***
Damien woke up remembering how he died.
The memory arrived complete and undeniable—standing in a quantum physics lab at 1:47 AM, chrome shrapnel tearing through Vikram Malhotra's chest, consciousness registering its own ending with peculiar clarity.
Then nothing.
Except now there was something. Eighteen years of being Damien Ashcroft, and suddenly twenty-three years of being Vikram Malhotra sitting in his head like they'd always belonged there.
Past life memories. Real ones, not philosophical speculation. Actual recall of dying in a world without magic, where people understood physics instead of mystifying it into divine mystery.
Why now? Why not at birth?
No answer. Just the knowledge, undeniable and complete, sitting in his mind alongside everything he'd always known.
Damien examined his hands in the pre-dawn light. Same hands. Same calluses from sword practice, same scar on his left thumb from a childhood accident. Nothing physical had changed.
But in his head, he now understood quantum field theory. Understood that the "magic" everyone revered was just unconscious electromagnetic field manipulation. That the "mana core" practitioners spent decades developing was a standing wave pattern maintained through observer effects they didn't even realize they were using.
They have no idea what they're actually doing.
His door opened without knocking.
"Still asleep? Scandalous." His mother walked in with the casual disregard for privacy that came from being duchess in her own manor. "Breakfast in ten minutes. Your sister's already threatening violence if you're late."
Duchess Elara Ashcroft looked nowhere near old enough to have adult children—Soul Transformation cultivation had preserved her at what appeared to be thirty despite being forty-three. Beautiful in ways Damien had somehow never consciously registered in eighteen years, but Vikram's perspective supplied a much less filtered assessment.
The observation sat in his mind without weight. Just data. Vikram had never been particularly concerned with appropriate boundaries.
"I'm awake," Damien said.
His mother moved closer, studying him with dark eyes that had spent two centuries learning to read people. "You look different."
Perceptive
"How so?"
"Your eyes. Something about them." She reached out and brushed hair from his forehead—casual maternal gesture, but he caught the faint scent of jasmine she always wore. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Strange dreams."
"The kind that matter?"
The kind where I remembered dying in another world, but that's not a safe answer.
"The kind that stick," Damien said.
She studied him another moment, then smiled. "Well, whatever they were, try to shake them off before breakfast. Victoria's in one of her moods." Her hand lingered briefly on his shoulder before she left.
Damien started dressing, mind already organizing what he actually knew. The memories were integrated now—not fighting for dominance, just available. Eighteen years of Damien's life and twenty-three years of Vikram's, existing simultaneously without conflict.
I'm both. And neither.
He could work with this.
***
The dining hall was morning sunlight and architectural excess designed to remind visitors that House Ashcroft had money and taste. Victoria sat at the table already dressed for combat training, dark hair pulled back, expression suggesting imminent violence and anticipation of it.
His older sister was beautiful. He'd known that his entire life in the abstract way you knew objective facts, but Vikram's memories supplied a much more direct appreciation. Twenty-four, Arcanist 5th Circle, heir to the duchy and dangerous in ways that went far beyond cultivation strength.
The observation registered and moved on. Not currently relevant.
"Finally," Victoria said when she saw him. "I was giving you three more minutes before I started without you."
"Mother said you were threatening violence."
"I don't threaten. I promise." She gestured at the chair across from her. "Sit down before I eat everything out of principle."
Damien dropped into the seat. "Where's Edmund?"
"Trade route inspection. Left yesterday, probably won't be back for two weeks." Victoria was already pouring tea. "Which means his breakfast portion is disputed territory."
"I'm not fighting you for Edmund's breakfast."
"Smart choice."
Their mother entered and settled at the table's head with fluid grace that made it easy to forget she could move faster than either of them could track, kill them both before they finished blinking. Instead she just reached for the tea service with perfect, deliberate courtesy.
"Your father left this morning," she said conversationally.
The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.
Victoria's teacup paused halfway to her mouth. She set it down slowly. "When?"
"Sometime between midnight and dawn. Imperial summons." Their mother's tone was perfectly controlled, which meant she was actually furious. "He left me a note."
"A note," Victoria repeated.
"Very considerate of him, really. Saved me the trouble of waking up to say goodbye." The sarcasm could have etched glass.
*She's genuinely angry. Not showing it outwardly, but definitely angry.*
"What does the Emperor want?" Damien asked.
"If I knew, I wouldn't be sitting here making polite conversation over breakfast." His mother looked at him directly, and he felt the weight of Soul Transformation realm attention like physical pressure. "He took formal carriage and four guards. Whatever this is, it's public and it's important."
"How many other houses?" Victoria asked immediately, already shifting to tactical assessment.
"At least three Duke-level that I've confirmed. Probably more."
Victoria went still. "The last time multiple Dukes got summoned simultaneously—"
"Was seventeen years ago." Their mother's smile was cold. "Right before the northern rebellion. So yes, we should probably be concerned."
Imperial power consolidation. Either preparing for conflict or eliminating potential threats.
Possibly both
Damien filed that away as relevant context but not his immediate problem.
"Speaking of imperial politics." His mother's attention shifted fully to Damien. "You're attending the Celestial Academy gathering in six weeks."
He blinked. "What?"
"All major houses are sending representatives under twenty-five. Your father decided you'd represent House Ashcroft."
Victoria's teacup stopped again. She set it down carefully, expression shifting from surprised to concerned. "Damien? Not me?"
"You're needed here managing duchy affairs while your father plays games at court. Damien's going."
