At first, when he opened his eyes in that white place, Soren had thought he'd be happy in this new world—that he'd gain powers, live an extraordinary life, like in the stories. But fate often writes a crueler tale than we expect, and no matter how far we run, we can't hide from it.
Now, he sat on a feather-soft bed, wrapped in a luxurious blanket that could rival the premium fabrics of the 21st century. Everything about him—the room, the furnishings, the clothes—screamed nobility and wealth. Yet no amount of riches could give him back his legs.
As if losing his legs wasn't enough, every night when he fell asleep, he was dragged back into that dream-like realm—forced to relive Zephyr's life from his point of view. And to be honest, the first six years of endless lectures had been the most peaceful part. What came after? That was hell in its purest form.
From everything he had experienced so far, one thing became painfully clear—why Zephyr had wanted to switch lives with him. Zephyr had spent the first ten years of his life trapped in a research facility, subjected to brutal experiments. That was the reason his legs didn't work.
Whenever Soren was trapped in that dreamlike state, he could feel every pain Zephyr endured—the sharp sting of each cut, the burning ache of every injection, the raw agony of countless punctures, and the jarring shocks of electrocution. It was as if the suffering wasn't just in his mind, but coursed through his own body. The torment was relentless, leaving Soren drained and trembling every time he was pulled back into that cruel reality.
Unlike the first dream, which lasted the longest, all the others lasted only a few moments—but those moments were enough to cause deep trauma. He sat alone in the dimly lit room, his hands trembling slightly on his lap, though his skin bore no scars or bruises. His eyes darted nervously, as if haunted by invisible shadows only he could see. Every sudden noise made his breath hitch, his heart pounding like a trapped bird desperate to escape.
Though his body showed no wounds, the weight of invisible chains pressed heavily on his mind. Memories of cold, merciless days replayed in flashes—memories not his own, yet carrying the same unbearable pain, the voices screaming inside his head. He struggled to focus; simple thoughts slipped away like grains of sand through trembling fingers. The maids who cared for him often noticed the changes—the dark circles under his eyes, the trembling voice, and the shaking of his hands.
"My lord, are you okay? Are you having nightmares again? Would you like us to inform the Duchess and Duke? They're on a trip but should be back soon," the maid asked. She was someone Soren recognized from the first nightmare—friendly and attentive, always by Zephyr's side during lectures whenever he needed anything.
"Sophie, my dear, it's just some nightmares causing trouble with my sleep. There's no need to disturb Mother and Father during their trip," Soren said with a gentle smile. "Why don't you take me outside? I'd like to get some fresh air."
Despite everything going on in his mind, he still spoke kindly. It was a habit from his previous life—his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, especially toward women.
Sophie blinked in confusion.
"My lord, if I may ask again... are you saying you want to go outside?"
"Yes," Soren replied calmly. "Is there a problem?"
"No, no, my lord! Of course not!" Sophie stammered. "It's just… this is the first time in the last three years you've asked to go outside. I can't even tell you how happy the Duchess will be to hear about this. Let me call George—he'll bring the wheelchair right away. I'm so excited…!"
Her excitement was so genuine it brought a small smile to Soren's face. Watching her light up over something so simple was oddly heartwarming. Still, he couldn't help but feel confused. Why had Zephyr never gone out in three years? Sure, he had trauma, but stepping outside wasn't exactly a battlefield. Soren decided not to dwell on it.
But then, as if suddenly remembering something, Sophie went quiet. Her smile faded, and she bowed her head in apology.
"Sorry, I talk too much. I know you don't like noise…"
Soren gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. You look cute when you talk, and I'm not angry."
Sophie blinked in surprise, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.
Watching her, Soren couldn't help but think—Sophie was like how he used to be. Cheerful, talkative, a little clumsy. Nothing like Zephyr, who was cold, withdrawn… and someone who had handed off his suffering to another soul without hesitation. Soren hated him for that—for stealing his life, for making him suffer. But still… a small part of his heart felt sorry for him. For the pain he'd endured. For the kind of life that made someone think they had no choice but to run away.
Sophie hurried off to find George, her footsteps light with excitement.
Soren let out a soft sigh.
"We'll see," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe life really isn't that bad. I think… I have good people around me. Let's not get unmotivated."
He stared at the window, his eyes distant. "Whatever I see at night… even if it hurts—even if those damn injections burn like fire—it'll end, right? Once all of Zephyr's memories are done playing out… I can last until then. I have to."
A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips, fragile but determined.
A few servants entered the room soon after, moving with quiet efficiency. They helped Soren into a warm bath, their actions practiced and respectful, before dressing him with meticulous care. Layer by layer, they assembled his attire—starting with soft, luxurious socks and a pair of white gloves that fit snugly over his fingers.
He was soon clad in a dark, tailored three-piece suit. The double-breasted vest shimmered faintly with subtle silver embroidery, elegant but not ostentatious. A crisp white shirt with a high collar hugged his neck, paired with a ruffled cravat held in place by a decorative pin. A black bow tie added a touch of formality, while the long, dark tailcoat—trimmed with intricate silver patterns along the edges—brought the whole look together with quiet grandeur.
To complete the ensemble, a silver-handled walking stick was placed gently in his hand, and a pocket watch with a delicate chain was fastened to his vest, swaying softly with every breath he took.