Jaune awoke with his cheek pressed into damp earth. Rain tapped gently against the canopy above, each droplet echoing unnaturally loud in his ears. His breath came in uneven gasps as he blinked through the misty gloom, struggling to assemble a fractured sense of place. Nothing felt familiar. Towering trunks surrounded him, their jagged silhouettes forming a cage that seemed to inch closer with each breath.
"This isn't... how did I...?" The words escaped his lips, hoarse and uncertain. He pushed himself upright, wincing as his head pounded with each movement.
He didn't remember leaving home. Didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember anything after dinner.
Then, heat—fierce and all-consuming—ripped through his veins. The forest around him shattered.
A burning tower loomed beneath him. Flames shrieked skyward. Smoke clawed at his throat. A dragon wheeled above, wings carving cyclones into the inferno. His armor glowed red-hot, unbearable against his skin. Below, fire roared like laughter.
Then—her.
A woman stepped through the smoke, obsidian blades coiled at her sides. Her eyes glowed amber like dying embers.
"Your mentor taught you well," she said, her voice slicing through the chaos. "But she wasted her time."
Fire swallowed him whole. Skin blistered. Bone split. He opened his mouth to scream—
And woke, again, in the rain.
Gasping.
Hands scrambled at his chest, his arms, his face—no burns. No dragon. No tower.
"Just a nightmare," he muttered, but the certainty in his voice wavered. It felt too real. Too specific. "Just... just a nightmare."
Someone else's death. Somehow... mine.
Jaune staggered to his feet, legs unsteady beneath him. The scroll in his pocket showed the date—three days after the his birthday. His fingers trembled as he stared at the screen. Had he been out here all night? His sisters would be worried sick.
He needed to get to Vale. The city. Safety. Answers.
But which way?
East. Follow the morning sun.
He froze, heart hammering against his ribs.
The voice had no source. Soft. Feminine. Achingly familiar yet worn thin by... something he couldn't name.
"Who's there?" He spun in place, hand instinctively reaching for Crocea Mors. "Is that some kind of joke?"
Nothing but the whisper of leaves.
Please listen this time, Jaune. We don't have long.
This time? The words crawled under his skin, sharp and insistent. A chill that had nothing to do with the rain ran down his spine.
"No. You're not—" He shook his head violently, sending droplets flying from his hair. "Just stress. Sleep-deprived, lost, and stress hallucinating. Great job, Arc. Really nailing the whole 'huntsman' thing."
He picked a direction and started walking. The rain softened as he moved, a slow fade to mist. Time slipped like water through his fingers. Once, he caught himself responding to a question no one had asked. Twice, he flinched from touches that weren't there.
Eventually, the forest opened to reveal a narrow stream threading its way through the undergrowth.
Not that way. There's a Grimm nest two kilometers downstream.
Jaune flinched so hard he nearly fell. The voice curled into his mind like static, clearer now. Almost... commanding.
"Shut up," he muttered, pressing his palm against his temple. "You're not real. You're just... you're just..."
I am. More than you know.
It struck something deep—a note of pain, familiarity, wrongness—buried under exhaustion. For a heartbeat, his aura flickered visibly, gold threads shot through with crimson.
He stepped into the stream anyway, defiant. Cold water bit at his skin. He stumbled, nearly falling, as slick stones shifted beneath his boots.
Jaune, please—we don't have time for this rebellion. They're coming.
"Who's coming?" he whispered, suddenly afraid of the answer. "Who are you?"
Then—
Silence.
And darkness.
[/]
Jaune came back to himself as the sun dipped low beyond the branches. The rain had stopped, and with it, the nausea. Vertigo clung to him like a fading fever dream. He sat slumped against a tree, sweat-drenched, cradling his head in his hands.
The forest had changed.
The blood-colored leaves of Forever Fall were gone. Emerald and gold surrounded him instead—sun-washed, unfamiliar.
"I was in Forever Fall!" His voice broke, raw with panic. "I just got there yesterday! I remember Professor Goodwitch taking us for—for—" The memory slipped away, replaced by images of a burning tower.
His thoughts flared—the river, the red canopy, the glowing eyes. He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms to his temples. Time was missing. His body ached in ways that suggested hours of running, maybe more.
We had to move quickly,the voice murmured, gentler now.There were more coming. A full pack. At least fifteen.
He flinched. "Who—what—" The question failed him. He tried again. "Am I losing my mind?"
No, Jaune. Though I understand why you'd think that.
The voice was no longer a whisper. It was immediate, undeniably real—yet still nowhere to be seen.
Jaune fumbled for his scroll, nearly dropping it twice before his trembling fingers could activate it. The screen flared to life, the compass app flickering uncertainly. He waved his arm, waiting for calibration.
Through a break in the canopy, he spotted something on the horizon—a distant flash of crimson.
Forever Fall.
He zoomed in, gripping his scroll tighter, breath hitching.
