Marcus didn't sleep that night.
He lay in Luther's bed, staring at the wooden beams overhead, the letter hidden under his pillow like a loaded gun. Every time he closed his eyes, he half-expected dreams that weren't his—visions of seals and convergences and things that should stay locked away.
But nothing came. Just darkness and the sound of his own breathing.
Maybe the dreams only came to Luther. Maybe whatever connection the original consciousness had to those sealed things had died with him.
Or maybe Marcus just hadn't triggered it yet.
The thought wasn't comforting.
When pale morning light finally crept through the window, Marcus gave up on sleep. He sat up, pulled out the letter again, and read it by the gray dawn.
You are not going mad. The dreams are real.
But Marcus wasn't having dreams. Luther had been having them—screaming in his sleep
Don't trust anyone who knows too much about you without you telling them.
That was easy enough. Marcus didn't know anyone here. He was a stranger in a stolen life, pretending to be someone he wasn't.
He looked down at his left shoulder again, pulling the nightshirt aside. Still unmarked. Still normal.
But the letter said "if the mark appears"—not when. Which meant it might not happen. Or it might happen tomorrow. Or it might—
A soft knock at the door made him jump.
"Luther?" Mother Elara's voice, gentle and concerned. "Are you awake, sweetheart?"
Marcus quickly stuffed the letter back under his pillow. "Yeah. I'm up."
The door opened a crack, and Elara peered in. Her eyes were tired, like she hadn't slept much either. "I thought I heard you moving around. Are you feeling alright?"
"I'm fine."
She studied him for a long moment, then stepped fully into the room. "You've been saying that a lot lately. 'I'm fine.' But you're not, are you?"
Marcus's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her the truth—that her son was gone, that he was an imposter, that nothing about this situation was fine. But the words stuck.
Elara sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. "When you were small, you used to have nightmares. Do you remember?"
Marcus shook his head, then realized she was talking about Luther's early days with the family. He searched through the borrowed memories, found fragments: Five years old. Scared. Woke up screaming about fire and darkness. Mother Elara would sit with me until I fell back asleep.
"You do remember," Elara said softly, reading something in his expression. "You were so small. So frightened. It took months before you could sleep through the night." She reached out and gently brushed his hair back. "The nightmares eventually stopped. We thought you'd healed. But lately..."
"Lately they're back," Marcus finished quietly.
"Are they?" Her gray eyes—the same color as Luther's, as his now—searched his face. "The same nightmares? Or something new?"
'Something new,' Marcus thought. 'Something about seals and convergences and bloodlines. Something that started a few weeks ago, right before I arrived.'
"I don't really remember them," he said, which was technically true. He wasn't having the dreams. Luther had been.
Elara's expression suggested she didn't quite believe him, but she didn't push. "If you want to talk about it—about anything—we're here. You know that, right?"
"I know."
She stood, smoothing her skirts. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Your father wants to discuss something with you."
Marcus's stomach dropped. "Discuss what?"
"Nothing bad," Elara assured him, though her smile was strained. "Just... family matters. Come down when you're ready."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Marcus sat alone in the quiet room, dread settling in his chest like a stone.
Family matters. What did that mean? Had they noticed something wrong? Did they suspect he wasn't really Luther?
He dressed quickly, pulling on the clothes laid out on a chair—simple trousers and a tunic, practical merchant-class clothing. His hands shook slightly as he fastened the buttons.
'Get it together,' he told himself.
But this was different. Those other challenges had been his own. This was wearing a dead boy's face and lying to people who loved him.
He took a deep breath, checked his shoulder one more time—still unmarked—and headed downstairs.
The dining room was quieter than yesterday. Father Aldren sat at the head of the table, reading what looked like a ledger. Cassian was already eating, but slowly, like he wasn't really hungry. Mother Elara moved between the kitchen and table, setting out food with unusual precision.
Everyone looked tense.
Marcus slid into his seat, and three pairs of eyes immediately focused on him.
"Morning," he said awkwardly.
"Good morning, Luther." Father Aldren closed the ledger and set it aside. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine."
Cassian snorted softly. Elara shot him a look.
"Right." Aldren folded his hands on the table. "I wanted to talk to you about something important."
Here it comes, Marcus thought. They know. Somehow they figured it out and now—
"Your apprenticeship," Aldren said.
Marcus blinked. "My... what?"
"Your apprenticeship," Aldren repeated, frowning slightly. "With Master Korvin at the Third District workshops. You've been talking about it for months, son. The placement I arranged for you."
