Dylan woke to sunlight streaming through the window and the sound of someone shouting about fresh bread in the street below.

  For exactly three seconds, he was confused about where he was.

  Then memory crashed back in: different world, different body, public humiliation involving meat pie, currently hiding in a budget inn while trying not to think about the fact that he was apparently a legendary hero.

  "Right," he mumbled into the pillow. "That's my life now."

  His ears twitched, responding to sounds from downstairs, the clatter of dishes, voices, footsteps. The inn was waking up, and breakfast was apparently underway.

  Dylan sat up slowly, his body moving with that same effortless grace that still felt foreign. No stiffness. No aches. No groaning protest from joints that objected to existence before coffee.

  Just smooth, easy movement from a body that apparently didn't understand the concept of "morning."

  He caught sight of himself in the mirror again, hair mussed, ears at half-mast, eyes still adjusting to consciousness. Lyriana in the morning, which turned out to look unfairly good despite everything.

  "Stop that," he told his reflection. "Stop looking like that. It's not helping."

  His reflection continued looking like that anyway.

  Dylan sighed and made his way to the washbasin. The inn had provided basic toiletries, soap, a cloth, water that was blessedly clean. He cleaned himself up as best he could, trying not to think too hard about the mechanics of having a body that wasn't his but responded to him anyway.

  The face looking back at him when he was done was alert, composed, and completely wrong.

  "Morning, Lyriana," he said to the mirror, testing the name out loud.

  It felt strange in his mouth. Not wrong, exactly, but not quite right either. Like a shirt that almost fit but pulled slightly in the wrong places.

  His reflection didn't offer any helpful insights.

  Dylan pulled on his cloak, made sure his hood was positioned to mostly conceal his ears, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

  ***

  The common room was significantly busier than it had been yesterday afternoon. Travelers preparing for departure, locals grabbing a morning meal before work, the general bustle of people starting their day.

  Dylan found an empty seat at a communal table near the back and waited.

  The innkeeper appeared a few minutes later, carrying a tray loaded with plates. She spotted Dylan and made her way over, her expression carefully neutral.

  "Morning," she said. "Sleep well?"

  "Better than expected," Dylan admitted.

  "Good." She set a plate in front of him, roasted vegetables with herbs, fresh bread, fried potato cakes, and what looked like a grain porridge with berries. "Breakfast. All vegetarian, before you ask. I learned my lesson about serving you meat."

  Dylan winced. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to cause a scene."

  "You paid for your room and provided entertainment. I'd call that even." She almost smiled. "Besides, you're not the first person to learn something about themselves the hard way in my inn. Won't be the last."

  She moved on to serve other customers, leaving Dylan with his breakfast and his thoughts.

  The food was excellent, the vegetables perfectly seasoned with herbs he couldn't identify but which tasted amazing, the porridge sweet and satisfying. His body accepted everything enthusiastically, no revolt, no warning signals. Just the simple pleasure of eating food that his system approved of.

  He was halfway through the meal when he became aware of someone watching him.

  Dylan glanced up.

  At the next table over, a man sat alone, nursing a cup of what smelled like tea. Human, maybe mid-thirties, wearing travel-worn but quality clothes. A sword hung at his hip,not decorative, judging by the worn grip. His eyes were fixed on Dylan with an expression that was hard to read.

  Dylan looked away quickly, focusing on his breakfast.

  The watching continued.

  After another minute of trying to ignore it, Dylan's ears swiveled toward the man despite his best efforts to control them. His rabbit instincts were screaming predator, threat, pay attention, even though the man hadn't done anything overtly hostile.

  Finally, the man stood up and walked over.

  "Excuse me," he said, his voice polite but firm. "Mind if I join you for a moment?"

  Dylan's first instinct was to say yes, he absolutely minded, please go away.

  His second instinct, the one that remembered he was trying to blend in and not draw attention, suggested that refusing might be more suspicious than agreeing.

  "Sure," Dylan said, gesturing at the empty seat across from him.

  The man sat down, setting his tea on the table. Up close, Dylan could see he was older than he'd first appeared, lines around his eyes, gray threading through his hair. Someone who'd spent a lot of time outdoors, judging by the weathered skin.

  "Name's Marcus," the man said. "Marcus Thorne. I'm a courier, run messages and small packages between towns, mostly."

  "Nice to meet you," Dylan said carefully. "I'm..." He paused. Giving his real name felt dangerous, but Lyriana was even worse. "...Lyria."

