Waking up to a blinding green blaze was about as pleasant as bleaching his eyes. Bright spots had imprinted themselves on the back of his eyelids long after the flash had subsided. While painfully blind, he outstretched his arms, looking for an anchor to lean against, but his fingertips slid down a smooth surface. He was surrounded by glass, a dome only large enough to fit him standing up.

“Is anyone there?” he yelled out, struggling to see out his glass prison. Though his vision returned, everything was still blurry.

No answer came but something banged against the glass behind him. He turned to the sound and froze, seeing a hairless red tail flick side to side behind him—his tail. He had a tail.

“I'm a cambion,” he said to himself and paused to let the thought seep in. He was a cambion, half-human and half-demon. It felt true, like common knowledge and no big deal, but also a revelation. Why would simple information like that feel so new? He had more important problems to solve, so he shelved the thought for later and focused on the challenge at hand. There was no lever or a handle to pull to open the endless wall and he worried that he'd run out of oxygen soon.

He banged on the glass with sweaty fists. “Help!”

His scream was too loud in his prison, discouraging him from trying again. He waited and listened, but no one came to his rescue. The cramped space was closing in on him and another shallow inhale of the sticky air brought no relief.

He mumbled to himself, “What did you get yourself into... uhm...”

His train of thoughts stopped as he searched his mind for a name to address himself by. None came, but he had to have a name. Everyone did. Or did they? He couldn't remember the names of anyone, not family, friends, pets, or famous persons. He couldn't remember faces or places or any event prior to the green light as if he was born within it. Absurd. Panic was definitely mulling his mind.

He had to get out of this trap. He took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself and resume inspection of the sphere. The glass was smooth and warm to the touch and there was something etched into it from the outside—symbols, not words, a set of elaborate circles within circles, miniature runes his defective eyes couldn't decipher.

For lack of other ideas, he lay on the rounded floor and aimed a good kick at the glass. It didn't budge. He kicked again and again, fueled by sheer desperation and anger at whoever was responsible for trapping him here. The crack of glass was the most beautiful music to his ears and it gave him a spike of adrenalin for another good kick that broke a small hole in the surface.

He dropped to his elbows, kneeling in front of it, and inhaled greedily as a cool breeze caressed his sweaty skin. It took another few kicks before he expanded the hole enough to climb out. Shards of glass fell out with him as he crawled out, and he hissed at the pain in his hand. He pulled a chunk out of his fleshy palm and closed his fist to stop the bleeding. The pain was worth the freedom at least.

He gathered himself to a standing position and caught sight of his tail again. It moved independently as if it had a mind of its own but obeyed him as well. Did any other surprises await him?

He took stock of himself: two hands, two feet, and clothes that hung loosely on him though he wasn't too skinny. His head was full of soft unkempt curls, and judging from the fuzz above his lip, he was a teenager. The verdict was in: he was a teenage cambion with a tail. It was comforting to know at least that much about himself, but it wasn't a name. It was like naming a cat Cat.

Curious to know what he looked like, he searched for anything reflective, but his poor vision did not help. The further the objects were, the more their colors blended in with each other, forming a reality soup. Where was he anyway? He gladly left the glass contraption he awoke in and shuffled forward.

The spacious room was bathed in yellow-tinged lighting and housed several steel tables cluttered with colorful trinkets and scattered papers. He picked up a small glass orb and brought it close to his eyes to examine and immediately became transfixed on the twinkling yellow light swirling inside.

“How did someone harness magic in glass?” he murmured to himself, turning it in his hand. “And why?”

He put it back and noticed another orb, which sat inside a glowing glass bowl on a thick stem. A lamp!

“A portable power source,” he said dreamily as the use cases of such genial invention fired off a thought chain reaction. If magic energy could be stored, it could be taken anywhere by anyone, even used by a non-runecaster. How long did it last? How many runes could it power? Who invented this? How? Was this room a magical laboratory?

He wished he could see what other surprises hid in the clutter, but everything further than his shoulder was blurry. Did he have glasses? He needed glasses badly. He searched his pockets but found only a stick—an ice cream stick. Now he craved ice cream. Vanilla. Hmmm...

A high-pitched squeak made him spin around, and his tail knocked a glass orb off the table. He cringed at the crash and called out, “Hello?”

No one answered. He held his breath to listen for the source of the sound. That hazy blob could be someone hunched over a desk, but why haven't they responded? He stumbled through the room with his hands outstretched, hoping to get some answers from this person, but when he was close enough to see, he found a white coat thrown over a tall chair. The source of the squeaking was on the table under a hand-written sign “ARTHUR'S CASTLE.”

“Hi there, little guy,” he greeted a white rat that sat in an open cage, shredding a piece of cardboard into long strips. Its home was closer to being a funhouse than a cage. The multi-floor "castle” had an obstacle course, a hammock, sturdy toys to play with and soft ones to chew. Whoever owned this rat took good care of it.

Bending down to admire the rat's home, he spotted a small mirror. He squinted at it, trying to see himself. His facial features were blurry but his vivid ruby-red hair stood out even to his piss-poor eyes.

He glanced over his shoulder at his red tail.

“You match my hair,” he said.

The naughty appendage wagged behind him, pushing his trousers down. He tightened his belt and noticed a clasp above his tail. Though loose, these clothes were clearly tailored for a cambion like him. He found comfort in that like it was an assurance that he wasn't just born in that sphere. He was someone real. He was a ruby-haired teenage cambion with a tail.

One little mystery solved, a more important one left—where was he?