He was asleep, or something close to it. Not dreaming — just drifting.
But the flood came anyway. Another torrent of memories surged into his head, seeping into him like cold water through old stone. They weren't his, not exactly, but they settled like they'd always belonged.
He saw the halls again. Marbled, ancient, heavy with the burden of lineage. The Chronobloodline — chosen descendants of the Time God himself. They called the family one of the most powerful in the Northern Lands, and for good reason. Time bent for them. Empires stopped ticking when they raised their hands.
All of them were monsters in flesh. All of them… except one.
The lion cub that didn't roar. The stunted heir. The cursed one.
Him.
Avin Nulla-Chrono.
Not even granted the family's full name. No Kyra, the middle title passed down to mark those worthy of ruling time. His blood was "tainted," his birth a whisper of scandal. A mistake his father refused to acknowledge, except to say: "He's the reason they laugh at us now."
His own father — the same man who'd betrayed the family to sleep with Avin's mother — now treated him as rot clinging to the roots of their legacy. That man created him, then discarded him like a moldy page in the family Catalogue. Avin's childhood was spent in that same Catalogue — not for punishment, but desperation.
He searched endlessly through scrolls, artefacts, and forbidden texts. Looking for a sliver of borrowed greatness. A shortcut to power. Anything that might let him claw back the honor that had never been his.
And that's when he found it.
A book.
No cover. No title. Not even visible pages.
But it breathed. It called.
His head throbbed. In the present, lying helpless, the sharp pulse of that ancient memory drove into his skull like a drill. His jaw clenched. His face twisted with anger not his own — or maybe it was, now. Avin's rage felt like a parasite that had decided to stay.
That's when he felt it again.
Pain at his scalp. Hands in his hair.
He was being dragged across the battlefield.
His body scraped against the bones of the fallen, ribs and femurs crunching under his weight like splintered chalk. His cheek smeared against damp, congealed blood that stuck to his skin like glue. Something rancid filled the air — rot and iron, the kind of stench that made your throat clench instinctively.
And the man dragging him was the same brute as before. Ashborn.
He wanted to scream, to push away, to say stop, but his limbs were heavy with sleep and his soul too exhausted to argue. His eyelids fluttered as they entered what looked like a large tent — military-style, lined with deep red cloth and the cold scent of sweat-soaked armor.
Inside were rows of armored soldiers — knights, he guessed — standing in rigid formation. At the head stood someone he recognized.
Leo.
The knight commander who was once meant to train Avin.
Who had instead spent years humiliating him.
Every knight stood at attention as Ashborn stomped in, dragging his battered body across the carpet like dead weight. Leo stepped forward with mock decorum and saluted.
Leo:
"It seems you brought back… the young Lord with you, Sir Ashborn."
Ashborn:
"Yeah. He thought he was special even though he's far from it.
The gods don't favor failures like him…
But I admire his blind confidence, I guess."
Silence settled like dust between them. Then, without a word, Ashborn and Leo moved into the second partition of the tent — closing the flap behind them.
He lay still. His chest ached. His body was in shock from it being both impaled and then regenrated all in the span of less than an hour. His mind all messed up from the memories slowly seeping in and the traumatic experience with the eye... His random reminiscing spree that reminded him of how much of scum he was in his world.. his peaceful world. All these facters sought to pin him down with pain, but curiosity burned hotter than pain.
"That's weird…"
He squinted toward the flap. "What the hell are they whispering about?"
At first, all he heard were muffled voices. Garbled tones. His pulse spiked.
"I wish I could hea—"
Then everything snapped into place.
Suddenly, the world drowned out. All sound died, except the exact conversation happening behind the curtain. His ears felt… tuned, unnaturally precise. Like the air itself wanted him to hear.
Leo:
"So… what do we do with him?"
Ashborn (chuckling):
"We could just chop him up. Sell the parts. Might fetch us some good booze money."
Leo:
"Really? But… won't the Lord say anything?"
Ashborn (sighing):
"You worry too much. He won't even remember him. It'd be weird if he did, actually. I mean… you know… because—"
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT
Pain exploded behind his eyes. The sound vanished, replaced by a screaming ring that felt like it was splitting his head in two.
"AH — FUCK."
No one turned.
He was curled up on the ground, groaning, one hand pressed against his temple — and none of the knights gave a single damn.
He began to understand more and more of Avin's stand in his family... In all of the Northern Lands
His brows furrowed. Rage boiled underneath the hurt.
"I'm not so dense or stupid that I don't get what they're saying…
They want to sell me. For scraps? Organs? Weapons fodder?...For Alcohol? Do I mean that llittle?"
"I need to get out of here."
Then he heard heavy boots returning.
Ashborn stepped back into the main room, Leo right behind him. His eyes fell lazily on Avin still writhing on the floor.
He sighs and his look turns into something different... softer, more empathetic.
It was worry, or pity or maybe it was disgust maybe he isn't that ba-
"…Time to go to sleep again."
A shadow rose over him.
His boot lifted. Caked in dirt, streaked with dried blood.
Hovering just above a Avin's broken face.
"Oh fu-"
HIT
Then—
Darkness.
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