I opened my eyes in a rush, but I was no longer on the castle walls.
I was floating, adrift, staring down at myself lying within a ritual circle drawn in blood. The sight was too familiar—a nightmare I had already lived. My pulse—or whatever an astral heart could be—thrashed inside me.
Why am I here again? What happened?
The air was thick with the copper stench of blood and stranger aromas, acrid and choking. My vision swam, and the weight of not having a body pressed on me harder than the first time I'd been torn from my flesh. I felt like a thought about to unravel, a soul slipping loose.
The cultists moved about me, their robes whispering with every step as they made their preparations. Then—steel flashed. One drove a knife into my chest.
"Ahhh!" The scream tore from me though I had no lungs. I felt phantom pain, sharp and alien, but there was no blood. The knife pierced nothing but illusion.
I panicked, spiraling, until I realized the cultists were collapsing around me. Their faces were wrong—eyes wide, mouths frozen as though they had glimpsed something they were never meant to see.
"They said it would be interesting," a voice remarked, smooth, detached, almost amused. "And I said… it is shaping out to be quite enjoyable."
The sound cut through my panic. I spun, but there was no one there.
"Scion."
The voice echoed like thought inside thought. "It would seem you can sleep no more. Rouse yourself. Turn away from the moon's light."
Scion? Me? My throat caught. Who are you?
My vision fractured.
"She was a conceptual container," the voice went on. "Killed… replaced. You took her body, and so you took her role. But with changes. With cracks."
My mind snapped like a taut string. What am I? The words throbbed inside me.
But before the answer came, I felt the floor of reality vanish beneath me. Falling.
Plummeting.
And then—
I woke.
It was morning. My eyes were wet.
"What… am I?" I whispered, touching my face, my hands—the body that felt less like mine than ever before.
Life around me carried on. Derek had fewer men now—just nine remained. The elves cooked breakfast. The Catwoman sat among them, purring at some joke. Regina worked with Alpha and her sisters, their movements brisk and efficient.
"The Page of Swords," a voice said behind me.
I turned. The Night Elf delegate stood there, still wrapped in her ornate garments. Her eyes, cool and deep, were fixed on me.
"Do you know him?" she asked.
"No," I admitted, my voice unsteady. "But you seem to."
Her gaze did not waver. "Some lore of our people speaks of entities that shape the world itself. The Page of Swords is one such figure—sometimes a message, sometimes a messenger. He appeared when you lost consciousness. That is all I know."
Her words cut deeper than any blade. "Now tell me," she continued, tilting her head.
"What of your eyes?"
I froze. "My… eyes?"
"Yes," she said softly. "They changed. Just before the Page appeared."
My chest tightened. My heart drummed against my ribs, as though it knew the truth I refused to. The elf must have read something in my silence. She gave a small cough, as though to ease the tension.
"You need rest. I will bring you water."
She walked away with unshaken grace, leaving me with my thoughts.
Scion. Page of Swords. Eyes that weren't my own.
Am I forgetting something?
The water was cool against my lips. But it did nothing to steady the unease coiling in my chest.