It began with silence.
Not the good kind—the kind Eustass liked. Not the focus-heavy silence of a late-night study where papers and ink surrounded him like allies.
No. This silence was thick. Dead. The kind that seeps into your bones after something already broke. The kind that tells you you're not in control anymore.
And it was everywhere.
The palace had gone still. No idle gossip. No clatter of servants. Every whisper stopped when he passed. Not even subtle. Not even trying. Just wide eyes, then silence.
He didn't need a formal report to know.
He was being watched.
Later that morning, a sealed letter appeared on his desk. No knock. No messenger. Just there. Waiting.
He recognized the handwriting instantly.
The First Prince.
"I have a task for you. Quiet. Swift. Urgent."
"A breach in the southern trade routes has revealed irregular shipments. Investigate Velmont Crossing. Take no one. Travel light."
A map was attached, with a route circled in red.
No royal seal.
That told him everything.
---
Mira leaned over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at the parchment. "Why send you alone?"
Eustass didn't answer immediately. His thumb tapped the edge of the paper.
"He doesn't want eyes on this," he muttered. "Not yet. Not even loyal ones."
"You've served him for over a decade."
"Which makes me the perfect scapegoat if things go wrong."
Mira's jaw tightened, but she didn't argue. Just asked softly, "Do you want me with you?"
Eustass shook his head. "Stay. Watch the palace. Something's moving behind the curtains. If the curtain falls, I need you there."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Be careful. I don't trust this."
"Neither do I."
---
Two nights later, fog rolled across the low hills of Velmont as Eustass rode into a trade town barely held together by rotting wood and flickering torches. The stench of mold and metal hung heavy in the air. The guards at the checkpoint didn't even question him. Blank faces. Lifeless eyes.
He followed the map precisely. Past the tavern. Across the stone bridge. Toward a warehouse sinking into the swamp's edge.
Empty. Silent. Just crates and shadows.
Until—
Click.
Cold iron snapped around his wrists.
He spun, but blades were already drawn. Six men, cloaked in red.
Royal agents.
---
"What is this?" he barked, his voice low, sharp.
The lead agent stepped forward, unrolling a scroll like it was rehearsed.
"Eustass Vael," he read aloud, "former Royal Advisor and acting Treasurer of the Crown, you are hereby arrested for crimes against the Kingdom: embezzlement, treason, and intent to defect."
The word hit harder than the shackles. Former.
"Former?" he spat.
The agent didn't flinch. "Titles stripped by royal decree."
The name signed at the bottom?
The First Prince.
His own crest—the one he once wore proudly—was now burned into the wax of a death sentence.
---
They paraded him through the streets in chains. No trial. No voice. Just echoing boots and stares.
The people whispered his name like it was already dust. The papers shouted louder:
"Eustass Vael Guilty of High Treason."
"Treasury Funds Linked to Secret Travels."
"Prince Cleans House: Justice Rises."
In the dungeon, he sat with his hands raw from iron cuffs, staring at stone walls.
He pieced it together.
The missing funds. The vague orders. The quiet mistrust. The smile that was just a little too calm.
The First Prince had set the board. Weeks. Maybe months.
And Eustass had walked straight into checkmate.
The execution came at dawn.
No crowd. No words. Just stone, steel, and silence.
The masked knight raised his blade.
Eustass didn't beg. Didn't scream. He smiled—a broken, crooked thing—and whispered:
"You'll regret this."
The sword fell.
---
Darkness.
For a long time, there was nothing. No pain. No thought. Just the endless quiet of the grave.
Until—
Breath.
He gasped, chest heaving like he'd clawed back from the abyss. Sunlight burned through cracks in wooden shutters. A warm breeze carried the smell of dust and old wood.
He was lying on a small, creaking mattress in a dimly lit room. His hands—smaller. Too small.
He stumbled toward a cracked mirror.
A boy's face stared back. Thin frame. Wide eyes. Black hair falling wild over his forehead. Ten years old. Maybe less.
Not him.
"…What the hell?"
His voice cracked—higher, wrong. His thoughts splintered: fire, betrayal, steel, a crown, a voice calling him traitor.
Nothing fit. Nothing made sense.
---
The door opened.
A woman entered, carrying a tray—porridge, bread, chipped tea. Tired eyes. Worn clothes. But when she saw him, she lit up with relief.
"Oh, thank the stars, you're awake," she breathed, rushing forward. "Two days—you've been asleep two days. I thought I'd lost you."
She set the tray down and brushed his hair back, gentle.
"You probably don't remember much. That's okay. You hit your head pretty badly."
He stared at her, confusion gnawing at him.
Finally, he croaked: "Who… am I?"
Her smile wavered. Then softened, though it trembled.
"You're Kairus," she whispered, her voice breaking. "My little star. My son."
She hugged him close, warm and desperate.
Kairus. My son.
The words slammed into him like a glitch in reality.
Too real to be a dream.
Too fake to be truth.
He froze, eyes wide, heart racing.
Because he wasn't just lost.
He was someone else entirely.