Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound of moisture echoed in the dark. A slow, persistent rhythm, like a heartbeat that refused to stop. Cold stone walls enclosed the small cell, and the iron stench of rusted chains mingled with the sourness of sweat and dried blood.
Kai Morel opened his eyes.
Or rather, the body he now inhabited did.
So this is it, he murmured, voice raw.
The words came out strange. Younger, smoother, unfamiliar. He touched his face. Smooth. No scar under his eye. Not his old body. Not his old world.
Memories rushed in like a sudden tide half-sensed, distorted, but unmistakable.
He remembered dying. A scream. A flash of metal. Then nothing.
He remembered a name: Kai Morel. Seventeen years old. Imprisoned for high treason. Execution scheduled in three days.
And now, somehow, he was him.
Before, he'd been Elijah Nairn. An obsessive scholar, a puzzle solver, a nobody. Now, he had inherited a fate he didn't ask for, wrapped in a name that wasn't his.
He sat up slowly, joints creaking like rusted gears. The cell was a stone box, windowless, with one rust-lined grate above. The only light came from the torch glow seeping under the door.
Three days.
He didn't know how or why this happened—but someone, something, wanted him alive long enough to understand. Maybe even act.
He rose to his feet and approached the puddle beneath the leak. A warped reflection greeted him. Sharper features. Clear eyes. Youthful but haunted.
A face that could smile with charm or freeze with calculation.
The lock turned.
The door creaked open, hinges groaning like an old man's spine.
A short, thick-set gaoler stepped in. His eyes were beady, and his lips curled in a sneer that suggested he enjoyed his job far too much.
Still breathing? Shame, the man said, voice like gravel. Audience with the High Marshal tomorrow. Try not to piss yourself.
Kai tilted his head, expression unreadable. Would it be possible to request quill and parchment?
The gaoler squinted. What?
For my final statement, Kai said. His tone was soft, dignified. Surely the court allows it.
You're no courtier. Just a traitor who got caught.
Even traitors carry secrets, Kai replied, smiling faintly. Some worth dying for. Others worth bargaining.
The gaoler hesitated. Then snorted and backed out, muttering. The cell door slammed shut.
Alone again, Kai exhaled slowly.
A bluff—but a well-timed one.
He sat back down, cross-legged, gathering his thoughts. He needed to assess this world, its rules, its dangers. Fast.
If he was right, and this body belonged to a noble heir, there would be more than politics at play. This wasn't just about survival—it was about manipulation, information, and identity.
Three days.
Three days to unravel the truth behind this execution. Behind this body. Behind this world.
He smiled slightly, almost amused.
I've always loved solving puzzles, he whispered.
Above the prison spires, beneath a moon veiled in ash, a girl stood by an arched window.
She watched the city below—its rooftops silvered by silence, its lanterns dying out one by one.
The dream had returned.
The boy in the flames. The mark on his chest. The voice whispering his name.
She turned from the window, drawing her cloak tighter.
The Ashmarked was waking.
And she would be the one to find him.
First
Or last.