Something was wrong. She must have hit her head harder than she thought; could a concussion make you see color differently? She touched her forehead gingerly and pushed herself to her feet. What had she been doing? Oh yes, running. She had tripped and hit her head because…
Something had been in the woods, and she had looked over her shoulder. She’d tried to catch herself. Why hadn’t it worked? And seriously, why were the trees pink?
Green light lit the trees from behind, and she took an involuntary step back. A wild glance all around only disoriented her and made her head hurt worse, so she stood still, breath coming ragged in her throat.
An old man stepped out of the trees, kicking purple dust into the roadway as the toe of his boot caught in the loam beside it. “How do you come to be here?” He demanded, his brows lowering above sharp cheekbones. “This is not the way!”
“I must be delirious,” she muttered, but ice crawled up her spine all the same. She touched her aching head again, just as the old man stepped toward her, his stride impossibly long. Deep purple eyes smouldered inches from her face, and his voice rose to a screech.
“Where is the Artifact?”
The Word Worker 