The room was warm, comfortable even. A fire crackled softly, and somewhere in the hallway beyond came the sound of children laughing. The scent of dried flowers lingered faintly in the air. He felt no pain or fear, just peace.
His time was almost up. He was dying.
It was a life well lived. Not without mistakes, of course - no man could avoid those - but he had loved, failed, recovered and left nothing unsaid. He had made peace with his regrets, buried old wounds and watched as those he once raised now guided lives of their own. Throughout the day, he had seen his children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren one last time. They had smiled through tears, whispering promises to carry his stories forward.
His hands now rested on a faded quilt his wife had once sewn. She was gone, years ago but he had never remarried. Not out of sorrow or any of that nonsense he simply didn't feel the need. Her love had been enough to fill a lifetime. His breath began to slow. Each exhale was softer and longer than the last.
He let out one final sigh and closed his eyes, welcoming the long-deserved rest.
And then he opened them again.
He felt nothing.
Gone was the warmth of his home, his bed, even the weight of his body. He found himself in a void. A dead white, endless expanse stretching as far as he could see. There was no floor beneath him, no sky above, only the soft glow of a lightless world. Cold. Still. Wrong.
Before he could truly understand what had happened, a soundless wind swept across the nothingness. And within it came a voice.
Well, not a voice. Not really.
It moved like a thought that had been forced into physical shape, warping the space around it. It sounded like bones scraping across a chalkboard made of static, a grating pressure that burrowed into the skull.
"Not yet."
The sound struck him like a spike behind the eyes. He flinched, or tried to. There was no body to move, only a presence, a consciousness adrift. He tried to speak, to demand answers but no sound emerged. Like a dream where you scream but no noise comes out.
In the distance, something stirred. The air thickened, heavy with a pressure he couldn't describe. It wasn't just large. It was old. The sort of presence that bent everything around it simply by existing. It was moving closer.
"You have earned your rest. I see that. Yet I require use of your soul."
A pulsing maroon light rippled across the void, cutting through the white like blood in milk. From within that wave of color, a figure emerged. Tall, wide and utterly incomprehensible. Its outline shifted with every moment, fracturing into shapes the mind wasn't meant to parse. Wings that weren't wings. Limbs that never quite held the same shape twice.
He tried to retreat, to float back, to flee but there was nowhere to go. No ground. No gravity. He was reduced to awareness and now that awareness was being drawn forward.
The voice returned, smoother now. At least it didn't feel like a drill.
"The fool I had chosen has failed me. His soul has been shattered by decades of torment. But the body is still salvageable."
And then came the memories.
They hit like nails through glass. Images and pain that weren't his own. Cold stone. Iron chains. Screams echoing through cavernous spaces. Men in armor driving spikes into flesh. Burning. Breaking. Begging. And finally, a pale face staring into a pool of dark water, mumbling something through cracked lips, right before the darkness claimed him.
He could feel the sorrow of it. The fear. The madness that had taken root inside that body. It clung to him now.
"You will do," it whispered.
"No", he thought. He had earned his rest. He had lived his life. He had made peace. He didn't want to be dragged into some hellish fantasy. He didn't want some demon claiming what was left of him.
His vision warped as tendrils slithered from the entity, curling around him like vines soaked in oil. He couldn't actually feel their grip as they began to drag them down, possibly just an illusion of his deathless state.
"You may refuse," it continued. "A right I will gift upon you. However, your refusal only means you will be consumed by my vessel. I will stitch you into the cracks in what remains."
His thoughts raced as panic took hold. He didn't want this. Yet he didn't want to lose himself.
"I ACCEPT!" He screamed out.
His scream came out more like a screech. His jaw refused to open. Something spiked it shut.
Metal rattled and clanged as he lurched forward. He couldn't see. Rough fabric covered his eyes, tight enough to press against the sockets.
Pain shot through his arms as he clenched his fists, only to realise they were suspended. Wrist-bound and pulled upward by something heavy. Hard concrete dug into his knees. He tried to stand, but chains around his ankles yanked taut, pinning him in place.
His breath came in ragged heaves, though almost immediately the pain began to fade. His heart slowed. His muscles loosened.
He was calming down. Unnaturally so.
It frightened him more than anything.
Panic surged again, only for it, too, to dissolve after a few seconds. As if the fear itself had been swallowed.
"Calm, Eliseo. Calm…" he thought to himself.
Eliseo?
No. That wasn't right. That wasn't his name. His breath caught. A wrongness pressed at the edge of his mind, something foreign trying to settle in.
"My name is Cain," he thought to himself "Not Eliseo. Cain."
The thought clung to him like smoke, faint and unwelcome. He shook his head forcing the name away. It didn't belong to him. He didn't know where it had come from.
