The storm was vicious. Wind tore at Liam, yanking at his clothes. Rain poured in heavy sheets, soaking his hands until the rope felt slick and treacherous. He clung to it anyway, knuckles white, knowing it was giving way.
The fibers strained, snapping one after another as the rope unraveled beneath his grip.
Below, the cliff dropped into a churning black sea. Waves smashed against the spiky rocks, rising and breaking with a rhythm.
"Help!" His voice cracked, raw with panic, but the storm devoured the sound. No reply came. Only the roar of the ocean and the shriek of the wind.
His hand slipped, then but he quickly caught the rope again. Pebbles and dust tumbled from above, vanishing into the dark below. The sudden pull shook his body, muscles trembling, arms burning as he held on.
Slowly, he forced himself to look up.
The castle rose above him—or what was left of it. Half the walls had collapsed, broken stone jutting into empty air.
At the edge stood a figure.
Tall. A heavy coat wrapped around them, its edges shifting in the wind. Feathers lined the shoulders. But the mask was what stopped Liam's breath.
It was pale, carved, and shaped like an animal's skull. Antlers stretched upward like the bones of a dead deer.
And behind it, two green lights glowed. Eyes. Watching him.
"Please…" His voice broke. "I beg you—help me!"
Tears clouded his vision, yet the figure above remained unmoved. No step forward, no gesture of mercy. Only silence. Only stillness.
His struggle meant nothing.
His arm shook violently, his grip weakening. For a fleeting instant, he hung suspended—then his fingers slipped.
Liam plunged into the storming sea. The ocean swallowed him whole. Cold water crushed against his chest, forcing the breath from his lungs. He kicked, arms flailing, but the weight only dragged him down, Deeper And deeper.
The light above shrank into a faint shimmer. Darkness heavily and endlessly pressed in from every side until he felt himself drifting like a shadow.
He looked at the surface above him. "Is far now," he thought.
Then something moved.
A silhouette glided through the water around him. He turned to his side, observing the water closely, then he saw it: far into the darkness of the ocean, something was swimming. Its huge silhouette resembled a serpent, its body twisting with silent grace. Scales caught faint glimmers before vanishing into the abyss.
Liam panicked; he tried swimming out of the depths, but every try made him sink even deeper. It was like the ocean had tied weights to his legs, but he still kept going.
The water shifted. Currents bent around him as though the ocean itself obeyed another master. The creature circled him once. Twice. Its vast form coiled in the dark, enclosing him in a spiral.
And then it rose.
A massive head descended from the shadows, ridged and ancient, its presence so immense that Liam felt smaller than a grain of sand. It was a white sea dragon. It opened its eyes gracefully. Its eyes locked onto the child.
His body trembled, sinking further, yet he could not look away. The dragon's gaze held him, a silence deeper than the ocean itself. And the helpless boy, drowning, could only stare back as the abyss closed around them. Then in that moment, the beast spoke, calling him, "Liam, I await your arrival." Then the world around him turned dark as Liam lost consciousness.
He woke with a violent gasp as air rushed into his lungs, sharp enough to hurt. His chest convulsed as if he had been dragged from drowning. His body lurched forward, hands clawing at the empty space until they struck something solid.
A couch. Rough fabric beneath his fingers, firm enough to hold him.
He clung to it, coughing hard, forcing breath back into his chest. Sweat clung cold to his skin, clammy, as though the storm itself had followed him here.
For a moment he stayed still, his eyes lifted and froze in question. "What is this place?" he muttered.
The ceiling pressed low, beams darkened with age. Wallpaper curled with vine patterns along the walls. Ink and lavender lingered faintly in the air.
Liam pushed himself upright, head still pounding.
"Where… am I?"
The room unfolded piece by piece. Sunlight spilled through a tall window, cutting across the floorboards. A desk sat nearby, cluttered with papers and an open ink bottle, the quill stained black.
A bookshelf lined the far wall, leather spines gleaming faintly in the light. Beside it, a radio rested on a side table, brass dials polished but silent. In the corner, a phonograph stood with its trumpet-shaped horn tilted upward, waiting.
Everything looked old.
The sofa beneath him scratched against his skin, its coarse fabric worn but soft, the kind of upholstery from another age. Even the air felt different. "This isn't the school…" His voice faltered. He glanced down—and froze again.
His clothes, even his clothes, were different. A white shirt. A dark patterned vest, thick and tailored.
"What…" he whispered, brushing his fingers along the fabric. Out of the blue a Pain struck without warning. A violent spike ripped through his skull, forcing a strangled breath from his lips. He gripped the couch edge, knuckles white, as the agony surged.
"Water…" he muttered. "I need water."
His gaze fixed on the round glass bottle resting on the table. With a trembling hand, he lurched forward, tore the cork free, and raised it to his lips. The liquid cooled as it slid down; he drank quickly, desperate for release.
The agony vanished as swiftly as it had come—snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Relief washed through him, sharp and sudden, easing away the headache. But something lingered after that.
They were Fragments. Shards of memory that did not belong to him. Faces blurred, voices half-formed, shadows and silhouettes slipping away before he could grasp them. His breath caught, chest tightening, as if the weight of lives not his own pressed down upon him.
His words rasped out, full of confusion and trembling: "What… what is happening to me?"
He rose unsteadily, each step dragging him forward until his gaze caught on the tall, narrow mirror fixed near the door and drawn as if by unseen hands; he moved closer—one step, then another. The floor groaned beneath his weight, the air thick with ink and lavender.
He stopped before the mirror. And froze. The reflection staring back was wrong; it wasn't his.
