It began with silence.
Not the kind Eustass liked—the productive kind, the kind you get in a quiet study late at night. This was the heavy kind. The kind that follows after something's already gone wrong.
And it was everywhere.
The palace halls had gone still. No idle gossip. No rustle of papers. The servants barely spoke when he passed, and when they did, it was in whispers—too fast to catch, but too obvious to miss.
Eustass didn't need a formal report to know he was being watched.
---
A sealed letter arrived later that morning. No messenger. Just… left on his desk.
It was the Prince's handwriting.
"I have a task for you. Quiet. Swift. Urgent."
"A breach in the southern trade routes has revealed irregular shipments. Investigate Velmont Crossing. Take no one. Travel light."
Attached was a map. A route circled in red.
No royal seal this time.
That told him everything.
---
Mira read the note beside him, her brow tight with worry. "Why send you alone?"
Eustass didn't respond right away. He tapped the edge of the parchment.
"He doesn't want eyes on this," he muttered. "Not yet. Not even loyal ones."
"You've served him for over a decade."
"Which makes me the perfect scapegoat if things go south."
Mira didn't argue. She just asked, "Should I come with you?"
"No," Eustass said firmly. "Stay. Watch the palace. Something's moving behind the curtains. I want you there if the curtain falls."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Be careful," she said softly. "I don't trust this."
"Neither do I."
---
Two nights later, he crossed the low hills of Velmont and rode into a fog-laced trade town barely held together by rotting wood and half-spent torches. The air smelled like mold and metal. Not even the guards at the checkpoint asked questions. They just let him through, eyes blank.
He followed the map precisely. Past the tavern. Across the stone bridge. Toward the marked warehouse near the edge of the swamp.
There was no one waiting. Just crates. Dust. Silence.
Until—
Click.
The cold bite of steel shackles slammed shut around his wrists.
He turned—but swords were already drawn.
Six men. Uniformed. Cloaked in red.
Royal agents.
---
"What is this?" he barked, voice low, sharp.
The lead agent stepped forward, holding a scroll. Not even trying to hide it.
"Eustass Vael," he read aloud, "former Royal Advisor and acting Treasurer of the Crown, you are hereby arrested for crimes against the Kingdom: embezzlement, treason, and intent to defect."
Eustass froze. "Former?"
The agent didn't flinch. "Stripped of all titles by royal decree."
The name on the scroll?
The First Prince. Signed. Sealed.
His own crest—the same crest Eustass once wore proudly—was now pressed into the wax of a death sentence.
---
They paraded him through the city in chains.
No trial. No statement. Just silent stares and echoing boots.
The nobles didn't speak his name. The people barely whispered it. But the papers told the story for him:
"Eustass Vael Found Guilty of High Treason."
"Missing Treasury Linked to Advisor's Secret Travels."
"Prince Cleans House: Justice Rises."
He sat alone in the dungeon, hands bruised from iron cuffs, head swimming with disbelief.
He planned this.
All of it.
The missing funds. The vague orders. The subtle mistrust. The too-calm smile.
The Prince had been setting him up for weeks. Maybe months.
And Eustass had played right into it.
---
Somewhere in the castle gardens, a young court page handed a folded letter to a hooded maid.
"He's not dead yet," the maid said under her breath.
The page glanced around. "Everyone says he is."
"They're lying," she said. "He wouldn't go down that easy."
"What's it say?" the boy asked.
The maid didn't answer. She simply turned and walked back into the shadows, slipping the letter inside her apron.
---
Back in the dungeon, Eustass stared at the ceiling.
He had nothing left. No allies. No name. Not even a reputation worth saving.
They didn't let him speak in court. There was no court. Just a signature and a sentence.
But even now, he refused to curse the Prince out loud.
Not because of fear.
Because it would give him the satisfaction.
---
The execution came at dawn.
No crowd. No final words. Just cold stone and colder steel.
A masked knight raised the sword.
Eustass didn't beg.
He didn't cry.
He just smiled—a hollow, crooked thing.
And whispered:
"You'll regret this."
The blade fell.
---
Then—
Darkness.
For a long time, it was just that.
No sound. No pain. No thoughts.
Until…
Breath.
Warm sunlight flickered through the cracks of the wooden shutters. A breeze drifted in, stirring the dust in the air and rustling the edge of an old curtain.
Eustass gasped and jolted upright.
His chest rose and fell fast. Sweat clung to his skin. His mouth was dry, like he'd swallowed ashes. But the cell was gone. The sword. The executioner's blank face. All of it—gone.
Instead, he sat on a small, worn mattress in a dimly lit room, unfamiliar and quiet. The bed creaked beneath him as he moved. His hands—small. Too small.
He looked down.
"...What the hell?"
His voice cracked—higher than it should be. He scrambled toward the edge of the bed, dragging a cracked mirror from the floor.
A boy stared back. Big eyes. Thin frame. Messy black hair. Ten years old, maybe.
But who?
He didn't know.
He clutched his head. Flashes of images swirled—fire, betrayal, blood, a crown, a voice whispering traitor—but nothing made sense. His thoughts felt like broken glass in his skull.
Where was he?
What year was it?
Who even was he?
The door creaked open.
A woman stepped in, carrying a tray of food—porridge, a piece of bread, a chipped mug of tea. She wore simple robes and had tired eyes, but when she saw him awake, her whole face lit up.
"Oh thank the stars, you're awake," she said, rushing to him. "You've been asleep for two days. I was worried you'd never open your eyes again…"
He blinked at her.
She set the tray down and sat beside him, gently brushing his hair back.
"You probably don't remember much. That's okay," she whispered softly. "You hit your head pretty bad."
He stared at her. There was something comforting in her voice. Familiar, even.
"Who… am I?" he finally asked.
The woman froze.
Then she smiled—sadly.
"You're Kairus, my little star. My son."
She pulled him into a hug. Gentle, warm… but unfamiliar.
"You're Kairus," she whispered, as if saying it would make it true. "My little star. My son."
He blinked. His arms hung limp at his sides.
"…What?"
The words echoed in his skull like a glitch in reality.
My son.
Kairus?
What the hell?
Too real to be a dream.
Too fake to make sense.
And in that moment, all he could do was sit there, eyes wide, brain empty.
Because he wasn't just lost.
He was someone else entirely.