Something passed between his mother and sister—silent communication that excluded him entirely. Victoria's expression cycled through surprise, concern, and resignation in about three seconds.
"Well," Victoria said finally. "That's going to be interesting."
The way she said 'interesting' made it sound like 'potentially fatal.'
"What am I missing?" Damien asked.
"Nothing." His mother's tone was too light. "Just a gathering. Social connections, political theater, completely routine."
"Mother." Victoria's voice went flat. "He's not an idiot."
Their mother sighed. "Fine. Last Academy gathering we sent someone to, they came back missing two fingers and a significant amount of pride. The one before that, they didn't come back at all."
"Training accident," Victoria added without inflection. "Very tragic. Very convenient for House Morden, whose heir he'd embarrassed the week prior."
Ah. So this is actually dangerous.
"So the Academy gathering is a convenient place for rival houses to eliminate future competition," Damien said.
"Only if you're good enough to threaten them or stupid enough to make enemies carelessly," Victoria said. She smiled without warmth. "Try to be neither."
"The gathering isn't purely social," his mother continued. "There will be tournaments. Public demonstrations. The Emperor's observers will be assessing which houses have genuinely strong next generations versus which are relying on past reputation."
Test the heirs while summoning the patriarchs. Map actual power across major houses.
"The probability you make it through six weeks without acquiring enemies is approximately zero," Victoria said cheerfully. "The probability you survive those enemies depends on whether you're smart about which ones you make."
"Your encouragement is heartwarming."
"You asked." She grinned. "But seriously—some people will want alliances. Others will see you as competition. The smart ones will try to recruit or befriend you. The stupid ones will try to kill you."
"And I should...?"
"Make the smart ones respect you and make the stupid ones afraid of the consequences." Victoria's smile sharpened. "Publicly, if necessary."
Damien processed that through both sets of memories. The Academy was opportunity and danger in exactly equal measure. Visibility, resources, political connections—but also exposure to rivals who might prefer to eliminate him before he became a real problem.
Need advantages. Need preparation they won't see coming.
"I'll need access to the family archives," he said. "All sections."
His mother's eyebrow rose. "Planning extensive research?"
"Planning to understand exactly what advantages we have. Historical positions, theoretical frameworks, recorded techniques." He met her eyes. "And I'll need permission to recruit a personal retinue from duchy personnel."
"You want to build your own team."
"I want people I can trust. Going alone to a place where people might try to kill me seems tactically stupid."
Victoria laughed. "When did you develop a spine? This is new."
"Maybe I just woke up," Damien said.
"I like it." His mother was studying him with open interest now. "Most heirs take whoever their parents assign and never question it. Choosing your own people shows actual thought." She tapped her fingers against the table once—brief gesture, quickly controlled.
"The archives are yours. All sections, including restricted ones. And you can recruit with my approval on final selections."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She leaned forward slightly. "You'll be representing this family in front of every major house in the Empire. Succeed, and you elevate our political position significantly. Fail..." She left that hanging.
"I won't fail," Damien said.
"Good." She stood, indicating breakfast was ending. "The archives are open starting today. Recruitment list on my desk by tomorrow morning. I'll approve or veto based on political considerations you might not see."
She left.
Victoria remained seated, studying him with those dark eyes that tracked everything. "So what really happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're different. Not just focused—fundamentally different. The way you talk, process information, make decisions." She tilted her head. "Mother noticed too. We just haven't decided what it means yet."
Damien leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze directly. "Maybe you just weren't paying attention before."
"I always pay attention to you."
"Do you?" He smiled. "Then you already know what changed."
Victoria's eyes narrowed. "That's not an answer."
"You're asking the wrong questions." He stood, moving around the table toward her. "You want to know what happened. What you should be asking is whether it matters."
"It matters if—"
"If what?" He stopped beside her chair, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "If I'm suddenly more interesting than the little brother you've been humoring for eighteen years?"
Her expression shifted—surprise, then something else. "You're deflecting."
"I'm prioritizing." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—casual gesture, but deliberate. "You said I finally developed a spine. Should I be apologizing for that?"
Victoria caught his wrist, grip firm but not painful. "What are you doing?"
"Answering your question." He didn't pull away. "You wanted to know what changed. I stopped accepting that adequate was good enough. Is that really so mysterious?"
She held his wrist a moment longer, searching his face. Then released him. "You're different."
"You said that already."
"I mean it."
"I know." He straightened, smile still in place. "I'm going to the archives. Want to spar this afternoon? Test if my new perspective actually means anything?"
Victoria studied him for another long moment, then laughed—short, surprised. "You're going to be trouble at the Academy."
"That's the plan."
"Good." She stood, and suddenly they were very close. "Training yards. After lunch. Don't be late."
She leaned in and kissed him—not on the cheek or forehead, but directly on his mouth. Brief, warm, lips soft against his. Gone before he could react.
"Don't die at the Academy," she said, stepping back. "That would be inconvenient."
She left before he could respond.
Damien stood alone in the dining hall, processing that. The kiss had been casual, affectionate—the kind of thing Victoria apparently did to show she cared. Damien's memories confirmed she'd always been physically demonstrative with him, though usually less directly.
His borrowed body had opinions about it that were definitely inappropriate for a sisterly gesture.
Vikram's perspective bleeding through.
But also not something he was particularly concerned about. Appropriate boundaries had never been Vikram's strength.
He filed it away as interesting data and headed for the archives.
***
CHAPTER END