As the woman said, they arrived at a small cabin soon after.

  It wasn’t much — smaller than a house, larger than a shed — tucked neatly between mossy roots and low, glowing ferns. Faint blue spores floated lazily in the air, like fireflies that had forgotten how to blink.

  Lydia lingered at the doorway, clutching her satchel. The scent of woodsmoke and herbs seeped through the cracks, warm and earthy.

  Inside, shelves lined every wall, crammed with jars of dried leaves and stoppered bottles filled with colorful liquids. Books, too — dozens of them — some stacked neatly, others balancing precariously.

  There was a table with three chairs, a small kitchen space, and a brick fireplace where a pot hung simmering gently. A catlike creature lounged on the mantle, its fur dark and sleek, its eyes reflecting the blue of the moonlight filtering through the window.

  “Don’t just stand there. Take a seat,”

  the woman said, shrugging off her cloak and hanging it by the door.

  It was only then Lydia noticed how tall she was — broad-shouldered, her sleeves rolled up to reveal solid arms more suited for a blacksmith than an herbalist.

  If Lydia had seen her in the dark first, she probably would’ve screamed “forest ogre!” and run for her life.

  “Um... thank you?” Lydia murmured, sitting hesitantly at the table.

  The woman poured something steaming into a wooden bowl from the pot over the fire. A pleasant, savory aroma filled the room — meat, herbs, and something faintly sweet.

  “Here, child,” the woman said, sliding the bowl toward her. “Eat. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Lydia stared at it.

  The rational part of her whispered: Stranger. Mysterious potion lady. This is literally how half of fantasy stories start — with the protagonist dying from soup.

  But then her stomach growled, loudly, betraying her.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she muttered and lifted the spoon.

  The first bite surprised her.

  It wasn’t bland like she expected — it was delicious.

  Rich, earthy, and comforting in a way that made her throat tighten a little. Maybe it was just hunger, but the warmth spreading through her chest felt almost magical.

  Meanwhile, her host went about her business, quietly grinding herbs by candlelight. She didn’t speak again until Lydia’s bowl was empty.

  “There’s a spare room through that door,” she said, nodding toward a narrow hallway. “Sheets are clean. Try to sleep.”

  “Ah—thank you again,” Lydia said softly.

  The woman only hummed in reply, returning to her work.

  The room was small but cozy — a bed, a tiny window, and a small chest that looked older than both of them combined. The air smelled faintly of pine and smoke.

  Lydia dropped her satchel beside the bed and sank onto the mattress, staring up at the wooden ceiling.

  It finally hit her, now that she wasn’t moving:

  She was really here.

  No screens. No noise. No deadlines.

  Just crickets, wind, and the faint pop of the fireplace in the other room.

  And yet — the silence made her nervous.

  She turned over. The bed creaked.

  The catlike creature from earlier was perched in the window now, its glowing eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily.

  “You’re... real too, huh?” Lydia whispered.

  It blinked slowly. A tiny, almost judgmental mrrp escaped its throat before it leapt down and padded away.

  “Rude,” Lydia muttered, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  Sleep didn’t come easy.

  Every time her eyes shut, her mind filled with possibilities — dragons, curses, forest spirits, goblin, unknown disease ,etc.

  The moonlight filtering through the window had a faint blue tint, casting long, shifting shadows across the room.

  Each time the branches outside swayed, her heart skipped.

  “It’s fine, Lydia. Totally fine. No one’s watching. Definitely not the creepy tree shadows that look like hands.”

  A floorboard creaked somewhere beyond the door.

  She froze.

  Then came the sound of a cupboard closing, the faint murmur of her host’s voice, and a lazy thump — probably the cat jumping down again.

  Lydia exhaled slowly, tension seeping from her shoulders.

  “Okay. Not a murder cabin. Probably.”

  She rolled over again, trying to find a comfortable position. Her eyelids felt heavy, but her mind refused to stop spinning.

  Was this permanent?

  Would she ever see her world again?

  Her classmates? Her mom?

  She froze mid-thought.

  The room felt heavier all of a sudden, the quiet pressing against her chest. Her mind tried to reach for someone — anyone — to reassure her that she was overthinking again.

  But there was no one. No late-night messages. No voice from the other side of a wall.

