War smelled like home. Burned leather, blood in the mud, and that sharp scent of steel slicing through ribs — Lithia Blackwinter's comfort zone.
So when the sky tore itself open like a cheap curtain and reality yeeted her out of her own world, the first thing she noticed wasn't the fall or the magic or even the burning sensation of crossing dimensions. No. It was the smell.
The new world reeked of plastic.
She opened her eyes, and instead of her castle's war banners or a battlefield littered with broken egos, she was standing in the middle of a sunlit street, surrounded by metal beasts — cars. Shiny, loud, and fast. She flinched when one honked at her and flipped it off on instinct, assuming it was some kind of lesser demon.
"Excuse you, oversized tin can."
The machine did not respond, which made her hate it even more.
Before she could go full-on sword-temper on the unsuspecting vehicles, a voice called out to her, irritatingly friendly.
"Hey! Are you okay there, kiddo?"
She turned, already preparing her "bow before your superior" glare, but the man approaching her had the soft, cinnamon-roll face of someone who'd probably offer tea to a serial killer before calling the cops.
Greg Hensley.
He didn't flinch at her blood-red eyes, her black spider-silk noble dress, or her 7'1 towering presence. Either he was blind, or he'd long since given up questioning reality.
Lithia tilted her head slightly. "And you are...?"
"Greg. You look like you fell off the back of a spaceship or something," he chuckled, hands shoved casually in his jeans pockets.
Her fingers twitched, mentally calculating how many seconds it would take to crush his windpipe. But oddly enough, the man didn't seem like a threat. If anything, he radiated the same harmless "I bake cookies on weekends" energy her dead enemies never had.
She glanced around. No magic. No soldiers. No war. Just suburban nightmare fuel and these overly cheerful peasants. She wasn't about to ask for help — a Blackwinter never asks. But she wasn't about to stand on a street corner and wait for one of these metal demons to run her over either.
"I require information," she announced flatly, crossing her arms. "And directions. This... place offends me."
Greg raised an eyebrow but nodded like this was just his average Tuesday. "Sure thing. I've got a map, snacks, and a spare guest room. Small town — we're basically obligated to adopt wandering kids who look like they stepped out of a vampire fashion catalog."
Lithia blinked. That was possibly the dumbest sentence anyone had ever spoken to her — but also the most honest one today.
"You would offer a stranger shelter?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "You don't even know if I'm a murderer."
Greg grinned. "You don't look like the stabbing type."
Lithia smirked slightly. If only you knew, peasant.
She didn't trust him, of course. Trust was for idiots and soon-to-be corpses. But she needed a base of operations, and this cinnamon-roll civilian looked easy enough to handle. Besides, his optimism would be entertaining to crush later.
"Fine," she agreed. "Lead the way, human."
Greg opened the passenger door for her like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Buckle up. You're about to meet the Hensleys. We're basically a sitcom family. My wife bakes way too much, my daughter talks to plants, and my son thinks the WiFi router is the second coming of Christ."
Lithia sat stiffly in the seat, glaring at the seatbelt like it was an enemy combatant. What in the gods' names is this absurd trap?
"Modern safety," Greg explained, watching her struggle. "Keeps you from flying out the windshield when I take a corner too fast."
"Pathetic," she muttered, but buckled the belt anyway. "In my world, you either hold on or die. Builds character."
As the car rumbled down the sleepy streets of Claremont, Lithia stared out the window, absorbing the painfully normal scenery: kids playing, dogs barking, neighbors waving. No swords. No castles. No glorious war.
It was disgusting.
But her curiosity was stronger than her pride. For now.
The car finally crawled to a stop outside a house so aggressively normal it practically screamed, We own matching pajamas for Christmas. A white picket fence. A mailbox shaped like a tiny barn. Flowerbeds so well-behaved, they probably apologized if a weed popped up.
Lithia stepped out of the car, her boots clicking against the pavement like an executioner had just arrived for a neighborly visit.
