3 Worlds, 3 Gifts, and 3 Races for You to Choose

The truck's horn blares, a deafening roar that snaps my head up too late. Tires screech on wet asphalt as the massive grille fills my vision. My body, honed by years of spy training, twists instinctively, but the impact crushes everything—ribs snap, vision fractures into red streaks, and the world dissolves into cold silence. I float in ...

The truck's horn blares, a deafening roar that snaps my head up too late. Tires screech on wet asphalt as the massive grille fills my vision. My body, honed by years of spy training, twists instinctively, but the impact crushes everything—ribs snap, vision fractures into red streaks, and the world dissolves into cold silence. I float in endless white, weightless, my mind sharp despite the void. No pain lingers, only clarity. A figure materializes before me, radiant with folded wings and eyes like polished silver. An angel, straight out of half-remembered briefings on psy-ops cults. "Your death was an error," it says, voice echoing softly. "A clerical oversight in the ledger of souls. To redeem the balance, I offer rebirth. Choose a world: medieval fantasy, where humans forge empires amid persecuted elves, subjugated orcs, and warring tritons; a futuristic realm of Pledian deceivers and Gray invaders; or a lawless Wild West of bounty hunters and land thieves. From each, select a race or lineage. And claim three gifts from these powers." A list shimmers in the air—regeneration, intelligence, mind reading, invisibility, strength, speed, telekinesis, intangibility, luck, time stop. My spy instincts kick in, calculating odds. Fantasy suits my gadgeteering skills; medieval shadows hide knives and secrets best. No time for hesitation. "Medieval fantasy world. Human boy—strong family, adaptable. Gifts: full retention of my past life. Shadow manipulation for travel, shaping, and altering darkness. And the ability to become a living shadow, draining energy to heal." The angel tilts its head, as if surprised by my precision. "Unconventional, yet fitting for true neutral balance. So it is decreed. You are Teko Makta, reborn." Light engulfs me, squeezing through a tight, warm tunnel. I emerge wailing into dry air thick with spice and dust, cradled by rough hands. My new mother, Nika, coos over me, her face weathered but kind, while father Loky beams beside her. Their home hums with the clatter of workshops—wealthy toy makers in a sun-baked desert town, ringed by crimson canyons and sparse scrub like the Southwest badlands. Wells tap deep aquifers, the only mercy in this arid sprawl. Months blur as my infant body grows, but my mind races ahead, Sara's memories intact. I manipulate tiny shadows under crib slats, slipping fingers through them like portals, testing drains on crawling insects that leave me invigorated. Male urges confuse at first—the shift from curves to flat strength—but adaptation is my trade. I babble schemes in crib-talk, walk at eight months, speak full sentences by one year. Now, at two, I toddle into the factory behind the house, drawn by whirring gears. Gripple, the tinker gnome engineer, hunches over a workbench, his wiry frame scarred from old battles, fingers blurring as he assembles a clockwork bird. Springs coil wrong; a gear binds. Without thinking, I point. "Counterweight too heavy. Shift the pivot here, or it jams on ascent." He freezes, tufted ears twitching. His eyes—sharp, assassin's eyes—lock onto mine. No shock, just a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face as he mutters, "Well, now. Bosses' whelp ain't normal, is he?"

Gripple's grin lingers as he straightens slightly, his scarred fingers pausing over the half-assembled bird. Dust motes dance in the slanted sunlight filtering through the factory's high windows, carrying the faint tang of oiled metal and sun-warmed wood. The workbench stretches before us, cluttered with gears, springs, and half-formed to...

