I couldn't sleep. Who could? I was a soul without a name, sitting in a room that felt like a five-star hotel.
The space was massive. The walls were covered in pale blue silk, and the ceiling was a shifting holographic map of the stars. To my left was a floor-to-ceiling mirror framed in glowing white gold. I walked up to it, my heart hammering against my ribs.
For the first time since I arrived, I looked at my reflection.
I froze.
The boy in the mirror looked about fifteen. He had dark roots that bled into shimmering silver hair. He was slim but toned, and his face... It was hauntingly beautiful.
"What...?" I whispered, touching the glass. "Is this me?"
I stared for minutes, mesmerized. I looked like a work of art. But as I leaned in closer, I saw them—deep, reddish eyes that sparkled like polished rubies.
My blood turned to ice.
Silver hair. Red, jewel-like eyes. Rare beauty.
Jayden Cross.
He was the only character that had caught my attention in the novel. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even a villain. He was a background character—an orphan with a tragic life who was supposed to die in a dark alleyway at age fifteen.
Oh no. Don't tell me I've inhabited the body of a dying extra.
As the realization hit, a white-hot spike of pain drove itself into my skull. It felt like my brain was being torn apart.
I whimpered, the agony so intense I lost my balance. I crawled toward the bed, grabbing the silk sheets and stuffing them into my mouth to muffle the scream tearing at my throat.
Images began to flash behind my eyelids—starvation, cold nights, the smell of rain in an alley. They weren't my memories, but they were flooding in like a broken dam.
My vision blurred, the world spun, and the last thing I felt was the softness of the bed as I fainted into the dark.
I gasped, my eyes snapping open.
I had only been out for twenty minutes, but my brain felt heavy. It was crammed with memories that weren't mine—flashes of cold nights, the smell of damp stone, and the constant, gnawing hunger of a boy named Jayden.
So, I really am him, I thought, sitting up. The beautiful orphan who was supposed to die in the mud.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
A woman in a sharp, tailored uniform stepped inside. "My name is Stephanie, the Head Maid. Madam Lara requested that I prepare a warm bath and bring you these."
She held out a stack of clothes that looked softer than anything I'd ever touched. I watched her walk toward a door on the far side of the room. She didn't turn a faucet; she simply tapped a glowing blue rune engraved on the wall.
Steam immediately began to rise.
Runes for hot water, I noted. At this point, I'm not even surprised. If they told me the toilet was powered by lightning, I'd probably just nod.
"Please, get washed. I will be outside if you need anything," Stephanie said with a polite bow before leaving.
I stood up and walked into the bathroom. My jaw nearly hit the floor.
It wasn't a bathroom; it was a temple to hygiene. The walls were made of translucent white jade that glowed from within. The bathtub was carved out of a single piece of black obsidian, large enough to fit four people. Above it, a rain-shower head made of gold was suspended in mid-air with no visible pipes—just floating magic.
The water wasn't just hot; it was sparkling with faint, silver particles that smelled like cedar and expensive soap.
I stripped off my rags and hopped in. The warmth hit my skin, and for the first time in two lives, the tension in my shoulders actually started to melt.
If I'm destined to die in this book, I thought, leaning my head back against the smooth stone, at least I'll go out smelling like a millionaire.