The world was too bright, too loud, too much.
I knelt on the wet grass, my chest heaving, each breath a gift and a torment. The cold air scraped against my throat, a stark contrast to the stale death I'd been breathing moments before. Rain, a fine, misty drizzle, began to fall, plastering the dirt and grime from my grave to my skin and the fine black suit I wore.
The suit of a boy named Elian.
Screams and shouts echoed around me, a chaotic symphony of terror. Figures in dark, expensive clothes stumbled back, their faces pale, eyes wide as full moons. They were a portrait of horror, and I was the monster at its center.
"Get back! By the gods, it's a revenant!"
"Elian's spirit! He's come to curse us!"
"Someone call the city guard!"
Their words washed over me, meaningless. My focus was on the weight in my right hand. The dagger. It was still there, solid and real. Its silver blade gleamed even under the grey, cloudy sky, untouched by the dirt that coated me. A soft, warm pulse thrummed from it into my palm, a steady, calming rhythm that fought back the rising tide of my panic.
This is not my hand. The thought was distant, detached. The fingers gripping the dagger were long and slender, pale like someone who rarely saw the sun. They were not the calloused, strong hands of Aarion Vale, the village guardsman. These were the hands of a noble's son. A suicide.
Elian's memories surged again, a toxic wave of despair. I saw a tall, stern man with a face of stone—Baron Von Crest, Elian's father. I felt the crushing weight of his disappointment. I saw a lavish, cold bedroom, and the bitter taste of poison on my—his—tongue.
"No," I grunted, shaking my head, trying to physically dislodge the invading thoughts. "I am Aarion. I died protecting Lyra."
But the body I was in, the clothes I wore, the faces of the terrified mourners—they all screamed that I was Elian.
The crowd parted like a sea, and the stern man from my—Elian's—memory strode forward. Baron Von Crest. He was taller in person, his posture rigid, his face a mask of cold fury, not fear. His eyes, the color of flint, bore into me, devoid of the relief a father should have upon seeing his dead son breathing.
"What is this blasphemous spectacle?" his voice cut through the rain, sharp and commanding. "What manner of dark magic have you employed to defile my son's rest?"
He wasn't asking if I was okay. He wasn't weeping with joy. He was accusing me. Of what, I wasn't even sure.
I tried to speak, but my voice was a ragged croak. "I… I'm not…"
"Silence!" he barked, taking another step forward. His guards, two hulking men in the Von Crest livery, flanked him, hands on their sword hilts. "You wear my son's face, you crawl from his grave, but you are not my son. My son was weak. He would not have the will to claw his way back from the abyss."
The words were like a physical blow. I felt a pang of empathy for Elian. What kind of life had he lived, with a father like this?
"I don't know how this happened," I managed to say, my own voice sounding strange and foreign in my ears. It was higher than mine, smoother. "My name is Aarion."
A wave of muttering passed through the crowd. The Baron's lip curled in a sneer. "Aarion? A commoner's name. You are a madman, then. Or a demon wearing a stolen skin."
The dagger in my hand pulsed warmer, as if in disagreement. A strange certainty settled in my gut. This man, for all his power and bluster, was afraid. Afraid of the scandal, afraid of the supernatural event upsetting his ordered world.
"I am not a demon," I said, forcing strength into my new voice. I used the dagger as a crutch, pushing myself to my feet. My legs trembled, weak as a newborn foal's. "I was in the dark, and I fought my way out."
My eyes fell to the dagger. The Baron's gaze followed.
"And where did a grave-robber get a weapon like that?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing. "A soul-forged blade? Impossible for a wretch like you."
Soul-forged blade? The term was unfamiliar, yet it felt… right. It resonated with the feeling I had when it formed in my hand—a piece of my very being given physical shape.
Before I could respond, a new voice, softer but firm, interrupted.
"Baron. Perhaps this is a matter for the Astral Council, not the city guard."
An older man stepped from the crowd. He was dressed in simple but well-made grey robes, a stark contrast to the opulent mourning wear around him. He had a kind, weathered face and eyes that held a deep, intelligent light. He carried a simple wooden staff, but he held himself with an authority that didn't need to shout.
"Professor Helix," the Baron said, his tone slightly more respectful, though no less cold. "This is a family matter."
"Is it?" Professor Helix asked, his gaze sweeping over the shattered coffin and the dirt-covered boy—me—holding a magical dagger. "It seems to have transcended family matters. It smells of Spirit Realm interference. A soul displaced. A body… reoccupied. The Academy has jurisdiction here."
The Baron looked like he'd swallowed something sour. He clearly didn't like this, but he also seemed unwilling to argue with the Professor.