Gripple's grin lingers as he straightens slightly, his scarred fingers pausing over the half-assembled bird. Dust motes dance in the slanted sunlight filtering through the factory's high windows, carrying the faint tang of oiled metal and sun-warmed wood. The workbench stretches before us, cluttered with gears, springs, and half-formed toys—clockwork scorpions, flapping bats, all destined for the trade caravans that brave the crimson canyons outside. I toddle closer, my small hands gripping the edge for balance, and meet his assassin's gaze without flinching. "Now, employee of my father," I say, my voice steady despite the child's pitch, "if you ever tell anyone—or even hint at it—who would believe you? If you live long enough beyond any slip of the tongue." His tufted ears flick forward, but he doesn't interrupt. I press on, pointing at the misaligned pivot again. "I can aid you in designs. A silent craftsman. Metallurgy, for one—better forging techniques, miniature crafting that holds under stress. But it's not for free, and not enforced on Father's business." The gnome leans in, his sharp eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and calculation. A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, like gravel under boot heels. I don't pause. "I've been watching you. You're no basic tinker gnome. You have skills of a warrior and assassin. You've hidden them well, but I see broader than Father ever could. I need you in ways a boy my age never should—as an agent, an associate. One who keeps secrets." The words hang in the warm air, heavy as the desert heat. Gripple sets down his tools with deliberate care, the clockwork bird forgotten. His wiry frame tenses, old scars pulling tight across his knuckles as he crosses his arms. For a long moment, he studies me, those eyes probing like a blade testing for weakness. Then he hops down from his stool, landing lightly despite his years, and crouches to my level. The factory's distant clatter—hammers on anvils, Loky's booming laugh from the front room—fades into a hush. "Sharp as a garrote, ain't ya, whelp?" he murmurs, voice pitched low, laced with genuine intrigue. "Watched me, have ya? Reckon you've got eyes like mine, then—seein' the shadows others miss." He glances toward the shadowed corner where crates stack high, as if testing the air itself. A flicker of recognition passes between us, unspoken: my secrets for his, a pact forged in the grit of this sun-bleached workshop. He straightens, rubbing his chin, and reaches for a small gear from the bench—testing, perhaps, if my fix works. The pivot shifts under his twist, smooth now, the bird's wing fluttering once in trial. His grin returns, crooked and conspiratorial, as he mutters something under his breath about "pacts worth more than gold." Outside, a hot wind rattles the factory shutters, stirring red dust across the floor toward us.

"Oh, Gripple," I say, my child's voice carrying an edge sharper than it should, "talking of shadows when it's you who don't yet grasp me or my ties to them." His crooked grin falters just a fraction, those assassin's eyes locking onto mine as I lean against the workbench. The gnome holds the small gear loosely in one scarred hand, the cl...

"Oh, Gripple," I say, my child's voice carrying an edge sharper than it should, "talking of shadows when it's you who don't yet grasp me or my ties to them." His crooked grin falters just a fraction, those assassin's eyes locking onto mine as I lean against the workbench. The gnome holds the small gear loosely in one scarred hand, the clockwork bird's wing still quivering faintly from his earlier test. Red dust swirls lazily at our feet from the wind's latest gust, carrying the dry scent of canyon scrub through the cracks in the shutters. "I've studied you," I continue, "but you know nothing of me beyond what I've dropped like a boulder into your lap today. If I'm asking for your aid, though, I must barter fairly—so you understand me truly." My tiny fingers curl around a slender knife tool half-buried amid the clutter of springs and pins. It's a simple etching blade, its edge honed for precision work on delicate mechanisms. Without shifting my gaze from Gripple's face, I flick my wrist in a smooth, practiced arc. The knife whistles faintly through the warm air, embedding itself with a soft thunk into the far wall. A wee lizard, sunning itself in a sliver of light on a crate's edge, spasms once and drops limp to the floor, pinned neatly through the skull. I hadn't so much as glanced its way. The factory's ambient hum—distant hammers, the creak of cooling metal—seems to hush in the aftermath. Gripple's tufted ears twitch sharply, his wiry body going statue-still as he tracks the knife's path. His free hand twitches toward a belt pouch, an old instinct, but he reins it in. I press on before he can speak. "As you're beginning to suspect, I'm not normal. In a previous life, we shared similar training—knowledge that clings to me in this new incarnation. I simply waited for this body to grant me proper mobility and reflexes." I pause, letting the words settle like the dust. Shadows pool deeper in the corner behind the stacked crates, stirred subtly by the light's shift through the windows. "Regarding the shadows... they answer to me." The gnome exhales slowly, a sound like steam escaping a faulty valve. He sets the gear down with exaggerated care, his sharp gaze darting from the dead lizard to me, then to those encroaching shadows. Crouching low, he scampers over to the crate in three quick steps, plucks the knife free with a twist, and wipes the tiny smear of blood on his trouser leg. The lizard twitches no more as he flicks it aside. Returning to the bench, he plants the blade before me, point down, its haft humming faintly from the impact. "Previous life, eh?" he rasps, voice a conspiratorial whisper now, laced with something like reverence. His scarred knuckles whiten as he grips the bench edge, leaning in close enough that I smell the oil and gunpowder residue on his clothes. "That throw... ain't no toddler's luck. And shadows bendin' to a whelp like you?" He glances sidelong at the darkened corner, where the gloom seems to thicken unnaturally, tendrils coiling like smoke in a breeze that isn't there. He straightens abruptly, rubbing his chin with a callused thumb, his eyes alight with a predator's hunger for secrets. The hot wind rattles the shutters again, pushing a fresh veil of red dust across the floorboards toward us.