Marcus Webb died on a Tuesday.
He remembered it clearly—crossing the street near his high school, backpack heavy with books, mind wandering. Then the screech of tires. Metal flashing in the sunlight. A single, detached thought: Oh. That truck can't stop in time.
Impact.
Darkness.
The end.
Except it wasn't.
Marcus opened his eyes to wooden beams overhead. Morning light streamed through windows with real glass panes—not the vinyl blinds from his bedroom. The air smelled different. Cleaner. No exhaust fumes or city smog. Birds sang close by, their voices sharp and clear instead of distant background noise.
This isn't my room.
He sat up slowly. Something felt wrong. His body was lighter. Smaller. Everything felt off. He looked down at his hands.
They weren't his hands.
These hands were smaller. Smoother. No callus on the left thumb from grabbing a hot pan. No scar on the right wrist from the neighbor's cat.
These aren't my hands.
Marcus's breathing quickened. He threw off the blanket—thick, hand-stitched wool—and stumbled to his feet. The room tilted. Everything was lower than it should be. His center of gravity was completely wrong.
A mirror hung on the wall. Polished metal, not glass.
The face staring back was thirteen to fifteen years old.
Dark hair, almost black, falling just above his ears. Storm-gray eyes too large for his face. Sharp cheekbones that hadn't quite grown into themselves yet. A stranger's face.
"No," Marcus whispered. Even his voice was wrong—higher, younger. "No, no, no—"
A knock at the door. "Luther? You awake?"
Marcus spun around, heart pounding. The door opened before he could answer. A young man stepped inside—maybe nineteen or twenty, with warm brown skin, dark curly hair, and an easy smile that faded when he saw Marcus's expression.
"Hey, you okay?" The stranger's face creased with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
'I am a ghost,' Marcus thought wildly. 'Or he is. Or we both are.'
But then something strange happened. Information flooded his mind—memories that weren't his, rising up like water:
Cassian. Brother. Older brother. Works with Father in the merchant business. Kind. Patient. Protective. Taught me to tie knots when I was seven. Always sneaks me extra dessert when Mother isn't looking.
Except Marcus had never learned knots from anyone named Cassian. Marcus had never had siblings at all. He'd grown up in foster care, bouncing between homes until he aged out at eighteen. The streets had been hard, but he'd survived. He'd gotten his GED, found a part-time job, enrolled in community college. He was going to make something of himself.
And then a truck had ended everything.
"Luther?" Cassian stepped closer, reaching out. "Are you sick? You've been sleeping for almost twelve hours. Mother was getting worried."
Marcus flinched back.
Hurt flashed across Cassian's face before he hid it. "Right. I'll... I'll let Mother know you're awake. Breakfast should be ready soon."
He left, closing the door gently behind him.
Marcus stood alone in the unfamiliar room, staring at his unfamiliar hands, trapped in an unfamiliar body.
'What the hell is happening to me?'
He spent the next hour sitting on the bed, trying to make sense of everything.
The facts:
Marcus Webb had died. He remembered the truck, the impact, the end. He'd woken up in someone else's body. A boy named Luther, thirteen to fifteen years old. Luther had a family. A life. Memories that Marcus could somehow access. The original Luther was... gone. Marcus could feel the emptiness. This body had belonged to Luther, but whatever made Luther himself—his consciousness, his soul—wasn't here anymore.
Marcus had stolen a dead boy's life.
Or been given it.
Or... something.
'Why? How? Is this reincarnation? Am I in a coma somewhere, dying in a hospital bed?'
He pressed his palms against his eyes. The big questions could wait. Right now, he had a more immediate problem:
There was a family downstairs who thought he was their son.
Another knock, softer this time. "Luther? Sweetheart, breakfast is getting cold."
A woman's voice. Mother. Elara, the borrowed memories supplied. Father's wife. Married him fifteen years ago. Makes honey cakes on Sundays. Sings while she works. Calls me sweetheart. Loves me.
Except she didn't love Marcus. She loved Luther, who was gone.
"Coming," Marcus called, his voice cracking.
He stood carefully, still adjusting to this body's different size and balance. He was shorter now. Thinner. Younger. Three years of his life just... erased.
He opened the door and forced himself to walk downstairs.
The dining room was warm and bright, filled with the smell of fresh bread. A worn wooden table dominated the space. Four places were set.
