Present Day - Outskirts of the Royal Capital
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Gray's eyes snapped open to the rhythmic sound of water falling through a crack in the ceiling above. The first thing that struck him wasn't the unfamiliar surroundings—it was the absence of everything that should have been familiar.
Where were the silk curtains of his four-poster bed? Where was the morning sunlight streaming through stained glass windows depicting the Reinford coat of arms? Where was the gentle knock of his personal servant bringing breakfast on silver plates?
Instead, he found himself on a thin straw mattress in a room barely large enough to be called a closet. The walls were stained with moisture, and a single cracked window let in weak gray light. The air smelled of mold and desperation.
This has to be a nightmare.
Gray sat up slowly, his body feeling strange—smaller, weaker than it should be. His hands, which should have been calloused from decades of sword training, were soft and unmarked. When he caught his reflection in a shard of broken mirror propped against the wall, a sixteen-year-old face stared back at him.
But the eyes... the eyes held the weight of forty-five years and a lifetime of regret.
"It can't be," he whispered, and even his voice was higher, younger. "I died. I remember dying."
The memories came flooding back with perfect clarity: Aldric's betrayal, the fall of House Reinford, his death on the marble floor of his ancestral home. But how was he here? How was he—
A soft sob from the next room cut through his confusion like a blade.
Gray moved to the thin wooden door and pressed his ear against it. Through the walls—so thin he could hear every sound—came the voice he would recognize anywhere.
"I'm sorry, Mother... I'm sorry I couldn't save more money for medicine..."
Lyanna.
His heart clenched. That was his sister's voice, but it carried a weariness that no fourteen-year-old should possess. Gray carefully pushed open the door and peered into what could generously be called a main room.
The sight nearly brought him to his knees.
Lyanna sat hunched over a wooden table, counting copper coins with shaking hands. Her once-golden hair, which used to be braided with silk ribbons and adorned with precious gems, hung limp and unwashed. Her dress—if the collection of patched fabric could be called that—had been mended so many times it was impossible to tell what the original color had been.
But it was her face that broke his heart. Thin from malnutrition, marked with exhaustion far beyond her years, and stained with tears that spoke of carrying burdens too heavy for her small shoulders.
"Sixty-three... sixty-four... sixty-five copper pieces," she counted, her voice barely a whisper. "It's not enough."
In the corner of the room, Gray spotted another figure: Vincent, his younger brother, now twelve years old. The boy who should have been training with the finest sword masters in the kingdom was instead mending holes in their meager clothing with clumsy stitches.
"Sister, perhaps I could try to find work in the—"
"No." Lyanna's voice was firm despite its weakness. "You're too young. And besides..." Her voice dropped to a bitter whisper. "Who would hire a Reinford?"
The name—their name—was spoken like a curse.
Gray felt rage building in his chest, hot and familiar. What happened here? Where are our lands? Our fortune? Our people?
Through the single cracked window, he could see the distant spires of the Royal Capital. Those towers had once looked out over Reinford territory, where the blue and silver banners of his house flew proudly. Now, the view showed only the backs of tenement buildings and the smoke of poverty.
Everything was gone. Everything.
"Lyanna," he said softly, stepping into the room.
His sister looked up, and for a moment, her eyes brightened with the ghost of her old smile. "Gray! You're awake. Are you feeling better? You've been sleeping for three days with fever..."
Three days. He had been unconscious for three days while his consciousness merged with this younger body, while Josh Reinford's soul found its way back to Gray Reinford's form.
"I'm fine," he said, though nothing about this situation was fine. "Lyanna, I need you to tell me what happened to our family."
Her face crumpled. "You know what happened. Father died two years ago—his heart just... gave out after we lost the last of our lands. Mother lasted six months longer, but the illness..." She gestured helplessly at the coins. "We couldn't afford the medicine."
Dead. Both of them are dead.
"And our house? Our retainers? Our fortune?"
Vincent looked up from his mending with eyes full of bitterness. "Gone to Uncle Aldric, of course. He said Father was a traitor who died in disgrace, and traitors' families deserve nothing. We're lucky he lets us live in the capital at all, instead of banishing us to the wasteland."
Traitor. Gray's hands clenched into fists. He turned my father into a traitor in the people's eyes.
