Changed by the Darkness

Luna tumbled out of the swirling vortex, not onto the cold, damp earth of the Underworld, but onto the familiar, worn rug of her bedroom. For a dizzying moment, the world spun, a kaleidoscope of phosphorescent fungi and obsidian stone, only to resolve into the soft glow of her bedside lamp. The air, once thick with the stench of brimstone and decay, now carried the faint, comforting scent of lavender from her mother’s sachets. She was home.

She scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her room. It was exactly as she had left it, the posters of fantastical creatures still taped to the walls, her worn teddy bear perched precariously on the pillow. But it wasn't the same. *She* wasn't the same.

Luna looked down at her hands. They were small, undeniably a child’s hands, but they felt… different. They had gripped the rough hide of a monstrous beast, traced the cold, smooth surface of an ancient artifact, and clutched the tattered cloak of a cynical guide. The skin, once soft and unblemished, bore faint, almost invisible scars – not of flesh torn, but of a spirit tested. She flexed her fingers, a strange new awareness coursing through them. They were the hands of Luna, the girl who had fallen into the Underworld, but they were also the hands of Luna, the survivor.