"Do not falter." someone shouted
Tons of arrows are flying everywhere—they fill my eyesight, a dark cloud of death against the crimson sky. My muscles burn with every movement, sweat mixing with dirt and blood on my skin. I feel so tired but still swing my sword to parry them, my worn hands gripping the hilt like it's the only thing keeping me anchored to this world. My tired legs keep lunging forward, cutting down enemies from left to right—those in front, even those creeping up behind me.
Do not give up.
Today will not be my last day.
A commander rushes through the chaos, moving with a grace that belies the brutality of his work, beheading an enemy soldier with a single clean stroke. In three long strides, he's before me, his blade aimed at my neck.
I piercefully block it, the impact sending a jolt up my arm. The man pauses, his eyes—sharp as obsidian and framed by graying hair—scanning me from head to toe.
"What a waste," he says, his voice carrying over the clang of steel and screams of the fallen. "You've got some skill, young man. What is your name?"
"I don't remember," I gasp, pushing back against his weight. "A lowly soldier like me doesn't deserve a name."
I am only one of many swords that serves the king. That's all I've ever been told, all I've ever known.
The man maneuvers his weapon expertly, twisting his wrist in a way I've never seen. With a sharp crack that echoes in my ears, my blade shatters into pieces, scattering across the muddy ground like broken teeth.
"What a loyal man," he murmurs, lowering his sword slightly.
Instead of answering, I grab the broken hilt and swing it at him with all my remaining strength. He doesn't bother to avoid it—perhaps he sees no threat in a dying soldier's final rage. But before the makeshift weapon can even graze his armor, a sharp thump cuts through the din.
An arrow.
I cannot avoid it. It embeds itself perfectly in my chest, just above my heart. The noise of it piercing my flesh and bone is amplified twice over, so loud I swear every soldier on the field must hear it.
It's getting difficult to breathe. Each inhale feels like shards of glass scraping against my lungs.
"I am the army commander of the Callibean Army, Gilbert Poluz," he says, kneeling beside me as I crumple to the ground. "I will remember you, brave young soldier. You have fought valiantly."
I lift my eyes to stare into the distance—toward the capital city, where the king's castle rises like a white finger against the darkening horizon. What was it all for? All these years of fighting, of killing, of forgetting who I was…
Ha! What a pitiful life.
For one last glance, I look at the bloody battlefield—at the bodies piled high like stones in a wall—and then at the commander's face. There's something in his eyes I can't quite place… pity? Recognition?
My sight grows blurry, and a warm, golden light begins to spread at the edges of my vision. The sounds of battle fade to a distant hum, then to nothing at all.
Finally, I'm going to die—
•••••
The light is not what I expected.
I thought death would be cold, silent, empty. Instead, it wraps around me like a soft blanket, carrying the scent of jasmine and rain-washed earth. I feel no pain, no exhaustion—only a strange sense of floating, of being pulled toward something warm and bright.
Surprisingly, when I open my eyes, I find myself staring at a face I don't recognize. Pale skin, delicate features, eyes the color of warm honey—nothing like the rough, scarred visage I'd grown used to seeing in the reflection of my sword blade.
It's been ten days since I woke up like this. Every moment, fragments of my last memory press against my mind—the arrows, the commander's face, the golden light that swallowed me whole. But try as I might, I cannot recall my own face or even my own name. All I know for certain is that this body, and this lavish room I lie in, belong to a kingdom I once considered my enemy.
I've learned from the servants who tend to me that this is the body of Vernom—the third prince of Callibean. A son of the king's third concubine, a boy so far from the line of succession that he's barely acknowledged as royalty. Weak, timid, with little influence or power. I'd heard of him in passing during my time as a soldier—they said he spent more time in the royal gardens than in court, more with books than with blades.
I don't know why I woke up in his skin. If I now inhabit his body, does that mean he died at the exact same moment I fell on the battlefield? The thought weighs heavy on my chest, a burden I didn't ask for.
"What are we going to do now?" I murmur to the image in the mirror—the face of Prince Vernom staring back at me, eyes wide with an uncertainty that feels both foreign and familiar.
I pause, then answer aloud, my voice still adjusting to its new softness:
"Naturally."
I have to live. We have to live—away from the battlefield, away from the endless cycle of fighting and dying that consumed my past life. I don't know why you died, Prince Vernom, but whatever your story was, let's make a new one now. Let's survive. Let's live our life without sacrificing ourselves for anyone else.