---
There was a silence too old to trust.
It wasn't the kind you get when you're alone in your room, scrolling endlessly, waiting for your brain to care again.
No. This silence had roots.
It pressed against my ears, my ribs, my skull, like it had grown tired of being ignored. It wasn't just quiet—it was expecting something. And the worst part?
It felt like I'd kept it waiting.
---
I opened my eyes slowly.
Gray stone stared back. The ceiling above was chiseled, uneven, like it had been carved in a hurry—or by someone who didn't know what symmetry was.
A cold dampness clung to the back of my neck. My head throbbed like it had spent the last three days arguing with a hangover and losing.
I didn't move right away.
I didn't know how to move.
My limbs were heavy. My breathing came shallow. There was this strange disconnect between what I wanted my body to do and what it was actually doing.
For a moment, I wondered if this was death.
Then I heard it.
> "Welcome back, Zane Kingsley. You've made it… sort of."
The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't mechanical either. It sounded… amused. Like a guy watching someone try to fight a goose with nunchucks and slowly realizing the goose is winning.
My lips cracked open.
"...Who?"
> "Me? Just a helpful little voice in your head. You'll learn to love me. Or hate me. Or forget me entirely when the trauma kicks in."
I blinked. Once. Twice.
The ceiling remained disinterested.
"…This is a dream," I said, because denial has always been my coping mechanism of choice.
> "If this were a dream, you'd be naked in high school surrounded by talking cats who demand your homework."
The voice paused.
> "Wait. That might be next chapter. Let's stay focused."
---
I finally moved.
My arms creaked like dry wood as I pushed myself upright.
Stone. Everywhere. The floor, the walls, the oddly large slab I'd apparently been lying on. There were carvings I didn't understand, dust that had forgotten how to float, and a single torch crackling in defiance of logic.
I looked down.
Pale hands.
Not mine.
Too slim. Too delicate. Fingernails that looked like they'd never been bitten from stress, unlike mine. A ring sat on the index finger—black metal, smooth surface, but faintly glowing like it was trying not to be noticed.
I stood. Legs shaky. Muscles confused.
But it wasn't just my body that felt unfamiliar.
It was everything.
---
Let's rewind.
Back home, I was Zane Kingsley.
Twenty-three. Gen-Z survivor. Amateur philosopher. Professional disappointment. My career plan was something between "accidental millionaire" and "dies while microwaving a fork." I had a mom who worked night shifts, a sister too smart for our gene pool, and a long list of things I never finished.
College dropout. Rent dodger. Meme curator. Pizza enthusiast.
And now... corpse inhabitant?
Cool.
Totally fine.
---
I shuffled across the chamber, each step echoing too loudly, as if the room hadn't heard footsteps in centuries.
There was an ornate slab on the far wall. Carved into it, faint letters:
> VARELL DUSKSHADE
Blood of Shadows. Heir to Failure.
I stared at the name.
Then at the face carved above it.
Silver hair. Hollow eyes. A nose so sharp it could file your taxes. The resemblance wasn't exact, but the face was familiar.
Familiar in the way dreams sometimes borrow your face and make it wrong.
"…Who is he?" I whispered.
> "You, now." the voice answered. "Varell Duskshade. Noble-born. Academy washout. Last seen drowning in a fishpond during what can only be described as a magical temper tantrum. Dead. Until now. Congrats."
I stared at the inscription again.
Blood of Shadows? That sounded way too emo.
And heir to failure?
Yeah, that part made sense.
---
I left the tomb.
Or tried to.
The doors were too big. Everything in this place was designed for drama. I half expected a choir to burst into song the moment I pushed the stone open.
What I got instead was a hallway.
Cold. Long. Lined with flickering torches and portraits that seemed to glare at me like I'd just farted during a funeral.
I wandered, because what else do you do when you've apparently hijacked a dead noble's body and there's no internet?
Eventually, I found a window.
And the world outside… didn't make sense.
Not at first.
The sky wasn't blue. It was… layered. Like canvas peeled back and stitched with light. Strange islands floated in the air, bound by metal chains glowing with runes. Towers climbed impossibly high, then bent sideways like they'd changed their minds halfway through construction.
And below…
A city.
Sprawling. Alive. Buzzing with carriages drawn by creatures that had way too many legs. People in cloaks. Magic in the air, thick and humming like a broken radio station you couldn't turn off.
I stared for a long time.
This wasn't Earth.
This wasn't anything.
---
> "Welcome to Eldryn," the voice finally said.
"You're going to hate it."
I leaned against the window frame, mind spiraling through every possible explanation.
Dream? Hallucination? Long-con prank show?
None of it fit.
Nothing felt artificial.
Which left one option:
This was real.
I was here.
And I wasn't me anymore.
---
> "Want the bad news?" the voice offered helpfully.
"You're enrolled at Blackstone Academy. Again. And no one's going to be happy to see you."
"Why?" I asked aloud.
> "Because the last time you were here, you almost killed someone with a chair. And screamed 'witness me!' before vanishing into a lake."
I blinked.
"…Was it a cool chair?"
> "It was on fire."
I paused.
"…Okay, that does sound like me."
---
I didn't know what to think.
I didn't know what to feel.
Some people dream of escaping their life. Running from the dull, the boring, the broken.
I never thought I'd succeed.
But now, here I was—in a stolen body, in a magical world, with a voice in my head that had the tone of a Reddit mod.
My thoughts drifted back to Earth.
To Mom.
To Lila.
To the tuna sandwich I'd left half-eaten on the counter.
I closed my eyes.
Not out of sadness.
But out of exhaustion.
Because something told me this wasn't just a new beginning.
It was a punishment.