But the compass disagreed.
North.
He reset the app. Watched the arrow spin. Again. And again. Until it settled.
Forever Fall was north of him.
"That can't be right." His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out his own voice. "I was just there. I didn't turn around. I—" His voice faltered. "I traveled twenty miles?"
The scroll's GPS history confirmed it. A solid green path. No turns, no rests. Just a breakneck sprint—vaults, terrain shifts, movements Jaune had never performed. Movements no untrained fighter could pull off.
His throat tightened as he stared at the screen.
"That should've taken six hours... minimum. Even at full speed."
I took over when necessary.The voice softened.I'm sorry. You weren't ready to face a pack that size. They were drawn to your... our... emotional state.
Jaune's breath caught.
There it was again. That voice.
Not just clear now.
Familiar.
Not exactly. Not completely. But close.
Commanding. Warm. Resolute. A calm, decisive cadence.
It stirred something deep in his chest.
A memory with weight. With color.
But no name.
"Why can't I remember?" he whispered, closing his eyes. "Why do I know your voice but not who you are?"
Because we're not supposed to be here like this,the voice answered.Neither of us. Not in this way.
Jaune looked down at his hands. For a moment—just a split second—he could have sworn they weren't his own. slimmer fingers. Calloused differently. The phantom sensation of wearing armor he didn't own.
The memory lingered as shadows lengthened across the forest floor. Jaune stared at his palms, flexing his fingers slowly, trying to reclaim ownership of his own body.
We should find shelter,the voice—was it Pyrrha?—suggested.You need rest. Food. Your aura is critically depleted.
"I need answers," he muttered, but his protesting stomach betrayed him. How long had it been since he'd eaten? The disorientation made it impossible to track time properly.
Answers won't matter if you collapse from exhaustion,she countered, her tone softening.There's a settlement three kilometers southwest. Small. Isolated. Less likely to have received any alerts about... unusual behavior.
Jaune hesitated. The thought of other people made his skin crawl with anxiety. What if he—she—theylost control again?
I won't take over unless absolutely necessary,she promised, as if sensing his thoughts.Your body, your life. I just... I can't watch you die. Not again.
The pain in her voice felt too raw, too personal. He wanted to ask what she meant, but the words dried up in his throat, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that made his legs tremble.
"Fine," he conceded. "But we're in and out. No lingering."
[/]
Jaune moved through the small village like a ghost—silent, wary, unremarkable.
He kept his hood low, his steps measured. The town wasn't much—barely more than a cluster of timber homes and battered storefronts huddled around a central dirt road. No walls. No defenses. Just the kind of place Grimm would rip apart if given the chance.
He needed food. A bed, maybe. A plan.
"Don't waste time,"the voice murmured—no longer tired, but crisp with awareness."Villages like this are desperate. Desperate people make dangerous decisions."
He bristled at her warning but didn't argue. Twice now he'd caught himself responding to her out loud, earning suspicious glances from passersby. The sleeplessness was making it harder to distinguish between internal and external conversations.
The market stalls were half-stocked, their vendors watching him with sharp, appraising eyes. He kept moving, sliding a bundle of bread and dried meat into his cloak with subtlety. He hated stealing. But right now, surviving mattered more than morals.
"I'll repay you... someday," he whispered, half to himself, half to the vendor who would never hear the promise.
Then—chaos.
A scream tore through the air.
Shouting.
Crashing.
Jaune spun around just as a Beowolf lunged into the square, its claws cleaving through wood and flesh. Panic erupted—villagers fled, some grabbing weapons, others clinging to children.
A huntsman was already fighting—bloodied, cornered, gripping his side where a deep gash bled freely.
Jaune didn't think. He moved.
Crocea Mors was in his grip before doubt could take root. His body surged forward, closing the distance.
Then—an arrow.
A single, misplaced shot from a panicked villager.
It struck the huntsman clean through the back.
Jaune froze. His pulse thundered. The man staggered, face twisting from pain to shock.
And then—everything shifted.
His body wasn't his anymore.
His vision blurred—edges twisting, colors sharpening to painful clarity. Red tinged the corners of his sight.
Through his own eyes, Jaune watched as he moved with impossible grace.
Crocea Mors carved the air, striking with precision that didn't belong to him.
He pivoted. Parried. Killed.
The Grimm collapsed in pieces. Mist curled where its body had been.
The hunter turned—disoriented, instincts slow, pain too sharp.
He swung—wild and desperate.
The voice reacted before Jaune could stop her.
A single strike—too fast.
Too perfect.
Steel met flesh.
The hunter fell.
Silence.
Then—screams.
"Murderer—he killed the huntsman!"
Villagers ran. Terrified.
Jaune could feel the presence within him—strong, steady. And beyond her—something else. Something ancient, brushing against his mind. Vast. Unreadable. Watching through both their eyes.
"What did I do?"His thoughts screamed, but his mouth wouldn't move.