  "Lyria." Marcus nodded slowly. "That's a pretty name. Suits you."

  Dylan's ears twitched under his hood. "Thanks?"

  "I don't mean to be forward," Marcus continued, "but I noticed you arriving yesterday. You seemed... lost. Like you weren't sure where you were going."

  "I'm just passing through," Dylan said, which was technically true. He had no idea where he was going, so he was definitely passing through on his way to... somewhere.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "Passing through to where?"

  "Haven't decided yet."

  Marcus studied him for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to be direct with you, Lyria. I need help, and you look like someone who can handle themselves."

  Dylan nearly choked on a potato cake. "I,what?"

  "I've got a delivery that needs to get to Millbrook," Marcus explained. "Two days' travel east. The roads have been... problematic lately. Bandits, mostly. I usually travel alone, but this particular package is valuable, and I'd prefer to have someone watching my back."

  "You want to hire me," Dylan said slowly, "as a guard."

  "Essentially, yes. I'd pay ten silver for two days' work. Plus meals and a share of camping duties."

  Ten silver. Dylan had 847 million gold in his inventory. Ten silver was... nothing. A rounding error. Pocket change that had fallen between the couch cushions of his absurd wealth.

  But that wasn't the point.

  The point was that Marcus was asking him to do something dangerous. Something that required combat skills and confidence and the ability to not panic when things went wrong.

  Dylan had none of those things.

  "I'm not a guard," he said. "I'm not a fighter. I'm really, really not qualified for this."

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You're rabbitfolk. You're tall, which means you're probably a warrior variant. You move like someone with training, I've been watching. And you're traveling alone, which suggests you can handle yourself."

  "I move like someone with training because this body apparently comes with auto-balance," Dylan wanted to say. "I'm traveling alone because I don't know anyone and I'm having a personal crisis. I am absolutely not qualified to protect anything more valuable than a sandwich."

  What he actually said was: "I really don't think I'm what you're looking for."

  Marcus leaned forward. "Here's the thing, Lyria. I've been doing this job for fifteen years. I can read people pretty well. And I can tell you're not a threat, you've been trying very hard not to be noticed since you arrived. But I can also tell you're capable. More capable than you want to admit, maybe even to yourself."

  Dylan's ears flattened under his hood. "You don't know me."

  "No, I don't. But I know desperation when I see it, and I know competence when I see it. You've got both." Marcus pulled out a small leather pouch and set it on the table. It clinked softly. "This is five silver, up front. You don't have to decide right now. I'm leaving at midday. If you want the job, meet me at the east gate. If not, keep the silver anyway, call it payment for listening to my pitch."

  He stood up, finished his tea in one swallow, and headed for the door.

  Dylan sat there, staring at the pouch.

  Five silver.

  For listening to a job offer he had no intention of accepting.

  He picked up the pouch carefully, feeling the weight of the coins inside. Real money. Earned, sort of, in a real transaction with a real person who thought he was someone capable of protecting them.

  The irony was almost painful.

  Dylan was powerful. Absurdly, impossibly powerful. His stats were maxed. His equipment was legendary. He could probably fight off an army of bandits without breaking a sweat.

  But power and competence weren't the same thing.

  He'd never been in a real fight. Never had to make life-or-death decisions in the moment. Never had to be responsible for someone else's safety.

  Playing Lyriana in a game was one thing. Being Lyriana, with real stakes and real consequences, was something else entirely.

  "I can't do it," Dylan muttered to himself. "I can't. I'd get him killed. I'd get both of us killed. I'd panic and freeze and,"

  "Talking to yourself?"

  Dylan jerked in his seat, his ears standing straight up under his hood.

  The innkeeper stood nearby, refilling someone's cup, but her attention was on him.

  "Just... thinking out loud," Dylan said.

  "About the courier's offer?" She'd apparently been close enough to overhear. "Marcus is good people. Honest work, fair pay. If you're looking for something to do, you could do worse."

  "I'm not looking for work. I'm just..." Dylan trailed off. What was he doing? Hiding? Running? Trying to figure out how to exist in a world that expected him to be someone he wasn't?

  All of the above, probably.

  "You're lost," the innkeeper said simply. "I've seen it before. People show up here not knowing where they're going or what they're doing. Some figure it out. Some don't."

  "Which one do you think I am?"

  She shrugged. "Too early to tell. But I'll say this, sitting in your room won't answer the question. Eventually, you have to do something."

  She moved on to serve other customers, leaving Dylan alone with his thoughts and his untouched silver.