  Just her, the shadows, and the unfamiliar warmth of someone else’s home.

  She turned onto her side and pulled the blanket tighter, trying to chase away the chill that wasn’t really cold.

  “It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” she whispered, voice trembling just a little. “Like every night follows every day... it’ll be fine.”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  It was something she’d said before — back when things got bad, when she needed to convince herself the next morning would make sense again.

  Her eyes fluttered shut. The rhythm of her breathing slowed.

  As she finally drifted off, tiny motes of light began to gather around her — faint, gentle, like dust caught in moonlight. They lingered for a few moments, pulsing softly in time with her breath, before fading into the air as sleep claimed her.

  When morning came, Lydia woke to sunlight streaming through the window and the smell of herbs and bread baking.

  The world outside chirped and hummed like nothing had changed — and for the first time since she’d arrived, she wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

  Prior to exiting the room, Lydia ensured her bed was properly made. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of herbs and faint woodsmoke. In the main room, the herbalist was nowhere to be seen, though the fireplace still crackled softly.

  “How careless,” Lydia muttered under her breath, frowning. “Does no one here worry about fire hazards?”

  Her sense of caution eased when she saw the fireplace was surrounded by stone, clay, and a glossy, dark resin instead of wood. Even the mantle seemed carved from a single block of stone. The only flammable things were a few bundles of herbs hung high above the flames, swaying gently in the warm air.

  “Ah… that makes more sense.”

  Satisfied that the woman wasn’t secretly trying to burn her own house down, Lydia straightened up and resisted the urge to touch anything. The shelves were packed with jars, vials, books, and hanging roots — one wrong move and she’d probably cause an explosion or summon a mushroom monster.

  So instead, she quietly stepped outside.

  The morning light hit her like a blessing.

  Dew clung to the grass, the forest hummed with life, and in the distance, just beyond the trees, she spotted movement — a small cluster of rooftops. A village?

  And beyond that, a shimmering expanse of water stretched across the horizon.

  Lydia squinted, catching the glint of sunlight bouncing off gentle waves. The air carried that familiar tang of salt.

  “So that’s where the ocean smell came from,” she whispered.

  For a long moment, she just stood there, watching the light dance across the surface. It didn’t feel real — this strange world with its blue moon and glowing forests. And yet, the breeze brushing against her face, the cool dampness of the earth beneath her feet... it all grounded her in a way she hadn’t expected.

  A sharp stab of discomfort in her lower stomach pulled her out of the moment.

  “Oh no. Oh, come on.”

  Reality, it seemed, didn’t take a break for isekai protagonists.

  After a slightly panicked search around the cabin, Lydia discovered an outhouse tucked discreetly behind a patch of tall herbs. It was... rustic. Very rustic.

  “I swear, if there’s a spider in here—”

  There was a spider in there.

  Several, in fact.

  By the time she stumbled out, she felt she’d faced her first true trial of this new world.

  “First boss fight complete,” she muttered, brushing off her hands as if she’d just won an achievement.

  As she made her way back toward the cabin, movement caught her eye. The herbalist was returning from the forest path, a basket slung over one shoulder and the same cat-like creature trotting at her heels. Morning light revealed her clearly this time — sturdy, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that said she could carry a tree if she felt like it.

  “Well, you’re up early,” the woman called, amusement tugging at her voice. “Did you sleep well?”

  Lydia hesitated. “Define well.”

  The herbalist laughed — a full, easy sound that somehow made the forest feel less daunting.

  “Fair enough. You look less pale than last night, so I’ll call that progress.”

  She set the basket down on a small table just outside the cabin. Inside were bundles of herbs, a few glimmering mushrooms, and something that looked suspiciously like a blue carrot. The cat-thing leapt onto the table, sniffed the vegetables, and was promptly shooed off.

  “Sorry about disappearing this morning,” the herbalist said, stretching her shoulders. “Some plants can only be picked at dawn, before the sun fully rises. I figured it was better than waking you.”

  Lydia rubbed her arm sheepishly. “No, it’s fine. I was just—uh—making sure the house didn’t, you know, burn down.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. “You’re a cautious one. That’s good. Too many travelers in these parts think firewood’s harmless until their hair’s gone up in smoke.”

