A pounding at the door tore me from a dreamless sleep. My head swam with a mix of grogginess and a lingering ache, the kind you get from hitting your head way too hard. "Prince Rian, it is time to wake up." The voice was soft, melodic, and… female? I blinked, and the luxurious canopy above me came into focus. A canopy. Not the cracked ceiling of my tiny apartment.
My mind raced. Rian. That was the name, a name I knew with a strange and vivid certainty. But my name was Alex. Alex Peterson, a 28-year-old software developer with a bad back and a caffeine addiction. The last thing I remembered was a screech of tires and a blinding flash of light.
Before I could fully process this insane, terrifying new reality, the heavy wooden door creaked open. Two young women, dressed in what looked like medieval-style dresses with crisp white aprons, entered. They curtsied with practiced grace, their eyes respectfully lowered.
"Good morning, Your Highness," the first one, a brunette with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, said. "We have drawn your bath."
"Is something wrong, my lord?" the second one, a blonde with wide, concerned eyes, asked.
My voice, when I finally managed to speak, came out as a low, resonant rumble that felt foreign in my own throat. "No, nothing's wrong. I… just had a strange dream." I sat up, throwing the silken sheets aside, and my breath caught in my throat. This wasn't my body. This body was a monument to physical perfection. My arms were thick with muscle, cords of brawn sculpted where I once had thin, flabby biceps. My chest was broad and powerful. I looked down at my hands, which were large and calloused, a stark contrast to my past life of tapping on a keyboard.
The maids moved with a quiet efficiency that made me feel like an object, a statue they were meant to polish. Freckles held out a soft towel while Blonde began to unbutton the silken pajamas I was wearing. My mind screamed at me to stop them, to yell, to put up a fight. But my body, this new body, remained perfectly still, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. As her fingers brushed against my skin, a wave of heat and embarrassment washed over me. I wasn't used to this level of… service.
Her touch was gentle, impersonal, but my new body reacted with a nervous jolt. "I-I can do it myself," I stammered, my cheeks feeling uncomfortably warm.
Blonde paused, her eyes finally meeting mine. They were full of a genuine confusion, but a flicker of a smile played on her lips. "As you wish, Your Highness," she said, before curtsying and stepping back.
Freckles simply held the towel, her gaze steady but unreadable. It was then that I realized the full extent of this bizarre situation. This wasn't a dream. This was my life now. I was Prince Rian, and my old life, my old body, my old identity, was gone.
Taking a shaky breath, I stood up. The maids were both standing with their heads bowed, ready to serve. My reflection in a nearby polished metal plate caught my eye. A face I'd never seen before stared back at me. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, and dark, intense eyes. I was undeniably handsome. And standing at least a foot taller than Freckles, I was easily over six feet tall. My new body wasn't just handsome; it was powerful, imposing.
"Thank you," I managed to say, taking the towel. "You can… you can wait outside."
They both nodded and slipped out, leaving me alone in the opulent chamber. The silence was deafening. I was a prince, a person of immense power and privilege, trapped in a life I didn't understand, in a body that wasn't mine.
My mind went back to the maids. The way they moved, the quiet obedience. It made me wonder what kind of prince Rian was. Was he a cruel tyrant? A kindhearted lord? I had no idea, and I had to find out. I had to learn how to be a prince, and fast, before I made a mistake that could cost me my life, or the lives of the people who were now my subjects. The clock was ticking, and my first challenge was to figure out how to take a bath without any help.
The door clicked shut, leaving me in a silence so thick I could hear my own heart hammering against my ribs. I was alone, finally, in this opulent prison. The room was massive, easily the size of my old apartment and then some. Heavy tapestries depicting scenes of what looked like heroic battles adorned the walls, and a large, intricately carved wooden desk sat in one corner, laden with scrolls and quills. The air was heavy with the scent of beeswax and old wood.
My gaze fell on the bed again, a monstrous thing with its four posts reaching to the high ceiling. It was clear this was not some humble abode. I was a prince. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying. A prince of what? A prince of where? The maids had called me Rian. Prince Rian. It was a name that felt both like a new beginning and a borrowed skin.