Before he could think of anything else, the heavy scrape of a lock echoed through the chamber.
A door slid open with a groan of rusted hinges. Footsteps followed. Several of them.
Most were heavy, their presence announced by the sharp clink of metal against stone. Armour, likely. Marching with practiced weight.
Two others moved differently. Softer. Slower. Boots, perhaps, or cloth-wrapped feet. One dragged ever so slightly, as if injured or unwilling. The other walked with purpose.
He stiffened.
He wanted to brace himself but the restraints held him in place. Breath caught in his throat as the sound of approaching feet circled around him.
Someone exhaled near his ear. Calm, deliberate. Watching.
"Are you sure you heard him speak?" a man said. His voice was raspy, tired, and deep. He sounded old, though not quite elderly.
"Indeed, Sir," a younger voice answered. "I heard shouting from the cell and ran to inform Lady Draymoor immediately."
A deep sigh followed, then a moment of quiet. Suddenly, Cain felt a sharp impact against his leg. There was force behind it but it didn't hurt. Nor did he move.
Instead, he heard the groan of the man who had kicked him.
"Argh. Bastard's like a stone wall."
Cain felt him lean in closer.
"Well then, bastard. Are you alive?" the man growled, and with a rough tug, ripped the cloth from Cain's face.
Bright light assaulted Cain's eyes. Too bright. Far too bright.
This body wasn't used to it. It recoiled from the sudden clarity, skin prickling, nerves screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut, instinctive and immediate.
When he forced them open again, the world was blurred. Flickers of torchlight dancing across wet stone. Three notable figures stood before him whilst well armoured men surrounded him, spears at the ready.
The man closest to him wore dark steel, dulled by age but kept well-maintained. His presence was rigid and intimidating. Sharp grey eyes stared down at him.
Another stood behind him, younger, shifting uncomfortably by the doorway.
And between them, cautious and small in her posture, was a woman.
She wore muted noble garb, green and silver, with gloved hands clenched tightly at her waist. Her eyes were fixed on him. On his face.
"Eliseo…" she said softly.
Cain didn't move. Couldn't.
The spikes in his jaw held tight, magic threading through his teeth. He tried to respond, but the moment his tongue shifted to form a word, pain bloomed along the base of his mouth. Like needles dragging across bone though the pain faded as fast as it came.
"He can't speak Aurelia," The older man said, not unkindly, but without warmth. "Rune-binds across the jaw. They're still active."
Aurelia nodded faintly, though her lips pressed into a thin line.
"I… I know he's dangerous Lord Varren," she said.
Cain met her gaze. He didn't blink.
She took a careful step forward. "If there's even a piece of him left… he'll know me."
Varran grunted. "That piece burned. We buried it three winters ago and salted the grave. The bastard killed too many good men."
Aurelia flinched but didn't step back.
Cain felt a flash of recognition as he looked at her, likely a consequence of the soul of this body merging with his.
The woman took another cautious step forward. Varran tightened his grip on his sword. She inched closer, kneeling to Cain's level.
"Do… do you recognise me? Can you understand me?"
She had a look of sympathy on her face. Or was it pity? Cain wasn't sure. He did not know what shape this body was truly in but given the circumstances, he could only assume he looked terrible.
He nodded.
He kept her gaze, made sure there was no room for misunderstanding. If this was his way out, he would need to try everything.
"Enough!" Varran raised his voice, stepping forward.
He grabbed Aurelia by the arm and pulled her back, placing himself between her and Cain. His eyes locked onto Cain's with a cold, unwavering glare.
"He clearly still lives," he muttered. "Get the Witch."
The guards moved without hesitation. One turned on his heel and exited the chamber at a quick pace, boots echoing against stone as he went to carry out the order.
Varran didn't wait.
He took Aurelia gently but firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the doorway. She cast one last look over her shoulder, eyes lingering on Cain.
Then she was gone.
The door groaned shut behind them, the lock sliding into place with a heavy clang.
Cain was alone again.
Time passed.
Cain couldn't be sure how long but the torchlight had grown dimmer, and the air heavier.
He heard the door creak again. This time it opened slower. Controlled.
Boots entered first. The younger guard from before. Nervous again. Cain could hear it in his breathing.
Then came Varran, his presence unmistakable. Wordless. Still watching and just about ready to lop his head off.
And finally... her.
The sound was soft. Bare soles, maybe. Or slippers. There was a faint smell that followed her, lavender and something metallic, like copper.
"Oh my," came a voice, light and pleasant. A woman's voice. Warm. Curious.
"Look at you. I was told you'd woken up but you're so still. Like a statue with a heartbeat."
She stepped into view. Cain stared.
