Darkness pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
Caelum's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him wasn't his. Smooth stone, etched faintly with sigils, gleamed in the dim light of an oil lamp. He sat up sharply, heart racing, his breath ragged in his chest. The body that responded wasn't his either—too lean, too light, scarred faintly along the forearms as though it had been punished often.
His heartbeat slammed against his ribs, too sharp, too fast, as though it belonged to someone else. Even his breathing felt wrong, shallow and ragged. When he lifted his hands, they trembled—not with weakness, but with a jittery strength that frightened him. The faint scars across his forearms weren't his scars. They told a story he hadn't lived.
What… what is this?
Stumbling to his feet, he caught sight of a tall bronze mirror leaning against the wall. For a long moment, he refused to look—because some part of him already knew the reflection wouldn't be his. The mirror seemed to hum in the silence, daring him to meet the eyes waiting on the other side.
A stranger stared back. Jet-black hair streaked faintly with blue shimmered under the lamplight. Eyes—ice-blue, sharp and cold—locked with his own. His reflection was both foreign and unsettlingly familiar, as though memories not his own whispered just out of reach.
Fragments broke through his mind: flashes of another life, another name, a world where steel and blood weren't currency. But they slipped away like smoke, leaving him only with dread and disbelief.
This… is me? This body? This cursed place?
A crest carved into the wall drew his attention—a twin-headed serpent coiled around a cracked sword. The Morgain crest. The knowledge came unbidden, stitched into the marrow of this body. The Morgain estate. His "family."
But the memories weren't warm. They were cold, brittle. Whispers of neglect, a father's scorn, a sister's cruelty. He clenched his fists, and a faint pulse stirred in his chest—a subtle rhythm thrumming through his bones.
The Core.
As if answering his turmoil, his body shifted into a stance. His right hand twitched, grasping at the air like it remembered holding a blade. Before he could think, his left leg pivoted, his right arm swung.
It was sloppy, unpracticed—yet something beneath the surface corrected him. His body lurched into motion before his mind caught up. The swing wasn't his own—it was as if invisible hands seized his shoulders, corrected his stance, forced the blade's path into precision. The air hissed under the strike, far too sharp for a boy fumbling in the dark.
Sword Insight.
The instinctive ability whispered corrections, adjusting angles, perfecting footwork. Even with no blade in hand, the body remembered, adapting, sharpening.
He stumbled back, chest heaving, more unsettled by his perfection than his clumsiness. "What… the hell am I?"
From the corridor beyond, the muffled steps of guards echoed—a steady rhythm patrolling the estate grounds. He could sense them now, like the estate itself breathed with quiet hostility. His gaze swept the room: one narrow window overlooking the courtyard, shadows pooling across polished stone floors.
The air tasted of iron.
That night, something inside him refused to let the confusion win. Steeling himself, he slipped from his quarters, careful to track the guards' patterns. The estate was vast—arched halls, sharp-angled towers, banners of the Morgain serpent draped like a warning. Every corner seemed to whisper: You do not belong here.
Yet his feet carried him forward, silent and determined, until the cold wooden doors of the training hall loomed.
Inside, racks of swords glimmered faintly in torchlight. The smell of sweat, steel, and dust clung to the air. He reached for a simple practice blade, its weight clumsy in his grasp.
The first swing nearly threw him off balance—but again, that strange instinct caught him, adjusted him, refined him. Each motion became smoother, sharper, faster. His Core pulsed with each strike, Origin energy stirring like a sleeping beast.
The pulse grew heavier, darker, as though the Core wasn't a gift but an intruder. Something old coiled inside him, pressing against his ribs like it wanted out. He shivered, a thought cutting through unbidden: this power isn't mine alone.
And then—
Fwoom.
A spark of power flared from his left hand. Just a flicker of destructive energy, enough to scorch the edge of the wooden floorboards. He staggered back, clutching his hand, fear and exhilaration warring in his chest.
Alone in the dark, Caelum exhaled slowly, staring at the faint scar the magic left behind.
Not weakness. Not humiliation. Not what they believed him to be.
Something else.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
If this is my curse… then I'll make it my strength.
The night echoed with the sound of steel cutting air—ragged, desperate, but growing sharper with every swing.
The beginning of defiance.