  “...Right.” Lydia offered a small, uncertain laugh. “So, um, thank you. For last night. And the stew. And not letting me freeze to death in your woods.”

  The woman waved it off. “Don’t mention it. Anyone who collapses that close to the treeline’s bound to get eaten by something if I don’t step in.”

  “Comforting,” Lydia said dryly. “Really selling the tourism industry here.”

  That earned another laugh. The herbalist picked up a bundle of herbs and began hanging them to dry near the door.

  “Name’s Maera, by the way,” she said. “You?”

  “Lydia,” she answered, almost tripping over her own tongue. “Lydia Wren.”

  “Lydia, then.” Maera nodded approvingly. “You’ve got the look of someone not from around here. Where’d you wander in from?”

  Lydia froze for a second. “Uh… far away?”

  Maera smirked. “That narrows it down.”

  “I mean really far away,” Lydia said quickly. “Like... other-side-of-the-planet far. Possibly… another-reality far.”

  That made Maera pause mid-motion, one eyebrow lifting. “Another reality, huh? Interesting way to say you got lost.”

  Lydia groaned. “I’m serious! I—I was just at school yesterday, and then suddenly there was this light and static and salt air, and then boom—forest! No Wi-Fi, no phone, no—”

  Maera held up a hand, cutting her off with a calm smile. “Easy there, deep breaths. Whatever sent you here, you’re not the first confused soul to wander out of the woods. You’ll sort it out in time.”

  “Has that—happened before?” Lydia asked cautiously.

  Maera’s eyes flicked toward the horizon, where the faint shimmer of the ocean glowed through the trees. “A few times. Always after the skies start acting strange. The air’s heavier lately — full of mana. It’s making plants grow faster, beasts meaner. I’ve even seen mushrooms try to bite back.”

  Lydia blinked. “Mushrooms that bite?”

  “Small ones,” Maera said, completely serious. “Still hurt like the devil if they latch onto your boot.”

  “...Noted.”

  The older woman dusted off her hands and gestured toward the door. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat. You look like a stiff breeze would knock you flat.”

  “I—I’m fine, really—” Lydia began, only for her stomach to growl in perfect betrayal.

  Maera grinned. “Uh-huh. Inside. Now.”

  With no room for argument, Lydia followed. The warmth of the cabin welcomed her again, familiar and safe in a way she hadn’t realized she’d missed. Maera ladled out something new from the pot over the fire — this time a lighter broth, fragrant with herbs and something citrusy.

  As Lydia ate, she glanced toward the shelves again — potions, books, dried ingredients. Everything looked purposeful, lived-in.

  This woman clearly knew what she was doing.

  “Maera?” Lydia asked between cautious spoonfuls. “Do you… live out here alone?”

  “For the most part.” Maera sat opposite her, leaning back in the chair. “Village folk come by when they need something brewed or patched up. Otherwise, it’s just me and the cat.”

  Lydia smiled faintly. “He seems... judgmental.”

  “Oh, that’s because he is.” Maera scratched the cat under its chin as it hopped onto her lap, purring. “Don’t let the fur fool you — he runs this place.”

  Lydia laughed softly, tension easing for the first time since she’d arrived.

  When she finally set the bowl aside, full and warm and just a little sleepy again, Maera leaned forward on her elbows.

  “You’ve got good manners,” she said. “Most strangers I find wandering the woods barely remember how to talk. Whatever brought you here, Lydia Wren, I get the feeling the world isn’t done with you yet.”

  Lydia stiffened slightly at that, uncertain whether to take it as comfort or warning.

  “...Right. That’s not ominous at all.”

  Maera’s smile deepened. “You’ll see soon enough. For now, rest. This world has a way of introducing itself — loudly.”

  Lydia swallowed. “That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

  “It’s not meant to be,” Maera said cheerfully, standing to fetch her satchel. “Finish your tea. Then, if you’ve got any sense of balance left, we’ll see if you can tell the difference between a healing root and a poisonous one.”

  “Wait—what?”

  But Maera was already halfway out the door, the cat trotting after her as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

  Lydia sighed, resting her head on the table.

  “New world, new problems. Great start, Lydia.”

  Outside, the morning breeze carried the faint scent of salt again, and for the briefest moment, the light seemed to shimmer just a little brighter around her.