The woman who entered wore a tattered dress layered with charms, ribbons, and scraps of cloth that didn't match. Bangles clicked gently around her wrists. Her hair was long, silver-white, though her face was smooth, not old, not young, ageless in that way some monsters are.
Her eyes were pale blue. Too pale. So pale they almost weren't there at all.
She smiled widely at him. It brought him no comfort. Her face held something sharklike, something that studied him like prey.
"Poor thing," she cooed. "You look awful."
Varran crossed his arms. "Do what you came to do, Witch." he spat, making it very clear he didn't like her.
She didn't turn to him.
"I will, dear Varran. But it's not every day you get to meet such creatures."
She leaned in closer, eyes never blinking. She raised her hand, brushed it through long hair he hadn't realized was his, then ran her palm gently down his face, caressing his cheek.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
"Now, let's see about removing your muzzle."
She then clasped both hands to his cheeks, closing her eyes.
Then she began to speak.
"Atrum vis, vocem solve. Dentium nexus, frange. Per voluntatem meam, per linguam liberatam."
Cain felt a pressure shift in his skull. The runes in his jaw began to burn with movement. They twitched, pulling and unraveling like unseen stitches loosening thread by thread.
"Naktai."
There was a faint crackling sound. Then silence.
Cain gasped.
His jaw unlocked.
"Thank yo—" Cain began, but his voice cracked hard, rough and broken.
It came out barely more than a whisper. His throat burned with the effort. He coughed, trying again, but even that sounded foreign.
The Witch gave a dismissive wave as she stepped back, seemingly delighted.
"Get on with it," Varran barked, drawing his sword. His eyes never left Cain.
"Well then," she said, her voice still sweet. "You seem cooperative this time around. Tell me, what do you recall before being put here?"
She tilted her head, expression unreadable.
Cain shook his head.
"I died."
The words scraped out dry and rough but clear enough.
He watched their faces. The Witch smiled wider, if that was even possible. Varran scowled, definitely not an answer he liked.
Cain wasn't sure how to treat this. He was clearly a prisoner and from what little he'd gathered, they were unlikely to let him walk free. Not after whatever the hell the previous owner of this body had done.
The Witch leaned back slightly, glancing over at Varran.
"He's telling the truth," she said, matter-of-fact.
Then her gaze snapped back to Cain.
"Did losing control of your body kill you? How did you gain control back? Do you still hear the Voices? How many? Do they sound like yourself, or like others?"
She rattled off the questions rapidly, her pale eyes wide with fascination. Her tone remained light, almost playful but each question drove deeper.
Cain blinked, confused.
Before he could answer, or even think of how, she caught herself. Straightening her posture with a sharp breath and an awkward smile.
"Ah. Apologies. I do get… excited."
"Where am I?" Cain asked. A simple question. A safe one.
It wasn't a lie, not exactly. He had no idea what was going on, and feigning memory loss might buy him time.
The Witch's expression faltered, just for a moment. It wasn't the answer she had wanted but her smile returned just as quickly.
"We are in the Marion Dominion," she said lightly, as if giving directions to a passing traveler.
Varran's voice followed right behind, low and firm.
"You've been down here three years. Motionless. Not breathing. Not aging. We had priests bless the door and a dozen blades aimed at your neck every time we checked for signs of life."
His eyes narrowed.
"Now you wake up, ask where you are and pretend like nothing happened?"
Cain opened his mouth to speak, but Varran stepped forward fast, sword half-raised.
"Spare me."
His voice cracked across the chamber like a whip.
"I watched you gut men who begged for mercy. I saw your hands rip through steel like parchment. I saw what you became and don't you dare sit there with that blank stare and ask where you are like it means nothing."
He stopped inches from Cain, blade pointed low, ready.
"I don't care what games you're playing. You're still wearing the skin of a monster. And I'll put you down myself if I have to."
Something stirred in Cain, annoyance? Anger? Or some sort of opportunity. But he was getting pissed off how this guy was treating him.
"Then do it." He shouted, "I didn't ask to be here and I certainly don't fucking want to be!"
Varran froze.
The room did too. Even the Witch stopped smiling.
Cain heaved in a breath. The sudden silence made the chains rattle louder than they should have.
"I didn't ask to be brought here," he said again, quieter now. "So if you're going to kill me, do it. Otherwise get me out of these chains."
Varran said nothing.
Then, with a quiet scoff, he turned and sheathed his blade.
"Keep him bound," he muttered as he walked away. "Let the nobles decide if the beast's pretending or not."
The Witch watched him go, then leaned closer to Cain, eyes still gleaming.
"My, my," she whispered, "I think this is going to be fun."
Cain didn't answer. He just stared at the torchlight until the door closed again. The lock sliding back into place.