Pain was the first thing he knew.
It was a dull throb behind his eyes, a deep ache in his bones. A strange, herbal cold seeped through the thin sheet covering him, a smell of dried plants and disinfectant he did not recognize.
He knew the smell of hospitals. Clean, chemical, and sterile. This was not that.
With the effort of lifting stone, he forced his eyes open.
Rough, dark wood beams crossed a plastered ceiling. Sunlight, thick with floating dust, slanted down from a high, narrow window. He was on a simple cot in a small, bare room.
Then, the memories came.
They were not his.
They crashed into his mind like a storm surge, a flood of another man's life, another man's final, agonizing moments.
A great hall, filled with fire and the screams of dying men. A king—his father—roaring in defiance, a sound cut short by the flash of a sword.
His mother's face, pale and beautiful, her last words a desperate whisper. "Live, Ronan."
And the memory that burned the hottest, a scar on a soul he now wore as his own:
A small hand, torn from his grip. A girl with hair like silver thread, her voice shrieking a name he was just beginning to learn. "Ronan!"
The name was Lyra. His sister.
His new body jerked, a dry sob catching in his throat. In his old life, he was a strategist. He had moved armies across digital maps from the quiet of a command center. His world was logic, data, and calculated risk. His death had been a quiet failure of his own heart.
This new reality was a chaotic flood of emotion. The grief was a weight that threatened to pull him under. The rage was a hot coal in his stomach. He felt a crushing guilt for being the one who survived.
This was the life, and the pain, of Ronan de Altor, the last prince of a fallen kingdom. And now, it was his.
A shadow fell over him. He blinked, the room coming into sharper focus. A woman stood over his cot. Her grey robes were severe, her face stern.
"So, you are awake," she said. Her voice was flat, holding no warmth. "You have slept for three days since your arrival." She paused, and the way she said "arrival" made it sound like an insult.
His throat felt like sandpaper. "Water," he croaked.
She poured a cup from a clay pitcher, making no move to help him. He struggled, his muscles feeling weak and foreign, and managed to push himself up on one elbow. He drank the cool water in desperate gulps.
As he drank, the strategist in him took over. His mind, the only part of him that felt familiar, began to sort through the chaos.
Fact: My name is now Ronan de Altor.
Fact: My kingdom, Altor, has been destroyed by the Bastian Empire.
Fact: My parents are dead. My sister, Lyra, is a prisoner.
Fact: I am at the Vanguard Academy, a school for the empire's elite. I am not a student. I am a trophy.
The woman watched him, her arms crossed. "The Emperor has been generous," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "Allowing the last of your line to receive an education here."
The words were a carefully aimed attack. A test. The old Ronan, the true prince, would have answered with pride and anger. The strategist knew that would be a fatal mistake. Pride was a luxury he could not afford. Anger was a weapon that would only hurt himself.
He needed a shield. A mask.
He looked up at the woman. He let his shoulders slump. He forced the sharp intelligence from his gaze, replacing it with a look of dazed, empty fear. He made his bottom lip tremble.
"My family…" he whispered. The cracking in his voice was not entirely faked.
The woman's hard expression softened, just a little. A flicker of pity entered her eyes. Pity was perfect. Pity made you harmless.
"They are gone, boy," she said, her voice a little kinder now. "You are all that is left."
He let a single tear roll down his cheek. He covered his face with his hands and let his body shake with silent sobs. It was a performance, but the grief he was channeling was real. Behind the shield of his hands, his mind was cold and clear, making its first calculation in this new, dangerous world.
They expected him to be a broken prince, haunted and lost. He would be everything they expected, and more. He would be a fool. A lazy, sad boy who was no threat to anyone. He would wrap himself in their low expectations like a cloak, and from beneath it, he would watch, and he would plan.
The woman left him alone with his "grief." After a moment, he lowered his hands. He stood up on shaky legs and walked to a small, polished mirror on the wall.
The face that stared back was not his. It was the face of a stranger, a young man of seventeen with fine, noble features shadowed by trauma. His dark hair was a tangled mess. His eyes were the color of a storm cloud. They were a king's eyes.
He met his own reflection.
He consciously relaxed his jaw. He let his focus soften, allowing a vacant, lost look to settle on his face.
The king's eyes disappeared. In their place were the eyes of a frightened, broken boy.
It was his first lie in this new world. It would not be his last.
Ronan de Altor took a deep breath. He opened the door and stepped out to face his enemies.
*To be continued