Father Aldren sat at the head of the table—broad-shouldered, gray at the temples, wearing practical merchant's clothes. He looked up when Marcus entered, and his weathered face broke into a smile.
"There's my youngest son," he said warmly. "Feeling better? Your brother said you seemed unwell."
"I'm fine," Marcus managed.
Mother Elara bustled over from the kitchen, carrying a basket of bread. She was maybe forty, with the same gray eyes as this body, dark hair pulled back in a practical braid. She set down the basket and immediately pressed her hand to Marcus's forehead.
The touch was gentle. Maternal. Full of real concern.
Marcus went rigid.
"No fever," she murmured, frowning. "Are you sure you're alright, sweetheart? You've been sleeping so much lately."
Lately? Marcus thought. How long was Luther unconscious before I woke up?
"Just tired," he said.
Cassian was already seated, watching with that same careful concern from before. The family's worry was obvious—they were concerned about Luther. About something that had been happening before Marcus arrived.
"Sit, sit," Father Aldren gestured to an empty chair. "Your mother made sweetbread. Your favorite."
Marcus sat. Mother Elara placed food on his plate—sweetbread with soft cheese and honey. Everyone else was already eating, talking easily:
Father discussing a shipment of spices from the Second District. Cassian mentioning a potential silk client. Mother adding notes about household expenses, managing the business side with quiet skill.
It was comfortable. Natural. The rhythm of a family that genuinely liked each other.
Marcus forced himself to take a bite of the sweetbread. It was good—rich and sweet, probably delicious if he could actually taste it properly.
To him, it tasted like guilt.
"Luther?" Mother Elara's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're not eating."
He looked down. He'd been holding the same piece of bread for several minutes, taking tiny, mechanical bites.
"Sorry. I'm just—"
"Distracted?" Father Aldren's eyes were kind but searching. "You've been distant lately, son. If something's wrong, you can tell us."
'Something's wrong? Your actual son is dead and I'm a seventeen-year-old orphan from another world wearing his body.'
"I'm fine," Marcus repeated.
The words sounded hollow even to him.
Cassian and his parents exchanged glances—the kind of silent communication that came from years together. Mother Elara reached across the table and gently covered Marcus's hand with hers.
"We love you," she said simply. "Whatever's going on, we're here."
The words hit like a punch.
They loved him. Genuinely, completely loved him. But they loved Luther, not Marcus. They were offering comfort to a stranger wearing their son's face, and they had no idea.
Marcus carefully pulled his hand back. "May I be excused? I'm not very hungry."
Father Aldren frowned. "You've barely eaten—"
"Please."
Something in his voice made them all pause. Mother Elara's face fell. Cassian looked away. Father Aldren studied Marcus with an expression of concern and hurt.
"Of course," Aldren said quietly. "Go rest."
Marcus stood, nearly knocking over his chair. He forced himself to walk, not run, back to his room. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard.
'This is wrong. I can't do this. I can't pretend to be their son.'
But what was the alternative? Tell them the truth? 'Hi, I'm actually Marcus from another world, your real son is dead, surprise!'
They'd think he was insane. Or possessed. Or—
Wait.
Marcus straightened. Possession. Body-swapping. These were concepts from stories, from fiction. But if he was actually living through it, if this was real, then maybe...
Maybe this world had answers.
Maybe there was a reason this happened. Maybe someone, somewhere, would understand.
He went to the small desk in the corner—Luther's desk—and started opening drawers. Personal items: a few coins, a half-finished letter to someone named Jaren, a small carved wooden bird.
No diary. No journal. Nothing that would tell him about Luther's inner thoughts before Marcus arrived.
But in the bottom drawer, tucked beneath old school papers, Marcus found something unexpected: an envelope.
The paper was thick, expensive—too expensive for a merchant family's youngest son. The envelope was sealed with black wax, stamped with a symbol Marcus didn't recognize: a circle divided into seven segments, each containing a different mark.
The front of the envelope simply read: Luther Aldren - Open when the dreams become unbearable.
Marcus's hands trembled slightly. Dreams. Luther had been having dreams?
He broke the seal and pulled out the letter inside. The handwriting was elegant but hurried, as if someone had written it quickly:
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If you're reading this, then the dreams have started. I'm sorry. I wish I could have protected you from this, but some things are written in blood and bone, passed down whether we want them or not.
You need to understand something: you are not going mad. The dreams are real. Fragments of memory from lives that came before—not yours, but connected to you nonetheless.