Liam's hair was brown, his eyes a clear blue. But the figure in the glass was not Liam. His blonde hair shimmered softly in the dim light, framing a face marked by sharp, handsome lines. Green eyes held a clear, steady gleam, and the faint curve of his lips carried an effortless charm. Pale skin lent him a refined, almost timeless allure.
"This… this isn't me," he said.
The figure in the glass was striking too striking, handsome in a way that felt sculpted rather than born. Liam raised a hand, fingertips brushing his own cheek, and the mirror did the same flawlessly. Every twitch, every hesitant gesture was done without delay. He waved; it waved. He touched his hair; the reflection did the same.
"Who is this person?" disbelief tangled with bitter humor. A shaky laugh escaped him, hollow and sharp. "Why does he look like he stepped out of a painting? He's… better looking than I ever was."
As he busily admired the looks, a pain struck again suddenly, but lower this time, deep in his stomach. He clutched his shirt with frantic hands. Fabric tore beneath his grip, shifting his vest; the buttons strained from his pull until they snapped loose.
And then he saw it.
A bandage wound tight around his midsection, its center soaked red. Liam stared at it, his thoughts struggling to keep up.
"…This person was stabbed," he thought.
He stopped, the weight of the room pressing in on him. Until now, everything had blurred together—shock, confusion, pain—but as his gaze steadied, the details began to surface.
It was an office. A leather chair sat still and high-backed, its presence commanding. Shelves crowded the walls, heavy with books and ornaments that seemed to watch him in silence. Nearby, a lamp glowed softly, a floating star suspended within its glass. Its light spilled across a rug worn thin, faded reds and blues whispering of years long past. The glow was gentle, dreamlike, yet it only deepened the strangeness of the place.
Liam drew in a slow, careful breath. The pieces were aligning—the style of the room, the clothes on his body, the unfamiliar face in the mirror.
"It can't be possible…" His fingers curled tight at his sides. "This isn't real. It can't be. I died… but I'm alive now?"
He touched his face again, pressing against the cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw, tugging lightly at the blond strands of hair. Flesh. Bone. Hair. All solid. All real. His breathing steadied, though unease lingered.
Forcing himself to look beyond the mirror, he took in the room with sharper clarity—the desk cluttered with ink and paper, the Victorian décor heavy with age, the phonograph waiting silently in the corner, the radio's brass dials gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
"I was reincarnated?" he muttered, the idea sounding absurd on thought. "No… no, that doesn't fit." His brow furrowed, voice dropping lower, arguing with himself. "Whoever this person was… I seem to have his memories. That's not reincarnation. That seems more like… transmigration?."
The thought was bizarre, almost laughable, yet the reality pressed down on him with suffocating weight. The air felt heavier, the silence sharper, as if the room itself was listening.
He glanced back at the mirror, at the stranger's face that was now his own—blond hair shimmering faintly, crystalline green eyes, features too refined, almost perfect. Handsome in a way that felt unfair, almost mocking.
Liam's lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. "Great. Not only am I in someone else's body, but he's better looking than I ever was. Figures."
Liam stilled, the thought crystallizing in his mind. If this was transmigration, then those flashes—those fleeting fragments—must have been the memories of the body's original owner. All he needed was to reach them, to draw them out.
He lowered himself to the floor, legs crossing, hands resting lightly on his knees—sitting in a position he'd only ever seen in movies. Closing his eyes, he forced his breath into rhythm, steady and deliberate, synchronizing with the calm, willing the fragments to surface.
And they did.
At first, faint impressions—voices of people he could not recognise, flashes of places not ever seen, and sensations that weren't his.
" His name was Xavier Xylaris," he muttered," of the Forty-Third Branch of House Xylaris."
***
House Xylaris ruled the North with an iron hand. Ten cities bent beneath its banner, and forty-six noble branches bowed to the central bloodline. Their name carried fearful weight, never spoken lightly. When the family walked among the people, streets were emptied, doors barred, and silence enforced under threat of execution. To defy them was to invite death.
At the heart of their dominion stood Saint Aurora. It was fortress and throne, a place where common folk were forbidden to tread. Within its gates, the Xylarian nobility lived apart from the world, detached and untouchable. They were known for their detachment from ordinary society, treating common citizens as lesser beings and toys.
But one branch broke the pattern.
The forty-third family, Xavier's bloodline, turned away from Saint Aurora. They carved out their own seat in one of the sixteen cities, ruling not with cruelty but with fairness. Their governance was steady, protective, even humane, which surprised the people— a rare light in the cold North. Citizens spoke of them with reverence, and whispers spread that their rising reputation threatened the authority of the main lineage.
Resentment followed. And then, death.
On a moonless night, the forty-third branch was erased. A figure in a deer skull mask descended upon them, orchestrating a massacre so complete that the family was declared extinct. Yet fate spared one. Xavier, broken and half-dead, drifted at sea with only his butler Winston beside him until a passing vessel pulled them from the waves.
That ship belonged to Leah Montefalco, captain of the Montefalco Pirates. When she first laid eyes on the child, she did not see a fallen noble — she saw a boy in need. Under her protection, Xavier lived hidden from the world, raised in secrecy, bound to her by a bond deeper than blood. She became his shield, his mother in all but name.
Years of fragile peace passed. But shadows do not forget. The deer-masked assassin returned, and this time, Leah stood in the way. They clashed in a fierce battle under the night . A violent flurry of powers clashed that night, Leah won the battle that night, but, she fell beneath the same hand that had destroyed Xavier's family, leaving him once more adrift in grief — the last ember of the forty-third branch, hunted and alone.