"The servants?" Gray pressed.
"Scattered," Lyanna whispered. "Sir Gareth tried to stay, but... but he died defending the last of our property from debt collectors. Marcus's family fled to the eastern provinces. Everyone else..." She shrugged helplessly.
Even Gareth is gone.
Gray felt something breaking inside his chest—or perhaps it was something reforming, hardening into a core of pure determination.
"What do we live on?" he asked, though he dreaded the answer.
Lyanna straightened with what remained of her pride. "I work at the Crimson Rose tavern. Cleaning, serving, whatever they need. It's not much, but it keeps food on the table." She hesitated. "Some nights, when we're really desperate, I... I sing for the patrons. They throw coins sometimes."
The image of his sister—daughter of one of the most powerful duchies in the kingdom—singing for scraps in a tavern filled Gray with a rage so pure it felt like molten steel in his veins.
"And Uncle Aldric?" The words came out like chips of ice.
"Duke Blackthorne lives in our old castle now," Vincent spat. "He expanded his territory, absorbed our lands, and everyone says he's one of the most powerful nobles in the kingdom. He hosts grand parties where—" The boy's voice broke. "Where they use Mother's good china and hang our family portraits in the servants' quarters as a joke."
Gray closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, they held a cold fire that neither of his siblings had ever seen before.
"How long have we lived like this?"
"Ever since Father died," Lyanna said quietly. "Two years of... this." She gestured around the squalid room. "Gray, are you sure you're feeling alright? You seem... different."
Different. If only she knew.
Gray walked to the window and looked out at the capital city. Somewhere out there, in a palace that should have been his family's, Aldric Blackthorne was living in luxury built on the bones of the Reinford legacy. Somewhere out there, people who had once bowed to his family's name now spat at the mere mention of it.
But Josh Reinford had returned. And this time, he had the wisdom of forty-five years, the knowledge of exactly who to trust and who to fear, and most importantly—the burning desire to reclaim everything that had been stolen.
"Lyanna," he said without turning around, his voice carrying an authority that made both his siblings look up in surprise. "How much do we owe in rent?"
"Twelve silver pieces by week's end, but Gray, we only have—"
"Sixty-five copper," he finished. "Not nearly enough." He turned to face them, and for a moment, they saw something in his eyes that reminded them of their grandfather—the legendary swordsman who had once made kings tremble. "But that's going to change."
"Gray, what are you talking about?" Vincent asked, setting down his mending.
Gray moved to a loose floorboard he somehow knew would be there and pried it up. Hidden underneath were a few items their father had managed to hide before his death: a small silver pendant bearing the Reinford crest, a letter of credit from a merchant who had once owed their family a favor, and most importantly—a practice sword, cheap and worn, but functional.
He lifted the blade and felt the familiar weight settle in his hand. Muscle memory from decades of training guided his grip, and for the first time since awakening, Gray smiled.
"I'm going to earn some money," he said simply. "And then we're going to start taking back what belongs to us."
"Gray, you're scaring me," Lyanna whispered.
He knelt beside his sister and took her hands—hands that should have been soft and adorned with rings, not cracked and stained from scrubbing tavern floors.
"I know you've suffered," he said gently, and there was something in his voice—a depth of understanding that seemed impossible from a sixteen-year-old boy. "I know you've carried burdens that should never have been yours. But I swear to you, by our parents' memory and by the blood of twelve generations of Reinfords—those days are over."
He stood and headed for the door, practice sword in hand.
"Where are you going?" Vincent called after him.
Gray paused at the threshold and looked back at his family—his responsibility, his purpose, his reason for returning from the grave.
"To remind this world what the name Reinford truly means."
As he stepped out into the gray morning, Gray felt the weight of his past life's knowledge settling over him like armor. He knew which merchant guilds could be trusted, which nobles harbored secret weaknesses, and which battles were worth fighting.
More importantly, he knew that in the eastern district of the capital, there was an underground fighting ring where a skilled swordsman could earn enough coin to change a family's fortune—if he was willing to risk everything.
And Gray Reinford had already lost everything once.
This time, he had nothing left to lose and everything to reclaim.
The dead have returned, Uncle Aldric.