Zarius opened his eyes to the soft, grey light filtering through the sheer curtains. Beside him, Cherion was still dead to the world, his face half-buried in the pillow, his dark hair a tangled mess across the sheets. His breathing was slow and deep, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm that spoke of absolute, bone-deep exhaustion.
Zarius didn't move. He lay on his side, anchored to the bed, just staring down at the pale curve of Cherion's jaw.
So he wasn't Cherion Antel.
It was a strange, almost absurd thought to hold in his mind, but as Zarius watched the quiet flutter of Cherion's eyelashes in his sleep, he realized it made a terrifying amount of sense. The way Cherion spoke, the strange words that sometimes tumbled out of his mouth when he was flustered, the way he viewed this world as if he were looking at a stage play, he was a soul from a completely different place, thrust into a body that wasn't originally his.
