Cold.
Not the distant, tolerable kind that brushed against skin and moved on. This cold sank inward, sharp and invasive, threading through muscle and bone with deliberate intent. It wasn't trying to discomfort him.
It was trying to claim him.
Stone scraped against Liam's cheek as consciousness dragged him upward without ceremony. Grit pressed into his lips. The taste of earth filled his mouth—dry, bitter, unmistakably real.
For a moment, his thoughts floated loose and unfocused.
Wow, he thought sluggishly, I really should stop sleeping on floors.
The humor landed weakly even in his own head.
He tried to inhale properly.
It was a mistake.
The air tore into his lungs, dry and sharp enough to burn. His chest seized in protest, and he coughed violently, the sound breaking out of him in a harsh, unfamiliar bark. His throat felt raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours.
Breathing hurt.
That felt important.
He tried to move.
Pain flared immediately at his wrists—hot, tight, unmistakable.
"Oh," he thought calmly, the observation arriving before panic had time to assemble. "That's new."
Rope.
Thick. Coarse. Twisted from rough fibers that bit into his skin. It was tied tight enough that his hands tingled, numbness creeping into his fingers with quiet menace.
Before his mind could finish processing that information, rough hands closed around his arms.
He was yanked forward.
His body didn't respond the way he expected it to. His legs folded uselessly beneath him, knees scraping against uneven ground as he was dragged across stone and dirt. The impact sent jolts of pain up his spine, rattling his teeth.
Voices barked above him.
Harsh. Clipped. Angry.
He didn't understand the words, but he didn't need to.
Orders sounded the same in every language.
"Hey—" he tried to say, or maybe thought about saying. His mouth opened, but nothing coherent came out. Just a hoarse sound that earned him a sharp tug on the rope and another voice raised in irritation.
Right. Talking probably wasn't encouraged.
He forced his eyes open.
The world swam violently at first, colors bleeding into one another, shapes refusing to settle. Then—slowly—it sharpened.
Boots marched alongside him, heavy and deliberate. Greaves scuffed with old dents and scratches. Armor that didn't match from soldier to soldier—patched together from different sets, different eras, all bearing the marks of long use.
Spears bobbed with each step. Sword hilts knocked softly against metal.
One blade swung close enough to brush his arm as they walked, the cold kiss of steel sending a shiver through him.
The smell hit next.
Sweat. Old leather. Iron. Something darker beneath it all—stale blood that had soaked too deep into fabric to ever truly wash out.
The sky overhead made his stomach twist.
It was wrong.
Bleached and vast, stretching endlessly without clouds or color variation. Too empty. Too watchful. Like a painted ceiling someone had forgotten to finish.
He stared up at it, disoriented.
That's… not right.
His body felt wrong too.
Smaller.
Lighter.
Weaker.
Not injured—reduced. Like he'd been resized without consent, proportions shifted just enough to trip instincts that had always known how much space he occupied.
Alright, he thought grimly as another stumble earned him a sharp yank forward. Either I'm hallucinating… or I died and woke up in the worst possible afterlife.
The march didn't stop.
Time stretched thin, then folded in on itself. Minutes blurred into something longer. Every step burned. Every uneven stone threatened to send him sprawling again.
When he did stumble, a spear butt struck his ribs—not hard enough to break anything, but firm enough to discourage repetition.
Efficient.
They weren't trying to hurt him for sport.
They were moving cargo.
He swallowed against the dryness in his throat and forced himself to stay upright. The ropes bit deeper into his wrists as his hands swelled slightly, circulation protesting the restraint.
The path sloped upward eventually, the ground leveling into stonework too old to be clean but too well-worn to be natural. Walls rose on either side, funneling them forward.
Gates loomed ahead.
Massive didn't begin to cover it.
They towered overhead, thick slabs of dark metal reinforced with bands of iron and etched with runes that made his eyes ache if he looked at them too long. The surface bore scars—deep gouges, impact marks, places where something enormous had struck and failed to break through.
The gates opened.
The sound rolled outward like distant thunder.
Inside, the fortress swallowed them whole.
The air changed immediately—cooler, heavier, thick with the scent of stone and oil smoke. Pillars rose high into shadow, their surfaces carved with reliefs that told stories without mercy.
Battles. Executions. Kneeling figures with bowed heads and bound hands. Beasts impaled on spears, their forms twisted into symbols of conquest.
