Pain.
That was the first thing I felt. My body screamed with it, every nerve lit aflame. My bones felt like shattered glass inside my skin—yet before my eyes, something impossible began to happen.
They knit themselves back together.
I could feel it. Time itself rewinding. Splintered bone snapping into place, torn muscles stitching together, breath returning to crushed lungs.
The agony didn't vanish—it reversed. It was as though I was being rewound, pulled backward through suffering until my body was whole again.
And then came the mirror.
At first, I didn't realize it was there. But as my vision cleared, I found myself staring into a polished surface mounted on the wall before me.
The face looking back was not my own.
A young man stood in my place. His hair was jet-black, thick and slightly disheveled, falling across a pale brow. His face was slender yet sharp, with high cheekbones and a jaw that hinted at quiet defiance. His eyes were a piercing shade of storm-gray, restless and questioning, filled with thoughts that did not belong to this body. He wore a velvet jacket of deep navy trimmed with silver threads, a white cravat pinned neatly to his throat, and polished black boots that gleamed like obsidian.
He looked noble, dignified even. But the flicker of unease in his eyes betrayed that he was anything but secure.
Memories rushed in like a flood bursting through a dam.
Names. Faces. Cities under starlit skies. A manor by the riverside. Sword drills at dawn. Court lessons at dusk.
The pressure was suffocating. Each memory slammed into my mind, threatening to drown me, blur who I was. My fingers dug into the sink, white-knuckled, as I fought to hold onto myself.
Get a grip. Don't lose yourself. You're still you.
The storm slowly calmed. And when the waters settled, a single thought remained, steady and sharp:
I am Lucian Smith.
I glanced down at my hand—and froze.
A clock was branded into the skin, its black hands ticking forward with silent inevitability. Unlike any watch or pocket piece I had ever seen, this one was etched into my flesh itself.
The timer read: 30 days.
One month.
My chest tightened.
And then I remembered. The man in the broken streetlight. His voice echoing in the night: The Seer who wonders Time looks upon this world…
This wasn't a dream. Somehow, impossibly, my consciousness had been dragged into another life. Another body.
The bathroom door rattled with a knock.
"Lucian, are you all right in there?"
The voice was soft, melodic, laced with worry. Memories supplied a name Elara Smith.
She was his sister. My sister.
When I opened the door, she stood waiting—a girl of about seventeen with auburn hair neatly curled at the ends, her skin fair as porcelain, and eyes the color of dark honey that held sharp intelligence beneath their warmth. Her gown was a pale blue with silver accents, modest but elegant, with lace gloves hugging her slender fingers. She had the aura of someone born into nobility, though her expression was purely that of a sister's concern.
Another figure leaned casually beside her. My brother.
Damien Smith.
He was older than both of us, around twenty, with broad shoulders, wavy brown hair tied back in a loose ribbon, and clear green eyes that always seemed half-amused, half-critical. His outfit was less decorative, though no less noble—a black waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, trousers pressed and boots polished to a gleam. Confidence clung to him like a cloak, his smile carrying a mixture of teasing and authority.
"Brother, you've been gone for ages," Edward said, lips quirking. "I know rejection stings, but it can't possibly be this bad."
Rejection.
The memory cut like a blade.
Yes—this body, Lucian's body—had confessed tonight. To someone far above his station. And he had been turned down, mercilessly, in the midst of the gathering.
I forced a calm voice. "…I'm fine."
Edward smirked knowingly but didn't press further. Celeste, however, searched my face as though the truth were hidden behind my storm-gray eyes.
Before I could retreat into silence, the ballroom shifted. My gaze was drawn—pulled—to her.
Lily Heart.
She moved through the crowd like starlight flowing across still water. Her hair was long and white as untouched snow, falling in waves that glimmered beneath the chandelier. Her eyes were a glacial blue, cold yet mesmerizing, framed by thick lashes. Her skin was pale, flawless, and her lips carried the faintest curve of mystery. She wore a gown of white silk lined with silver embroidery, pearls glinting at her throat, her posture as graceful as a queen.
She was beauty refined into form. But more than beauty, she radiated distance—a coldness that no warmth of the hall could reach.
And then I saw it.
On her wrist, half-hidden beneath her lace sleeve, was a clock. The same brand as mine, its black hands ticking forward in silence.
Her glacial eyes locked onto mine, and for a fleeting moment I thought she had seen through me entirely.
She approached, each step deliberate. And when she stopped before me, her voice was soft, low, laced with enigma.
"Are you all right, Lucian?"
My throat tightened. My lips curved faintly, my tone calm yet strained.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I'm…all right."
But inside, my heart raced.
Because Lily Heart bore the same curse. The same clock.