I walked over to the mirror, my bare feet sinking into the plush, crimson carpet. The reflection that stared back was still a stranger to me. My old body had been… fine. Average height, a bit of a dad bod forming from too many late nights at a desk. This body was a different story entirely. A chiseled jawline, a straight nose, and dark, intense eyes that seemed to hold a flicker of fire. My hair was a deep, rich brown, cut short but with a rebellious curl at the nape of my neck. And the body… the body was a work of art. Broad shoulders, a lean, muscular torso, and legs that looked like they could run for miles. I clenched my fists, and the muscles in my forearms bunched up, a testament to a life of physical training I had no memory of. This wasn't just a man; this was a warrior.
A sudden, sharp ache pulsed in my head, and a flood of disjointed images rushed into my mind. A flash of a sword, its polished steel gleaming in the sun. The weight of a lance in my hand. The roar of a crowd. The face of an older man, his expression stern but proud. And the face of a beautiful young woman with golden hair and a smile that lit up the world. These weren't my memories. They were Rian's. They were a fragmented, confusing glimpse into a life I was now forced to live.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog. I had to get dressed. The maids had been about to help me, but the sheer awkwardness of it all had been too much. I needed to figure this out on my own. I scanned the room for a wardrobe, and my eyes landed on a massive chest carved with the sigil of a rearing gryphon.
Inside, I found a bewildering array of clothes. Silken tunics, leather breeches, and heavy cloaks lined with what felt like real fur. It was all a bit much, but I figured I should probably dress the part. I chose a simple white tunic, a pair of dark breeches, and a leather belt. It was all a perfect fit, as if it had been made for this new body. Which, I suppose, it had.
As I struggled with the intricate laces on the breeches, a new wave of panic washed over me. I had no idea what I was doing. I was a software developer. My greatest challenge used to be debugging a rogue line of code. Now, I was a prince in a foreign land, and I didn't even know which end of a fork to use, let alone how to run a kingdom.
I had to find out what was going on. I had to find a map, or a book, or someone who could tell me what year it was, what kingdom this was, and who my family was. I needed information, and I needed it now.
A knock at the door made me jump. "Your Highness," the voice of Freckles called out. "The King requests your presence in the Great Hall for the morning meal."
The King. My father. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. What if I said the wrong thing? What if he saw through my deception? I was an impostor, a fraud. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure they could hear it through the thick wood of the door.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. "I'll be right there," I called back, my voice still sounding strange to my own ears. I ran a hand through my hair, trying to look presentable. This was it. The first test. I had to pretend to be a person I wasn't. I had to become Prince Rian.
When I opened the door, Freckles and Blonde were standing there, their heads bowed. They led the way, their steps silent on the polished stone floors of the castle. The corridors were massive, lined with suits of armor and tapestries that told stories I didn't know. The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming. It was a world away from my cramped apartment and my daily commute on the subway.
We arrived at a pair of massive double doors, each carved with the same gryphon sigil. A guard, a towering man in polished steel armor, stood at attention. He opened the doors, and the sounds and smells of a bustling hall washed over me.
The Great Hall was a spectacle. A long, massive table was set with platters of food I didn't recognize. Roasted meats, fresh breads, and bowls of colorful fruits. A large fireplace roared at one end of the hall, and sunlight streamed in through high, arched windows. People bustled about, their voices a low murmur that filled the air.
And at the head of the table, sat a man who could only be the King. He was older, with a beard streaked with gray, but his posture was ramrod straight. His eyes were a piercing blue, and they were fixed on me. Beside him sat a woman of regal bearing, her golden hair woven with intricate braids. The beautiful woman from my fragmented memory. The Queen. And next to her, another young woman, her golden hair mirroring her mother's, a delicate smile on her lips. A princess? My sister, perhaps?
I felt every eye in the hall on me as I made my way to the table. The King's gaze was heavy, scrutinizing. He didn't smile. My heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat in my chest. I had to get this right. I had to play the part.
I approached the table, my steps feeling clumsy and unnatural. I managed a polite nod, a gesture I hoped was befitting of a prince.