Memories surged forward, disjointed and incomplete: Master Korvin. Craftsman. Works with wood and metal. Father pulled strings to get me a spot. I was supposed to start next month. Learn a trade. Have a future beyond just working in the family business.
"Oh," Marcus said. "Right. The apprenticeship."
Aldren's frown deepened. "Luther, are you sure you're alright? You seem... distracted. More than usual."
"I'm just tired."
"You've been tired for weeks," Cassian interjected. "You've barely been yourself. You're forgetting things, spacing out in the middle of conversations..." He trailed off, looking worried.
Luther was forgetting things. Before Marcus arrived. Before the consciousness swap. Which meant whatever had been happening to Luther—the dreams, the seal, the bloodline curse—had been affecting him even before the end.
"I'm sorry," Marcus said, which felt inadequate but was all he could offer.
Elara reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "We're not angry, sweetheart. We're worried. This apprenticeship is a big opportunity, but if you're not ready—"
"I'm ready," Marcus said quickly. Because whatever Luther had been before, Marcus needed this. He needed a way to learn about this world, to understand how things worked, to figure out if there were answers to impossible questions like why am I here and what happened to the real Luther.
And an apprenticeship meant access. To information. To people who knew about crafts and trades and, hopefully, the strange things that existed in this world.
Aldren studied him for a long moment. "Master Korvin expects you in three days. He's not known for his patience. If you show up unprepared or distracted, he'll dismiss you immediately. And I won't be able to get you another placement."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Aldren's voice was gentle but firm. "Because this isn't just about learning a trade, Luther. This is about your future. About proving you can commit to something. You've been..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You've been struggling lately. With focus. With follow-through. I need to know you're serious about this."
The unspoken question hung in the air: Are you capable of this right now?
Marcus met Aldren's eyes—Luther's father, not his, but the concern there was real. "I'm serious. I'll be ready."
Aldren nodded slowly. "Good. Then we'll prepare. Cassian will help you review the basics—measurements, tools, safety protocols. Your mother will make sure you have appropriate work clothes. And you..." He pointed at Marcus. "You will get proper sleep and stop whatever it is that's been keeping you up at night."
If only it were that simple.
"I will," Marcus lied.
Breakfast continued in somewhat lighter spirits after that, though Marcus could still feel the weight of their concern. They thought Luther was going through something—stress, maybe, or illness. They had no idea their son was gone and a stranger had taken his place.
The guilt was crushing.
After breakfast, Cassian pulled Marcus aside. "Come on. Let's go to the workshop. I'll show you what you'll be working with."
"Workshop?"
"Father's storage building. He keeps supplies there—wood samples, metal pieces, tools. I figured we could go through the basics so you're not completely lost when you meet Master Korvin."
Marcus followed Cassian out of the house and across the small courtyard to a sturdy wooden building. Inside, it smelled of sawdust and oil. Tools hung on the walls in neat rows. Stacks of lumber leaned against one corner. A workbench dominated the center, scarred and stained from years of use.
"Alright." Cassian picked up a hammer and held it out. "Tell me what this is."
"A hammer."
"Good start. What kind?"
Marcus stared at it. The borrowed memories offered nothing. Luther apparently hadn't spent much time actually learning about tools yet.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Cassian's expression softened. "It's a claw hammer. For pulling nails. See the split end?" He demonstrated, then set it down and picked up another tool. "This?"
"...A saw?"
"What kind of saw?"
"I don't know."
They went through a dozen more tools. Marcus got maybe half of them right, and even then only because the borrowed memories occasionally supplied a fragment of information.
Cassian finally set down the last tool and leaned against the workbench. "Luther, you need to be honest with me. Do you actually want this apprenticeship?"
"Yes."
"Then why don't you know any of this? You've been talking about learning a trade for a year. You've been in this workshop dozens of times. You should know at least the basic tools."
Because I'm not Luther, Marcus thought. Because I'm a stranger who showed up two days ago with a dead boy's memories and no idea how to use them properly.
"I've been distracted," he said aloud.
"By what? The nightmares?"
Marcus hesitated, then nodded. It was the easiest explanation.
Cassian's expression shifted to concern. "Are they really that bad?"
"I don't remember them clearly. Just... fragments. Weird images. Things that don't make sense."
"Have you told Father and Mother?"
"They know I'm having nightmares."
"But do they know how bad it is?" Cassian pressed. "Luther, if something's seriously wrong—if you're sick or cursed or something—we need to get you help. There are healers, wisewomen, even the church if it comes to that."