Subtle.
They moved through corridors that seemed to bend inward, designed to disorient and compress. Light filtered down from high slits in the walls, cutting the space into sharp contrasts.
Liam's head began to throb.
At first, he thought it was just the lingering aftereffects of… whatever had happened before. Then the pain sharpened, focusing behind his eyes like something drilling inward.
"Oh no," his mind warned, sudden clarity slicing through the fog. "This is the bad kind of headache."
The world tilted.
Pressure built behind his forehead, then burst.
Memories flooded him.
Not his.
Chains snapping shut around thin wrists, the metal cold and absolute. A familiar home torn apart by shouting men, furniture overturned, walls smeared with blood that wasn't his yet felt like it should have been.
A crowd lining the streets.
Watching.
Not helping.
Faces blank, eyes sliding away as a family was dragged through the dirt like refuse.
Fear surged—raw and overwhelming. Shame followed, heavier, crushing. Fury burned hot beneath it all, sharp enough to choke on.
The body was young.
Thirteen.
Too light. Too fragile. Built for running, not enduring.
Bare feet pounding against stone as he fled, lungs burning, hope blazing far too brightly for how little time it would last.
A hand caught him.
He fell.
Boots followed.
Pain exploded across his back, his ribs, his head. Laughter echoed above him—careless, amused.
Then darkness.
"…fallen house…"
"…Lockwood…"
The pressure vanished as abruptly as it had come.
Liam gasped, sucking in air hard enough to make his chest ache. The present slammed back into place with disorienting force, the fortress hall snapping into focus around him.
Great, he thought weakly, his heart hammering. I inherited trauma.
His steps faltered, knees nearly buckling. One of the guards cursed and shoved him forward, impatience clear even without understanding the words.
They entered a vast hall.
It dwarfed everything that came before it.
Torches burned along towering pillars, their flames steady and controlled, casting light that seemed to bend inward toward the center of the space. The ceiling arched high overhead, lost in shadow.
At the far end sat a throne-like chair carved from a single block of dark stone.
And on it—
A man who made the air itself feel heavier.
He was broad, built like someone who had never known softness. Scars marked exposed skin and the edges of his face, each one old and earned. His beard was braided neatly, metal rings threaded through it. A deep scar slashed across his right eye, pulling the lid slightly downward and lending his gaze a perpetual intensity.
He didn't move as they approached.
He didn't need to.
This was a man the room moved around.
Liam's knees hit stone.
The impact jarred his body, pain shooting up through his legs. He barely noticed.
All his attention was fixed forward.
"Lord Akalh."
The title rippled through the hall as the guards dropped to one knee, heads bowed.
Akalh studied him in silence.
Not with curiosity.
With assessment.
"Lockwood."
The name struck something deep inside his chest, sharp and sudden.
The borrowed emotions surged again—grief, rage, despair—all crashing together violently. Liam clenched his jaw, riding it out, refusing to let it spill outward.
"Your family was sentenced to death," Akalh said calmly, his voice carrying without effort, "for conspiring against the crown."
The words were delivered like a statement of weather. Neutral. Unconcerned.
Images flared behind Liam's eyes—parents kneeling, blood pooling on stone, a final look filled with apology and love.
Rage surged.
Hot.
Violent.
Not his.
"Oh," Liam realized distantly, breath catching. "That's not mine."
Mana pressed against his mind.
He felt it like pressure, immense and suffocating, bearing down on his thoughts without touching his body. It wasn't an attack.
It was a reminder.
"You live," Akalh continued, "because your parents chose to die in your place."
The words landed harder than any blow.
The memories ended.
Silence followed.
Akalh leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "Do you understand what that means?"
Liam swallowed.
His mouth was dry. His throat tight.
"No," he said hoarsely. The word slipped out before he could stop it.
A murmur rippled faintly through the hall.
Akalh's gaze sharpened.
"It means," he said evenly, "that your life is no longer yours."
Liam held his gaze, heart pounding.
"Take him," Akalh ordered at last. "Lock him in the inner cellar."
The guards moved immediately.
Hands closed around his arms again, hauling him upright. The hall spun briefly as blood rushed back into his legs.
As they dragged him away, Liam caught one last glimpse of the throne.
Akalh was already looking past him.
Dismissed.
The doors slammed shut behind him.
Darkness swallowed him whole.