Chapter 1: The Last Commute and a New Dawn

The last thing Mark remembered was the blinding glare of high beams, the screech of tires, and the sickening lurch of metal against metal. One moment, he was Mark Stevens, a graphic designer stuck in rush hour traffic, silently cursing his old hatchback. The next, a violent, disorienting force ripped through him, and then… absolute, profound silence. A void. He expected nothingness, or perhaps the stereotypical bright light at the end of a tunnel. He certainly didn't expect to wake up.

A dull throb behind his eyes was his first sensation, followed by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant, melodic chirping of unknown birds. A strange, earthy scent filled his nostrils, mingled with the sweet, cloying smell of unfamiliar blossoms. He stirred, his limbs feeling strangely light, almost delicate. He tried to push himself up, and gasped. The sound was high-pitched, feminine. Not his voice.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw its way up his throat. He forced his eyes open, blinking against a blurry haze. As his vision cleared, he saw towering, ancient trees, their leaves a kaleidoscope of greens he'd never witnessed on Earth. He was lying on soft moss, beside a babbling stream. He scrambled to his feet, a sudden rush of vertigo making him stumble. He looked down at his hands, and a fresh wave of shock hit him. They were small, elegant, with long, slender fingers. Pale skin, unblemished, but with intricate, dark patterns curling around his wrists. Tattoos. He stared, uncomprehending. These were not his hands.

He stumbled to the edge of the stream, peering into the clear, cool water. The reflection that stared back was not Mark. It was a woman. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful, framed by a cascade of long, silver hair that flowed like liquid moonlight. Her eyes, wide with horror, were not his familiar brown, but a startling, vivid crimson. His body felt lithe, slender, and as he moved, he saw the dark, winding tattoos extend, twisting across her arms and down her legs, disappearing beneath what looked like a simple, dark tunic.

Before he could process this impossible nightmare, the peaceful forest air was shattered by a piercing cry. "There! Another one! Kill the witch!"

A rustle of bushes, and through the trees burst a group of men, faces grim and determined, armed with crude spears and torches. Their eyes, filled with cold, righteous fury, fixed on him. Or rather, on her. The word "witch" resonated with terrifying clarity. They were witch hunters. They wanted to kill him.

Instinct took over. Fear, primal and absolute, seized his new, unfamiliar limbs, propelling them forward. He turned and ran, scrambling deeper into the dense undergrowth, the shouts and the pounding of their boots echoing behind him. Branches whipped at his face, leaves tangled in his long, silver hair, but he didn't stop, fueled by pure terror.

He ran until his lungs burned, until the sounds of the hunters faded into the distant hum of the forest. He collapsed against the gnarled roots of an enormous, ancient tree, gasping for breath. As he slowly regained his composure, a soft, dry voice spoke from the shadows.

"Lost, little one?"

He flinched, scrambling back. An old woman emerged, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her eyes sharp and knowing. She wore a cloak woven with leaves and twigs, and her hands, though gnarled, moved with an ancient grace. There was no fear in her gaze, only weary compassion.

"You're new to this body, aren't you? From the other side." Her voice was soft, yet carried an undeniable authority. "Don't fear. You're safe here, for a moment. But they're always hunting." She gestured back towards the direction he'd come from. "Humans. They rule this world, and they hunt anything that reminds them of what they lost."

He tried to speak, but only a choked sob escaped. "Wh-what… what am I?"

The old woman sat beside him, her gaze piercing. "You are a witch, child. Like me. Your hair is silver, your eyes red, your body marked with the ancient sigils. You've lived long, though you may not remember it yet. You carry the spirits within, and the power of the dark. Welcome to your new life, Elara."

The revelation hit him like a physical blow. He wasn't Mark. He was Elara. And he was a witch in a world that sought to burn her kind. The realization brought not just fear, but a dawning, terrifying sense of destiny.

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