The ceiling above was painted with soft golden vines. The curtains were velvet red, drawn to the sides like they were welcoming the morning sun. The bed beneath me was far too soft, and the air smelled faintly of lilies and stone.
I was awake. Truly, fully awake.
But I didn't move. My arms were limp at my sides, my eyes locked on the ceiling above me, and my breathing slow. It was quiet here. Too quiet. Like the calm before something breaks.
My mind spun in chaos. I had died—no, I knew I had died. I remembered the sound of screeching tires, the music blasting in my ears, the blue light of my phone screen illuminating a novel's title I never got to finish.
The Blessed One's Chronicles.
And now I was here.
I sat up, slowly. My hands—slender, paler than I remembered—trembled as I brought them before my face. There were no wires, no scars from an accident, no blood.
But this wasn't me. Or rather, not the Raon I had lived as.
This body felt foreign. And yet, familiar in a strange, frightening way.
The door creaked open.
"...You're awake."
A woman stepped in. Tall, elegant, sharp-featured. Her hair was tied up into a perfect twist, not a strand out of place. She wore a high-collared robe the color of flame, stitched with the Ashbourne crest—a phoenix engulfed in rising fire.
She was beautiful. Undeniably so. But not warm. Not even a little.
Her eyes drifted over me like she were inspecting a stain.
"You should prepare. The morning training session begins shortly."
I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say. A greeting? A question?
She didn't give me the chance.
"Lucen is already downstairs."
Lucen.
That name hit harder than it should've.
The protagonist. The one who had it all—the blazing prodigy, the golden son. And me? Draco Ashbourne. The footnote. The shadow twin.
I watched her turn, robes flowing behind her like fire in the wind.
She didn't ask how I was. Didn't touch me. Didn't even say 'welcome back' after I'd apparently been unconscious for days.
Just… walked out.
The door shut with a click that felt final.
I sat there in silence, my heart heavy.
She had the same title as my mother. But nothing else. She looked right through me.
And it hurt. More than it should have. More than it had any right to.
In my old world, my mother would have sat by my bed all night if I'd so much as caught a cold. My dad would've joked about my "training accident" and brought me soup. They would have cared.
But here, I was already forgotten. A ghost in my own home.
By the time I dressed and stepped into the grand hallway, I could hear it—laughter.
Lucen's.
It echoed from the training yard, light and full of life. Servants passed me without a word, bowing politely, but never stopping. The corridor stretched long, decorated in scarlet and gold—symbols of the fire-aligned Ashbourne legacy.
I followed the sound. Each step felt heavier.
The training yard was massive—burnt marks on the tiles, practice dummies reduced to scorched wood, elemental sigils glowing faintly around the border.
Lucen stood in the center, flame dancing between his fingers as if it were a plaything.
Father stood beside him, arms crossed. Tall, muscular, red cloak wrapped around broad shoulders. His eyes gleamed with pride.
"Excellent form," he said. "Now again."
Lucen grinned and let the fire bloom into a wave that curled around the dummy and turned it to ash.
"Show-off," one of the retainers whispered with admiration.
Father clapped once. "That's my son!"
My chest twisted.
I knew this scene. I had read this scene. This was one of Lucen's early showcases—his fire affinity was rare, almost divine. It impressed the academy scouts long before entrance.
And me?
I stood at the edge of the yard, unseen.
No, ignored.
Father's eyes swept across the yard once. Briefly landed on me.
And moved on.
No greeting. No question.
Just as hollow as her.
Something inside me fractured.
I turned around without a word. Back down the corridor. My steps quickened. I didn't know where I was going—anywhere but here.
Eventually, I found myself in a hallway I didn't recognize. It was dimmer here. Less polished. Forgotten, like the child who now stood in it.
A mirror hung at the end of the hall.
I stepped in front of it.
The reflection showed a boy of sixteen. White hair falling across his forehead. Skin ghostly pale—almost translucent. A thin frame. Hollowed eyes.
He looked like a stranger.
Like someone who didn't belong in this family of golden fire.
I reached out and touched the glass.
"Draco Ashbourne," I whispered.
It didn't feel right on my tongue.
But neither did Raon.
I wasn't sure who I was anymore.
I returned to my room only when the corridors emptied. I sat by the window, watching the horizon.
There were no answers. No warmth.
Just the feeling of being… wrong.
And yet, somehow, I knew.
This world—this cruel, cold world—was my reality now.
But I wouldn't let it crush me.
Not yet.
My hand drifted to my chest. I closed my eyes and whispered to the silent air,
"…Mom, Dad. I miss you."