The world spun in a blur of pain and light. One moment, I was shoving a stranger out of the path of a speeding truck, my heart pounding with the certainty of death. The next, I was gasping awake, sprawled on a cold stone floor, my body aching like it had been remade. My hands weren't mine—slender, calloused, wrapped in leather gloves. My clothes weren't mine either—dark robes, embroidered with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the dim torchlight.
I pushed myself up, head throbbing. Where was I? The air smelled of damp stone and something sharper, like blood and iron. The room was vast, its high ceilings lost in shadow, walls lined with shelves of dusty tomes and strange, glinting artifacts. A single arched window let in a sliver of moonlight, illuminating a figure standing at its center.
He was tall, cloaked in black, his presence a weight that pressed against my chest. His hair was silver, tied back, and his eyes—sharp, predatory—fixed on me like I was prey. This was no dream. This was him. The man I'd read about in a novel I'd devoured last summer. The villain. Lord Valthorne, the Betrayer of Kingdoms, the man destined to burn the world and die for it.
And I was his apprentice, Lira.
"You're late," he said, his voice low, cold as the stone beneath me. "I do not tolerate tardiness, Lira."
My mouth went dry. I wanted to scream that I wasn't Lira, that I didn't belong here, but the words stuck in my throat. My memories—my real ones, of a life with coffee shops and deadlines—clashed with fragments that weren't mine: training with a blade, kneeling before this man, a life of servitude. I pressed a hand to my temple, willing the dizziness to stop.
"Do you intend to waste more of my time?" Valthorne stepped closer, his boots echoing. His gaze dissected me, as if he could see the stranger inside Lira's skin.
"I—I'm sorry, my lord," I stammered, the title slipping out instinctively. Lira's memories, or maybe her instincts, were bleeding into me. I scrambled to my feet, bowing my head. Play along. Survive. That was all I could do until I figured out what was happening.
He tilted his head, studying me. "You seem… unsteady. Did the ritual affect you so deeply?"
Ritual? What ritual? My mind raced, but I nodded, hoping it was the right move. "I'm fine, my lord. Just… disoriented."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Good. I have no use for a broken tool." He turned, gesturing to a table where a single candle burned beside a sealed scroll. "Your task awaits. Take it."
I hesitated, my heart hammering. In the novel, Lira was a minor character, a loyal pawn who died early, betrayed by Valthorne's schemes. Every step I took in her shoes was a step toward that fate. But refusing him now? That would be suicide.
I crossed the room, my new body moving with a grace I wasn't used to. The scroll was heavy, sealed with black wax stamped with a serpent crest. I glanced at Valthorne, who watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Open it when you're alone," he said. "You leave at dawn. Do not fail me, Lira."
The weight of his words settled like chains. Dawn. A mission. I was already being thrown into the deep end of a story I barely remembered. The novel's plot was a haze—heroic battles, betrayals, a final showdown where Valthorne fell. But the details? Blurry. And this moment, this task, didn't feel familiar at all.
"My lord," I said, clutching the scroll, "what if—"
"Enough." He cut me off, stepping so close I could smell the faint spice of his cloak. "Questions are for those who doubt. Do you doubt me, Lira?"
"No," I whispered, my voice barely audible. His presence was overwhelming, like standing too close to a fire. Cold, commanding, and yet… there was something else in his eyes. Curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion.
"Good." He stepped back, dismissing me with a wave. "Go. Prepare. And do not test my patience again."
I bowed, my hands trembling as I clutched the scroll, and fled the room. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind me, echoing in the silent corridor. My breath came in shallow gasps. I wasn't just in a new world—I was in a story I knew ended in blood. Valthorne would betray everyone. He would die. And Lira? Lira was disposable.
I stumbled down the corridor, torchlight flickering on stone walls. A maid appeared from a side passage, her face pale and unreadable. "Mistress Lira," she said, bowing. "Your chambers are this way."
I followed her, my mind spinning. I needed answers. Who was Lira, really? What was this mission? And how the hell was I supposed to survive a story that wanted me dead?
In my chambers—a sparse room with a narrow bed, a desk, and a single candle—I broke the seal on the scroll. My hands shook as I unrolled it, the words written in sharp, elegant script.
Travel to the Ruined Chapel. Retrieve the Blade of Dusk. Trust no one.
The Ruined Chapel. The Blade of Dusk. Neither rang a bell from the novel. This was wrong. The story was already shifting, and I was at the center of it.
A chill ran down my spine. I was no longer just a reader. I was Lira, the villain's apprentice, and my first mission was about to begin.