Cursed. The word hung between them.
Marcus's hand unconsciously moved toward his left shoulder, then stopped. "I'm not cursed."
"How do you know?"
"I just do."
Cassian didn't look convinced. "Look, I'm not trying to scare you. But you've been acting strange for weeks. Forgetting things, spacing out, screaming in your sleep. That's not normal. And now you can't even remember basic tools you've seen a hundred times?"
Because I haven't seen them, Marcus wanted to scream. Because I'm not your brother. Because your real brother is gone and I don't know why or how or what I'm supposed to do about it.
Instead, he said, "I'll do better. I'll study. I'll be ready for the apprenticeship."
Cassian searched his face. "You're hiding something."
Marcus's heart skipped. "What?"
"I don't know what it is. But you're hiding something. Ever since those nightmares started, you've been... different. Like you're not really here." He straightened. "Luther, if you're in trouble—real trouble—you can tell me. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together."
The offer was genuine. Kind. Exactly what a good older brother would say.
And it made everything worse.
"I'm not in trouble," Marcus lied. "I'm just stressed about the apprenticeship."
"Then let's fix that." Cassian picked up the hammer again. "We have three days. I'll teach you everything you need to know. But you have to actually pay attention this time. Deal?"
Marcus nodded. "Deal."
They spent the next several hours going through tools, materials, basic measurements. Cassian was patient, explaining things multiple times when Marcus forgot or got confused. The borrowed memories helped sometimes—offering random fragments about wood grain or tool maintenance—but mostly Marcus just had to learn from scratch.
It was exhausting. Not just the information, but the constant act of pretending. Of being Luther. Of responding to "little brother" and accepting casual touches—a hand on his shoulder, a playful shove—from someone who thought they knew him.
By late afternoon, Marcus's head was pounding.
"That's enough for today," Cassian finally said. "You look dead on your feet."
Dead. The word sent an uncomfortable chill through Marcus.
"Thanks for teaching me," he said.
"That's what big brothers are for." Cassian ruffled Marcus's hair, and Marcus had to fight not to flinch. "Go rest. We'll do more tomorrow."
Marcus escaped back to his room, closed the door, and immediately pulled out the letter again.
You are not going mad. The dreams are real.
But he wasn't having dreams. So what did that mean?
He stared at his left shoulder again. Still nothing.
'Maybe it won't happen,' he thought. 'Maybe whatever connection Luther had to the seals died with him. Maybe I'm safe.'
But even as he thought it, he didn't believe it. Nothing about this situation was safe. He was living on borrowed time in a borrowed body with a borrowed family, and somewhere out there, something was waking up. Something connected to seven seals and convergences and bloodlines.
And whether he wanted it or not, Marcus was part of it now.
He folded the letter carefully and hid it in the bottom drawer again, beneath the old school papers.
Then he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly, reluctantly.
And when it finally came, Marcus dreamed.
Not his dreams.
Luther's dreams.
He stood in darkness. Not the comfortable darkness of a room at night, but absolute darkness—a void where no light had ever existed.
Seven circles floated before him, arranged in a pattern he somehow recognized. Each circle contained symbols he couldn't read but understood anyway. Each circle pulsed with a different colored light.
One by one, the circles went dark.
First. Second. Third.
The fourth circle—pulsing with deep red light—suddenly flared brighter. The symbols within it began to move, rearranging themselves into new patterns.
A voice spoke from everywhere and nowhere:
"The fourth seal weakens. The Inheritor wakes. The Convergence approaches."
Pain exploded in Marcus's left shoulder. He looked down and saw the skin burning, saw the mark appearing—a circle divided into seven segments, one of them glowing red.
"You cannot run from what you are," the voice continued. "You cannot hide from what was written in your blood."
The darkness pressed in closer. Suffocating. Crushing.
"Three cycles remain. Find the Rememberer. Learn what was sealed. Or become what was sealed."
The mark on his shoulder burned hotter, brighter, until—
Marcus woke gasping, his left shoulder on fire.
He scrambled out of bed, nearly falling, and ripped his shirt aside.
The mark was there.
A circle divided into seven segments, perfectly etched into his skin like a brand. One segment—the fourth—glowed with a faint red light that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
"No," Marcus whispered. "No, no, no—"
But the mark didn't disappear. Didn't fade.
It was real.
The curse was real.
And whatever had been hunting Luther had found Marcus instead.
END OF CHAPTER TWO