The last thing Arthur heard was the steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. It was a lonely sound. No family stood by his bed; no friends held his hand. He had spent his life working a desk, avoiding risks, and being "sensible."
"What a waste," he whispered. His lungs felt like they were filled with wet sand. He closed his eyes, expecting darkness.
Instead, he felt cold.
A sharp, biting wind whipped across his face. He opened his eyes and gasped, but the air he drew in was thick with the smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies. He wasn't in a bed. He was lying on a dirt floor.
"Get up, runt!" a voice boomed.
Arthur tried to stand, but his limbs felt short and clumsy. He looked down at his hands. They were small, covered in filth and calluses, the hands of a child.
He was in a small village of thatched huts. Men in fur cloaks were shouting, and women were weeping. A massive man with a scarred face stood over him, holding a heavy iron chain.
"You're the last of the lot," the man spat. "The Master paid good coin for a boy with eyes as cold as yours. Don't make me drag you."
Arthur—no, Kaelen—looked around. This wasn't a dream. The mud between his toes was real. The terror in the air was real. He felt a strange, electric spark in his chest. In his old life, he would have begged for mercy.
But as the scarred man reached for him, Kaelen didn't flinch. He looked the giant in the eye with the gaze of a man who had already faced death and found it boring.
"Where are we going?" Kaelen asked. His voice was high-pitched but steady.
The man paused, surprised. "To the Nest. To learn how to kill. Or to die trying."
Kaelen stood up, shaking off the dust. A second chance, he thought. This time, I won't be the one who disappears.