Drip. Drip. Drip.
The echo of wetness resonated through the darkness. A steady, relentless beat, as if the heartbeat in him refused to cease. Chilly stone walls surrounded the cramped cell, and the iron reek of rusty chains commingled with the sourness of sweat and dried blood.
Kai Morel opened his eyes.
Or rather, the body he now occupied did.
So this is it, he whispered, raw voice.
The words sounded odd. Younger, smoother, strange. He felt his face. Smooth. No scar beneath his eye. Not his former body. Not his former world.
Memories flooded in like a sudden wave half-perceived, skewed, but ineluctable.
He recalled dying. A scream. A glimpse of metal. Then nothing.
He recalled a name: Kai Morel (Seventeen years old). Incarcerated for high treason. Scheduled to be executed in three days.
And now, inexplicably, he was him.
Previously, he'd been Elijah Nairn. A fixated scholar, a puzzle piece, a nothing. Now he had a destiny he'd never desired, shrouded in a name that was not his own.
He levered himself up from the dirt, joints squeaking like corroded hinges. The cell was a rock box, windowless, with a single rust-lined grate above it. The only light was that of the torch fire filtering under the door.
Three days.
He didn't know why or how this was so but someone, something, needed him alive long enough to know. Perhaps even to act.
He stood up and walked over to the puddle in front of the leak. A distorted reflection welcomed him. More defined features. Clearer eyes. Young but haunted.
A smile that could charm or a face that could freeze with calculation.
The lock clicked.
The door creaked open, hinges protesting like someone very old'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 last word, Kai responded. Soft, dignified tone. Certainly the court permits it.
You're no courtier. A mere traitor who was caught.
Even traitors have secrets, Kai said, a small smile on his lips. Some worth dying for. Others worth trading.
The gaoler paused. Then snorted and stepped back, muttering. The cell door clanged shut.
Alone once more, Kai breathed slowly.
A bluff—but a timely one.
He sat back down, cross-legged, collecting himself. He had to evaluate this world, its laws, its risks. Quickly.
If he was correct, and this body belonged to a noble heir, then there would be more than politics involved. This wasn't merely 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 faintly, almost amused.
I've always enjoyed solving mysteries, he whispered.
Over the prison spires, under a moon shrouded in ash, a girl stood at an arched window.
She gazed down at the city below its rooftops silvered by quiet, its lanterns extinguishing one by one.
The dream had come back.
The boy in the flames. The mark on his chest. The voice calling his name.
She stepped away from the window, pulling her cloak closer.
The Ashmarked was awakening.
And it would be her who would discover him.
First
Or last.