Chapter 4: Young Master?
The world was silent.
No roar of flames. No chants of zealots. No rattle of chains. Only silence, soft and weightless, broken by the faint whisper of fabric stirring in a breeze.
He opened his eyes.
Velvet curtains swayed in the draft of a half-open window. The fabric was crimson, deep as spilt wine, embroidered with golden thread that caught the candlelight and shimmered as though alive. A chandelier of crystal and gold hung above, its pendants catching each flicker of flame and scattering it into hundreds of fragments that danced across polished marble floors.
The air was warm and heavy with incense. It smelled of lavender and some spice he could not name. For a moment, he could not breathe. Not because the scent was overwhelming, but because it was alien. No iron tang of blood. No smoke of battle. No burning corpses.
His chest rose sharply, breath rasping in his throat. His hands shot to his torso, expecting torn flesh, shattered bone. Instead he touched silk — smooth, cool, alien against his fingertips. His heart hammered. He sat upright too quickly, the silk sheets falling from his body.
What…?
He stared down at himself.
The robe was a night garment, loose and light, embroidered with silver thread along the cuffs. His skin beneath it was pale, unscarred, soft. His hands… slender, almost delicate, not the hands of one who had crushed mountains and torn heaven's marrow.
The pulse of energy within was faint, unfamiliar. It stirred when he reached for it, but sluggishly, as though this body's channels had barely been carved. Fragile. Weak.
Not mine.
He swung his legs over the bed. Bare feet sank into a rug so thick it swallowed the sound. The floor beneath it gleamed white, veined with gold, marble polished until it shone like water.
This was no battlefield. No ruin. No tomb.
His throat was dry. He whispered to the empty chamber:
"…Where am I?"
No answer came. Only the soft hiss of the curtains in the draft.
He pushed himself upright, unsteady. His body swayed. The strength he had carried in muscle and bone was gone; his balance felt uncertain, his breath shallow. Yet he forced himself across the chamber, step by step. Each footfall was muffled by the carpet, soundless as though the room swallowed his movements.
At the far wall, gilded with panels of oak and inlaid gold, a mirror stood taller than a man. Its frame was carved with curling vines and beasts he did not recognize, their jeweled eyes glinting red and green in candlelight.
He stopped before it.
At first, the reflection blurred. His own vision wavered, still swimming with shadows of memory and pain. Slowly, the image steadied.
A boy stared back.
Not the towering figure he remembered, not the god-devourer cloaked in obsidian fire. A boy.
Fifteen years, perhaps. Tall for his age, slender, still caught between youth and manhood. His skin was pale, nearly translucent in the candlelight, as though it had never been burned by sun or battle.
Hair spilled loose around his face and shoulders. Ashen white, like strands of frost, catching the light in cold glimmers. He reached up instinctively, grasped it between his fingers. Soft. Silken. Wrong.
But it was the eyes that froze him.
His left eye was a deep, dark green — sharp, alive, a forest in shadow. His right… amber. Golden-bronze, gleaming faintly even in dim light, like molten metal. Two colors, side by side, refusing to match.
He leaned closer. The boy in the mirror leaned back. The green eye narrowed; the amber one glinted.
"…This face…"
His voice was hushed, nearly swallowed by the chamber.
It was handsome, in a way. Aristocratic cheekbones, sharp nose, lips curved in a faint line that might harden into arrogance with age. But there was fragility too, the softness of youth that had not yet been carved by hardship.
Handsome. Young. Fragile.
Not me.
A low laugh escaped him, dry, humorless. He pressed a palm to the glass, feeling the cold surface bite against his skin.
"So… this is what I have become?"
The reflection did not answer.
A knock startled him. He jerked, spinning toward the door. The sound was crisp, polite, deliberate.
A voice carried through the wood, steady and formal:
"Young master, are you awake? The banquet awaits."
He froze.
The words cut deeper than the chains had. Young master.
His head tilted slowly. The boy in the mirror stared back, mismatched eyes gleaming. A young master? Him?
No. Impossible. And yet…
The voice beyond the door did not fade. After a pause, it came again, calm but more insistent:
"Young master?"
Something shifted inside his skull. A spark, a tremor. Images surged, unbidden.
— A garden at twilight, statues looming in neat rows. A boy running, laughter echoing between hedges.— A man's stern voice, sharp as a blade: "Again. Hold the sword higher."— A banquet hall blazing with light, hundreds of eyes watching, weighing, whispering. The taste of cold wine on a child's tongue.
The images struck like knives. He staggered, gripping the mirror's frame. His teeth clenched against the flood. These were not his memories — and yet they were burned into this body's marrow.
"No…" he hissed, shaking his head. "Not mine."
The visions faded, leaving only silence and the racing of his heart. His reflection still stared, calm, mismatched eyes steady.
His hands curled into fists. He wanted to smash the mirror, shatter the face that was not his. But he did not. He only stared.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. His gaze drifted from the green eye to the amber. Uneven. Unnatural. Unsettling.
"Even the eyes refuse to agree," he murmured.
The boy in the glass smirked faintly, lips quirking with some cruel amusement. His own lips moved, but the smile felt like it belonged to someone else.
Again, the knock. Firmer this time.
"Young master, your father awaits in the great hall."
He turned toward the door. His shoulders straightened. His face, once twisted with confusion, settled into calm.
He glanced back once more at the reflection. The mismatched eyes glowed under candlelight. Green. Amber. Human. Inhuman.
His lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile.
Softly, he spoke.
"…Young master?"
The words tasted strange, unfamiliar, as though borrowed from another's tongue.
The smile deepened.
He stepped toward the door.