"You survived,"the voice answered, still in control of his lips."That's all that matters."
"That's not—"He cut himself off, shuddering as control returned in a nauseating rush.
The memory of it—of her—was sharper now. Her voice meant nothing. But the way she moved inside his skin sent a chill down to his bones.
And that other presence—the weight pressing against his mind, watching, waiting—
Jaune ran.
He didn't know where—only that he had to get away.
Away from the village. Away from the screams. Away from the body that shouldn't have been there.
Crocea Mors was still in his grip, its weight anchoring him to the moment—the fight, the kill, the way his own hands had moved without him.
The voice. The thing inside him.
The presence beyond it.
His breath tore from his lungs, ragged and uneven, as he pushed through the thick underbrush. The night swallowed him—trees blurring into streaks of shadow and panic. He didn't look back.
Didn't stop.
Time slipped strangely after that.
Jaune avoided every sign of civilization. He skirted smoke, avoided voices, drank from muddy streams, hunted what he could. He slept in hollows and thickets and moved through shadow, lost in a rhythm of survival that dulled the edges of his thoughts.
The voice was quieter now. Not gone. Just... waiting.
When he finally spoke, it was out of exhaustion more than intent.
"What did you do?"
Silence.
Then—
"What was necessary."
Jaune swallowed the lump in his throat. "I killed someone."
"You survived."
"That's not—" He stopped, fists clenched. "You took control. You—" The words burned. "You moved my body like it was yours."
A pause.
"Because it is."
The answer iced his blood. He almost dropped his sword.
"Who are you?" He whispered, though part of him already knew—had known since that first familiar cadence.
The silence stretched. Then—
"Pyrrha."
The name settled deep in his chest, heavy with something he couldn't place. He waited for recognition—some spark of familiarity.
Nothing.
"That... doesn't mean anything to me." The admission felt like betrayal.
"I know."
The words hurt in a way he didn't understand.
Days blurred into weeks.
He fought when he had to—small Grimm, manageable threats—but even victories felt hollow. His sword was steady. His movements sharp. Too sharp. The borrowed skill haunted his limbs, like he was pretending to be himself.
Sometimes he woke standing, sword drawn, unable to remember falling asleep or what had triggered the defensive stance. Sometimes he found himself walking in directions he hadn't chosen, following paths he'd never seen.
The isolation cracked against his mind in waves.
"You were stronger before."
"Before what?"
No answer.
Jaune ignored her. Then cursed himself for talking to her. Then talked again.
It was worse when she was quiet.
He might've lost what was real in the silence.
One night, he sat hunched beside a dim fire, transcript papers crumpled in his hands. The documents were fake but convincing enough, granting entry to Beacon. He stared at the school logo, tracing it with trembling fingers as fractured images assaulted his mind—burning towers, a screaming dragon, green eyes filled with determination and sorrow.
He didn't know where else to go, he planned to meet with the original forger in Vale. Maybe there, he could find someone who could explain what was happening to him. Someone who knew what—who—Pyrrha was.
The journey toward Vale was quiet. Days of lonely roads and nameless woods. Nights curled beneath outcroppings or nestled between roots. His body adjusted—mechanically, instinctively—to the rhythm of travel.
The voice had gone silent again.
Waiting.
He wasn't sure whether he preferred it that way.
Sometimes the silence was worse than her intrusions. At least when she spoke, he wasn't completely alone with the growing paranoia, the constant feeling of being hunted by something larger than Grimm.
As dusk fell, the outskirts of the city finally blurred into view. Jaune set camp beneath a ridge, firelight flickering against the rocks. His hands shook as he tried to light the kindling, fumbling with the matches three times before succeeding.
"You can't keep running forever."
Jaune tensed.
The voice returned—no longer a murmur, but firm, present.
"Stay out of this," he muttered, rubbing at his temples. "I'm fine."
"You're exhausted. You haven't slept properly in days. You need a plan. You can't just wander into Vale with nothing. Someone will recognize you."
Jaune scowled. "And what do you suggest, Pyrrha?"
The name still felt foreign on his tongue, yet somehow right.
A pause.
"Be careful."
Jaune rolled his eyes, shoving the papers back into his pack. "Brilliant. Thanks."
"You're being watched."
His breath stalled.
The fire crackled—soft, rhythmic—but something felt off. The hairs on the back of his neck stood.
Jaune reached for his sword.
"Don't—"
A figure stepped into the firelight, casting long shadows.
Tall. Pale red eyes gleaming.
Jaune's heart thundered. Something about the man seemed familiar—a memory that wasn't quite his own.
"Jaune Arc," the man said. Calm. Measured. Like a judgment already passed.
Qrow Branwen,the voice supplied, tension radiating through Jaune's mind.
"I've been looking for you."
He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides—but Jaune saw the readiness, the tension beneath the casual posture.
"There's a warrant for your arrest, kid."