  ***

  Dylan spent the next hour in his room, pacing.

  His ears tracked his own footsteps, back and forth across the small space. His mind raced through arguments and counter-arguments.

  I can't do this. I'm not ready. I don't know how to be a hero.

  But you're not being a hero. You're just protecting one guy for two days.

  What if something goes wrong? What if I freeze? What if I get him killed because I don't know what I'm doing?

  What if nothing goes wrong? What if you spend the rest of your life running from things because you're too scared to try?

  That's not fair. I have legitimate reasons to be scared.

  You also have 847 million gold, maxed stats, and legendary equipment. Most people would kill for those advantages.

  Most people would know how to use them.

  Dylan stopped pacing and looked at himself in the mirror.

  Lyriana looked back, tall, graceful, powerful. Everything he'd always wanted to be.

  Everything he had no idea how to actually be.

  "What would you do?" he asked his reflection. "If you were real. If you were actually the person everyone thinks you are. What would you do?"

  His reflection, predictably, didn't answer.

  But Dylan already knew what Lyriana would do.

  Lyriana wouldn't hide in a rented room, paralyzed by fear and self-doubt. Lyriana would help someone who needed it. Would take the risk. Would trust in her abilities and figure it out as she went.

  Lyriana would be brave.

  Dylan wasn't Lyriana.

  But he was wearing her face. Living in her body. Carrying her reputation whether he wanted to or not.

  Maybe it was time to at least try.

  "This is a terrible idea," Dylan said to his reflection. "Absolutely terrible. I'm going to regret this."

  His reflection looked resigned but determined.

  "Fine," Dylan sighed. "Fine. Two days. One simple escort quest. How hard could it be?"

  His reflection looked like it could list approximately seven hundred ways this could go wrong.

  "Don't answer that," Dylan muttered.

  He pulled up his inventory, carefully, gently, and scrolled through his equipment. The Astralweave Combat Regalia would definitely draw attention. The Eclipsebound Glaive would cause a riot.

  He needed something subtle. Something that looked normal.

  After a few minutes of searching, he found what he was looking for: a basic leather armor set. Light, functional, the kind of thing any competent traveler might wear. It had decent stats, far better than "basic" implied, but it looked mundane.

  He equipped it with a thought, feeling his clothing shift and reform.

  The leather settled against his body comfortably, fitting perfectly without any of the adjustments or breaking-in period normal armor would require. His cloak settled over it, and with the hood up, he looked like a reasonably capable adventurer rather than a legendary hero or a terrified man having an extended panic attack.

  "Okay," Dylan said to his reflection. "You can do this. It's just escorting a courier. Probably nothing will happen. And if something does happen, you have maxed stats and the ability to punch through boulders. You'll be fine."

  His reflection looked deeply unconvinced.

  "We're going anyway," Dylan told it firmly.

  He checked his equipment one more time, armor, cloak, a basic short sword he'd found in his inventory that looked appropriately non-legendary. The leather was worn thin in places, the blade plain steel, no runes, no glow. When he tested the weight though, the sword settled into his hand as if it had been waiting for him. Not balanced. Aligned.

  For a brief, inexplicable moment, Dylan had the sense that if he ever truly hesitated, if his hand shook, if his resolve falter, the blade would still move true.

  Everything a normal guard-for-hire might carry.

  Then he headed downstairs, his heart pounding, his ears twitching with nervous energy, and absolutely no idea what he was doing.

  The innkeeper looked up as he dropped the room key off.

  "Heading out?" she asked.

  "Maybe," Dylan said. "Probably. I'm not sure yet."

  "Well, good luck with whatever you decide." She smiled slightly. "And Lyria? Don't sell yourself short. You might surprise yourself."

  Dylan managed a weak smile in return and headed for the door.

  The morning sun was bright, the streets already busy with activity. Somewhere in this town, the east gate waited, and a courier named Marcus who thought he was hiring a capable guard.

  Dylan took a breath, pulled his hood low, and started walking.

  "This is fine," he muttered. "Everything is fine. Just a simple quest. Nothing complicated. Definitely not going to reveal that I'm a fraud who has no idea what he's doing."

  His ears drooped slightly under his hood.

  "I'm so doomed."

  But he kept walking anyway.

  Because sitting in his room hadn't answered any questions.

  And maybe,j ust maybe, doing something was better than doing nothing.

  Even if that something was probably a terrible idea.

  The east gate loomed ahead, and Dylan's fate, or at least the next two days of it, waited on the other side.