The first thing Orion became aware of was the sound of his own heartbeat. It thundered in his ears, heavy and uneven, each beat carrying a faint echo that seemed to vibrate through his bones. His lungs burned with the ragged rhythm of his breath, and his skin prickled as if his body was only half his own.
He jolted upright.
The room around him was dim, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he was awake or still caught in some stubborn dream. Thick shadows clung stubbornly to every corner, coiling around the edges of the furniture like dark, lazy serpents. Heavy tapestries lined the walls, their woven patterns depicting scenes that pulled at something deep in him—armies clashing beneath a storm-filled sky, towering beasts with molten eyes, rivers of fire spilling across cracked earth. He couldn't tell if these were mere stories or fragments of history meant to be remembered.
One tapestry in particular caught his gaze—a figure draped in black, raising a hand as if to command the heavens themselves. Lightning split the clouds behind them, illuminating an army kneeling in obedience. Orion blinked, trying to shake off the strange familiarity that crept into his chest.
A single lantern hung from a carved wooden hook near the bed. Its light wasn't the warm orange he remembered from fire. Instead, it burned with a pale, blue-tinged flame that pulsed softly, almost as if breathing. Every flicker seemed deliberate, purposeful, like the flame was watching him back. It gave off no smoke, no heat—only that unnatural glow.
That… isn't normal, Orion thought, narrowing his eyes.
He lay on a bed so comfortable it almost felt wrong. The mattress was thick and springy, the cotton sheets smooth as silk, the fur-lined cushion beneath his head warm and impossibly soft. It was the kind of luxury he'd expect from a noble's private chamber, not… whatever this was. His fingers sank into the fabric, as if testing its reality.
Where am I?
He tried to reach back through the haze clouding his mind, clawing for any solid memory. Instead, all he found were scattered shards—laughter echoing in an endless void, a blinding lance of pain, a voice so loud it shook the air, and… death. Not just the idea of death, but the sensation of it, as if every nerve in his body remembered what it meant to stop existing.
His throat tightened. One word surfaced in his mind—
Earth.
It felt heavy, foreign, and yet familiar, like an old name spoken after too many years. But the moment he tried to think about it further, the memory slipped away like water through open fingers.
Orion sat up, the mattress shifting beneath his weight. His eyes scanned the room more carefully now, studying each detail. The furniture was solid wood, dark and polished, carved with intricate spirals and sharp edges that reminded him of runes. A low table sat near the wall, littered with rolled parchments, quills, and small glass bottles filled with substances he didn't recognize.
The air was cool and faintly scented—something earthy and herbal, like dried sage mixed with the metallic tang of old stone. Even breathing here felt different, heavier somehow, as if the air carried weight.
Fifteen years, he thought suddenly.
The number appeared in his mind unbidden, and his stomach clenched. Fifteen years… of what? A childhood he couldn't remember? A life lived without him in it? The idea gnawed at him, sour and bitter. There was something—no, someone—who had done this to him. A seal. A voice. A god.
He pushed himself to his feet, the loose fabric of his sleeping robes brushing against his legs. They hung just low enough to graze the floor, the pale gray material marked with faint embroidery along the hem.
Drawn to a tall mirror standing against the far wall, he stopped in front of it and stared.
The reflection staring back wasn't unfamiliar, but it wasn't his, either. His hair was a deep black, tousled from sleep, strands falling over a pair of bright green eyes that seemed to almost glow under the lantern's light. He had a lean, athletic build, his frame hinting at speed rather than brute strength. Standing about five-foot-seven, he was neither towering nor short—perfectly unremarkable to blend in, yet his features were sharp enough to be remembered.
High cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that wasn't yet fully chiseled but promised it would be in a few more years. His lips curved naturally into a faint smirk, the kind that could pass as confidence or mischief depending on the moment.
Not bad, Orion admitted to himself, tilting his head slightly. If I'm stuck in this body, at least it's decent.
But the thought quickly soured. This wasn't really his body, was it? Fifteen years stolen. Fifteen years of experiences, of memories—gone. All locked away by…
His brow furrowed. That voice again, deep and thunderous, ordering his soul sealed.
A dry cough cut through his thoughts.
Orion spun around on instinct, his feet planting firmly on the floor, his hand balling into a fist before his mind even caught up. His pulse spiked.
A woman stood framed in the doorway, her arms folded loosely across her chest. Her dark hair flowed like liquid silk down her back, gleaming faintly in the lantern's strange light. Her green eyes—sharp yet undeniably warm—locked onto him with an expression that carried equal parts amusement and curiosity.
Her face was heart-shaped, soft at the edges, but there was a quiet strength in her gaze. She was beautiful in a way that didn't demand attention but drew it all the same, the kind of beauty that stayed in the mind long after the first glance.
Somehow, without knowing how, Orion's mind whispered her name.
Cecily.
The sound of it in his head felt strange, like recalling a song's melody without remembering the lyrics. A pull stirred in his chest, tugging faintly, and though there was no memory to explain it, he knew—knew—that she was important.
Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
Cecily's laughter broke the silence, soft and melodic, the kind of sound that could warm a cold night. "Really, Orion?" she teased, her voice smooth yet lightly laced with humor. "You look ready to fight a beast."
The heat rushed to his cheeks before he could stop it. He realized his stance—shoulders squared, fist tight, eyes locked on her—made him look like he was expecting a fight.
He forced his fingers to relax and dropped his hand to his side. "I'm fine," he muttered, looking away. The strange pull in his chest didn't fade.
Mom.
The word slipped unbidden into his mind, carrying with it a strange weight. It fit her. It explained the familiarity in her voice, the warmth in her eyes. But when he tried to summon an actual memory of her—any moment, any detail—there was nothing but empty space.
And somewhere, behind that emptiness, the faint echo of a god's voice.
"Just… a bad dream," he said finally.
Cecily's teasing expression softened. She stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. "I heard you shout from downstairs," she said, crossing the space between them with unhurried steps. She reached up, her fingers threading gently through his messy hair in a gesture so casual it should have been familiar. "Those headaches again?"
Her touch was warm. Comforting. But it stirred nothing in him except a hollow ache.
Orion opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, something inside him shifted.
It began as a flicker—an image of himself as a boy, laughing beside Cecily as they ran through a sunlit forest, the sound of leaves crunching beneath their feet. Her voice calling his name. A hand tugging his away from danger. The scent of bread baking in a warm kitchen.
Then came the pain.
White-hot and merciless, it stabbed into his temples, stealing his breath. He staggered, clutching his head as the visions grew sharper. A thousand moments tried to rush into him all at once, crashing against the walls of his mind. His knees buckled, and he dimly heard Cecily's voice rise, sharp with alarm.
"Orion! What's wrong? Talk to me!"
Her words blurred, growing faint and distant, as if she were calling from the other end of a long tunnel. His vision darkened at the edges, the room warping and twisting as if pulled underwater.
Through the chaos, one word tore itself from his lips, raw and desperate.
"Mom."
Then the darkness swallowed him whole.