blinked slowly, then spoke in a dry, amused voice.

“You run well for a lamb,” it said.

Alex’s jaw dropped. “Baa?” he managed.

The creature tilted its head. “Your tongue isn’t ready yet. But your mind is awake. Good. Follow me before they send hunters.”

It leapt to another branch, tail flaming brighter, and vanished into the trees.

Alex stared after it. A talking fox-thing with fire. Of course. Why not.

He shook himself, water spraying from his wool. His instincts screamed to stay hidden, but his curiosity—and his antihero instincts—whispered: Information before action. If the creature knew what he was, he needed to hear it.

He stepped into the shadowed path where the fox had gone.

The forest deepened, trunks twisting like frozen waves, moss glowing faintly underfoot. Alex padded after the fox-creature, trying to be quiet. Each step made a soft thud, hooves slipping on roots slick with dew. He still felt ridiculous: a high-schooler’s brain in a lamb’s body, sneaking through an enchanted forest at the heels of a flaming-tailed guide.

The fox moved like liquid fire, weaving between branches, never disturbing a twig. Occasionally it glanced back, as if measuring Alex’s resolve. After a few minutes it dropped from a branch and padded along the ground beside him. Its fur smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.

“You’re slower than I expected,” it said in a voice like rustling leaves.

Alex startled. He had been thinking words but not expecting to hear them in return. “I… can you understand me?” he whispered — and was surprised to hear his own voice: low, rough, more a growl than a bleat. The sounds weren’t human, but the meaning travelled anyway, like thoughts wrapped in sound.

The fox’s ears twitched. “Good. The mark quickens your tongue. You’ll be speaking clearly by moonrise.”

“The mark?” Alex asked, glancing at the blue glow beneath his fleece.

The fox’s eyes glimmered. “You wear an old sign, little one. The elves have been searching for it since before your kind learned fire. They fear it, yet crave it. It’s a key to an ancient vault — and a weapon.”

Alex’s heart thudded. Weapon. Vault. Key. It sounded like every fantasy RPG rolled into one. “And what do you want with it?”

The fox smiled without showing teeth. “To see if you’ll survive long enough to use it. Most don’t.”

A cold thrill ran through Alex. He had always imagined himself as the hero in these worlds, but something about the fox’s tone ignited a darker ambition. They think I’m a prophecy. They think I’ll come to them. What if I don’t? What if I decide the game’s rules?

He raised his head, meeting the fox’s gaze. “Then tell me how to survive.”

The fox flicked its tail. “First rule: don’t trust elves. Second: don’t trust me either.” It leapt onto a fallen log. “But if you must learn, you must begin at the ruins.”

It trotted off again, and Alex followed, hooves crunching dried leaves. “Why me?” he asked after a moment. “Why a lamb?”

The fox chuckled. “A vessel must be underestimated to pass unnoticed. A lamb can walk into places a wolf cannot. You were chosen because you think like a hunter inside a prey’s skin.”

Alex chewed on that. A hunter in a prey’s skin. Antihero, not hero. He could live with that.

They climbed a ridge where the trees thinned and sunlight poured through. Below, a valley opened — a scar of stone and vines, scattered with marble pillars broken like teeth. Ruins sprawled across it, humming faintly with a power Alex felt in his hooves.

The fox sat, tail curling around its paws. “Down there,” it said. “Old knowledge sleeps. Take it before the elves do.”

Alex stared at the ruins. They looked both inviting and deadly, like a puzzle designed for someone just like him. He felt the blue glow under his fleece pulse faster, as if urging him on.

Behind him, somewhere far away, a horn blew. The sound rolled over the hills like thunder. The elves were moving again.

Alex turned to the fox. “Then let’s not waste time.”

It bared its teeth in a grin. “Good. Perhaps you’ll be interesting after all.”

It bounded downhill. Alex followed, heart hammering, mind already calculating. He wasn’t the helpless nerd anymore, not the sheep to be herded. He was the one holding the key. And for the first time since waking in this body, he felt something like power.