Greg's wife, Sarah Hensley, was already waiting on the porch, clutching a coffee mug that had "World's Okayest Mom" scrawled on it. Her face lit up the moment she spotted Lithia — as if seven-foot-tall, vampiric teenage warlords just strolled into town all the time.
"Well, aren't you a tall drink of...something!" Sarah grinned, undeterred by Lithia's red eyes or aura thick enough to choke a mortal.
Lithia stared at her. "And you are?"
"Sarah. Greg's my husband. Welcome to Claremont, or as we locals call it: 'The Town That Time Forgot.' You hungry?"
"I do not require sustenance," Lithia answered flatly. "But your offer is noted."
Before Sarah could reply, two more members of the sitcom disaster known as the Hensleys appeared.
Ava, the daughter — about ten, sharp-eyed, barefoot, and holding a suspiciously judgmental houseplant.
"You look like the type who owns a coffin," Ava said, eyeing Lithia like a rare bug she wanted to catalog.
"I do, in fact. Several."
"Cool," Ava nodded, unfazed. "You'll fit right in."
Next came Jamie, the teenage son, face lit by the glow of his phone screen. He barely looked up, mumbling, "New NPC unlocked, huh?" before wandering back inside like his social meter had just run out.
Lithia followed Greg through the door, her head brushing the frame. The house was cozy — photos on every wall, soft rugs, the smell of something sweet baking in the kitchen. No dungeons, no war banners, no bloodstains on the floor. An absolute architectural insult to her royal sensibilities.
Sarah was already pulling extra plates from the cupboard, acting like this was the most normal Tuesday plot twist imaginable.
"You can stay here as long as you need, sweetie," she chirped. "Just let me know if you're allergic to cats, gluten, or awkward family bonding."
"I'm allergic to stupidity," Lithia replied, settling into a chair that seemed a size too small for her towering frame. "But I suppose I will survive."
Dinner hit her like a cultural sledgehammer.There were casseroles, mashed potatoes, and an unholy amount of cheese. The Hensleys chatted the whole time, covering everything from neighborhood gossip to a local stray cat that apparently "runs the block" like some kind of furry warlord.
Lithia sat, silent and observant, her mind cataloging each family member like a battle strategist:Greg — cinnamon roll. Potentially too trusting.Sarah — overfriendly, likely harmless, yet efficient.Ava — unnervingly perceptive. Must be watched.Jamie — distracted, possible tech-shaman.
She had expected questions. Interrogation. Fear. Instead, they treated her like a weird but welcome piece of lost luggage. The absurdity gnawed at her. Was this a trap? Were they secretly powerful? Or just hopelessly naive?
The answer came faster than she expected.
When a delivery guy knocked at the door, Greg stood up, glanced out the window, and his whole demeanor sharpened. The sweet, relaxed smile dropped for half a second. His eyes scanned the stranger with quiet calculation — the kind of quiet Lithia recognized from seasoned generals back home.
When the moment passed, he opened the door, took the pizza, and returned to the table, soft smile back in place like nothing had ever shifted.
Lithia blinked. So... the cinnamon roll had teeth.
That, at least, earned her respect.
Later, in the guest room — which was decorated like a Pinterest board exploded in it — Lithia sat on the too-soft bed, her long legs dangling off the edge like a spider testing its web.
She summoned one of her black spider-silk dresses from sub-space, the comforting fabric sliding over her skin like armor. As she adjusted the collar, her crimson eyes drifted toward the window, the streetlight beyond it casting soft halos across the quiet town.
No soldiers. No assassins. No monsters. Just... people. Living. Laughing. Surviving without bloodshed.
She didn't know if she hated it or envied it.
And so, her first night in modern suburbia ended not with battle, but with an awkward, unfamiliar feeling gnawing at her cold, noble heart.
Curiosity.
The Hensleys had survived day one. The question was — would the modern world survive her?
💀 END OF CHAPTER ONE 💀