Professor Helix turned his calm eyes to me. "Young man. Can you tell me what you remember? Before the darkness."
I swallowed, my throat dry. The rain was coming down harder now, washing the grave dirt from my hair and onto my shoulders. I looked at the Professor, then at the hostile Baron, and finally at the dagger in my hand. It was my only ally in this nightmare.
"I remember dying," I said, my voice low. The words felt both true and surreal. "I was a guardsman. There was an attack… a demon, or something like it. I pushed my sister out of the way. I felt the blade… here." I gestured vaguely to my chest, where the memory of searing pain still lingered beneath the unmarked skin of Elian's body.
"I made a promise to protect her. Then… nothing. An eternity of nothing. Until I heard the voices, and I couldn't breathe." I looked the Professor directly in the eye, pleading for him to understand. "I'm not this Elian. My name is Aarion Vale."
The crowd was utterly silent now, hanging on every word. The Baron's face was a thundercloud.
Professor Helix simply nodded, as if I'd confirmed his suspicions. "Aarion. A powerful name. It means 'oath-keeper' in the old tongue." His eyes flicked to the dagger. "And the blade? Did you have it when you… awoke?"
I shook my head. "No. It came when… when I heard the voice."
"Voice?" the Professor prompted, his interest sharpening.
"A whisper. In my mind. It said… 'Breathe, my king.'" I felt foolish saying it out loud. A king? I was a guardsman from a backwater village.
But Professor Helix didn't laugh. His expression grew graver. He took a step closer, ignoring the Baron's sputter of protest. He studied the dagger, not with greed, but with academic fascination.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the weapon.
Hesitantly, I held it out. The moment my grip loosened, the dagger shimmered, its form becoming insubstantial like mist, and then it dissolved entirely into motes of silver light that flowed back into the palm of my hand. A warm sensation spread up my arm before fading.
A collective gasp went up from the crowd. Even the Baron took a step back.
Professor Helix, however, smiled a small, knowing smile. "As I thought. It is bound to your soul. A manifest will. A truly remarkable thing."
He turned to the Baron. "Baron Von Crest. This boy, whether he is your son or not, is now a living artifact of profound spiritual significance. He cannot be handled by the city guard. By the authority granted to me by Astralis Academy, I am taking him into my custody."
The Baron was fuming, but he was outmaneuvered. To argue would be to challenge the Academy, an institution whose influence stretched far beyond his noble title.
"Do what you will," the Baron spat, his voice dripping with venom. He turned his hateful gaze to me. "That thing is not my son. My son is dead. Take this… anomaly and be gone from my land. The Von Crest name is done with him."
With that, he spun on his heel and strode away, his guards following. The crowd, seeing the spectacle was over, began to disperse quickly, casting fearful and curious glances back at me.
Soon, it was just me, standing alone in the rain in the muddy graveyard, and the old Professor.
The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright suddenly vanished. My knees buckled. I would have collapsed back into the mud, but Professor Helix was suddenly there, his grip surprisingly strong on my arm.
"Easy, son," he said, his voice gentle. "You've been through an ordeal that would break most men. Twice over."
He guided me towards a simple, covered carriage waiting at the edge of the cemetery. It was not ornate like the ones the other nobles had arrived in.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, my voice trembling with exhaustion.
"To a place where you might find some answers," he said, helping me into the dry interior. "To Astralis Academy."
The name meant nothing to me, but it sounded safe. It sounded like a refuge.
As the carriage began to move, rattling along the cobblestone streets of a city I'd never seen, I leaned my head against the cool wood of the doorframe and closed my eyes. The images of my two lives swirled behind my eyelids—Lyra's smiling face, the demon's blade, Elian's bitter poison, the Baron's cold disdain.
I felt a profound, aching loneliness. I was a ghost in another man's life, a stranger in my own skin.
Then, a feeling. A presence. Not a voice this time, but a feeling. It emanated from deep within me, from the place the dagger had returned to. It was a feeling of warmth, of unwavering loyalty, of a promise remembered.
It felt like a hand holding mine in the dark.
You are not alone, it seemed to say.
Tears I didn't know I had been holding back finally welled in my eyes, mixing with the rain on my cheeks. In that moment, I wasn't a guardsman or a noble. I was just a lost soul.
But I had a weapon. I had a mysterious protector. And I had a promise to keep.
As the city passed by outside the window, a blur of grey stone and misty rain, I made a new vow, whispering it to the presence inside me.
"I will find out why I'm here," I promised the silence. "I will learn to use this power. And I will find a way back to you, Lyra. I swear it."
The dagger's warmth pulsed once in response, a silent oath in return. The journey had begun.