There are seven seals. Seven locks that keep something imprisoned. Our bloodline is tied to the fourth seal. When you dream, you're seeing echoes of what was sealed away long ago. And if the dreams are getting worse, it means something is changing. Something is waking up.
Things you must remember:
1. Trust no one who speaks of "the Convergence" with reverence. They serve what was sealed, not what should remain locked.
2. If the mark appears on your left shoulder—a circle divided into seven—do not let anyone see it. Especially not those who claim to want to help.
I know this makes no sense right now. It will. Too soon, probably.
Burn this letter after you read it. Keep the seal. You may need it.
Stay safe. Stay hidden. And for the love of the old gods, don't trust anyone who knows too much about you without you telling them.
—E.A.
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Marcus read the letter three times, his heart pounding harder with each pass.
Luther had been having dreams. Strange dreams. Dreams about... what? Past lives? Sealed things? What the hell was a "Convergence"?
And more importantly—had these dreams been connected to whatever happened to Luther? To why Marcus was here now, wearing his body?
He looked down at his left shoulder—Luther's left shoulder. He couldn't see anything through the shirt, but something made him pull it aside.
The skin was unmarked. No circle. No seven segments. Nothing.
But as he stared at the blank skin, a chill ran down his spine. Because he could almost feel something there. Like a brand waiting to appear. Like something lurking just beneath the surface.
Marcus quickly pulled his shirt back into place.
'What the hell did I land in the middle of?'
This wasn't just a body-swap. This wasn't just waking up in another world. Luther hadn't been some random kid. He'd been having prophetic dreams, connected to some ancient bloodline curse, tied to something called "seals" and "Convergences" and—
A knock at the door made Marcus jump.
"Luther?" Cassian's voice. "Can I come in?"
Marcus quickly shoved the letter back into the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. "Yeah. Come in."
Cassian entered with two steaming mugs. "Thought you might want some tea. Mother's blend. Helps with... well, lots of things."
He offered one mug. Marcus took it, his mind still racing.
Cassian leaned against the doorframe, studying Marcus carefully. "You've been different lately. The last few weeks. Quieter. More distant. The nightmares are getting worse, aren't they?"
Marcus froze. "Nightmares?"
"You've been screaming in your sleep," Cassian said quietly. "Mother wanted to call a healer, but Father said to give you space. He said..." He hesitated. "He said you'd tell us when you were ready."
Luther had been having nightmares. Bad enough that he screamed. Bad enough that the family noticed.
"I'm fine," Marcus said automatically.
Cassian's expression said he didn't believe that for a second. "Luther, listen. You're my brother. Whatever's happening to you, you don't have to face it alone."
"I'm just going through some stuff," Marcus managed to say.
Cassian nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But little brother? Whatever's going on, you don't have to handle it alone. I know I can be pushy sometimes, but I'm here. We all are. You're family, Luther. Always have been, always will be."
The sincerity in his voice was painful.
"I know," Marcus said.
Cassian smiled, relieved. "Good. Now drink your tea before it gets cold. Mother will kill me if she finds out I let it go to waste."
He left, closing the door gently.
Marcus stood alone again, the envelope burning a hole in his pocket.
'I'm not Luther,' he thought. 'I'm Marcus Webb. I grew up in foster care, died in a truck accident, and woke up in the body of a kid who was apparently connected to some ancient sealed-away nightmare.'
He pulled out the letter again, staring at the warning: If the mark appears on your left shoulder—do not let anyone see it.
'Whatever happened to Luther, whatever these dreams and seals mean, I'm stuck with it now. This body, this legacy, this curse—it's all mine whether I want it or not.'
He looked at himself in the mirror. Luther's face stared back, young and confused and completely foreign.
'First, I survive this family without breaking down. Then, I figure out what's happening to this body—to me. The dreams, the seals, the Convergence, all of it.'
'And maybe, just maybe, I'll find out if this is why I'm here. If there's a reason a dead orphan from another world ended up in the body of a boy connected to something ancient and dangerous.'
Outside, he could hear the family moving through their day. Normal sounds. Comfortable sounds.
But Marcus knew now that nothing about this situation was normal.
The tea went cold in his hands.
And Marcus Webb, wearing Luther's face like a mask, began planning how to survive a life that wasn't his while unraveling a mystery that might get him killed.
END OF CHAPTER ONE