Elian woke with a gasp, his lungs burning as if he'd been drowning. He lay on the cold, damp ground, staring up at a sky that seemed too bright, too clear.
His fingers twitched against damp earth, and as he slowly look around him, the world around him came into focus dense canopy of trees, the soft murmur of a nearby river, and the early morning mist clinging to the underbrush. He was alive, but something was terribly wrong.
The last thing he remembered was the sound of tires screeching, the blaring horn, and Buddy's warm, comforting presence by his side as they ran for their lives.
Where was he? He struggled to push himself up, every movement foreign and unfamiliar. His limbs were heavier, his body weaker.
Buddy. The name jolted him into action. Elian scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding as he searched frantically for any sign of his dog.
"Buddy?" He called out instinctively, his voice strange in his ears,higher, softer, lacking the gravelly edge it used to have. He called again, louder this time, panic rising as silence answered him. "Buddy!"
Nothing. No bark, no rustle in the bushes, no sign of his loyal companion. Elian's chest tightened, the realization hitting him like a blow. Buddy was gone. He was all alone. A suffocating sense of dread began to set in, and he doubled over, his fingers digging into the soft earth as he tried to make sense of it all.
This wasn't his voice.
Elian's gaze swept over the landscape, his mind spinning. The riverbank, the trees, the sky, everything was different. It was as if he had been plucked from one world and dropped into another. And as much as he wanted to believe it was a dream, the sting of the grass under his fingertips, the cool breeze against his skin, told him otherwise.
He was alive, but in a world that wasn't his own.
His mind raced, trying to make sense of it all, but nothing added up. He couldn't understand where he was, how he had survived the crash, why his voice sounded like someone else's.
And then, like a floodgate opening, memories that weren't his own began to pour into his mind. They came in flashes, disjointed and confusing, glimpses of a grand estate, sprawling gardens, and the cold, disapproving stares of strangers. He could feel the weight of expectations pressing down on him, the judgment in the eyes of faceless figures as they watched his every move.
The name Elian echoed through these memories, but it wasn't his name, not the way he knew it.
It belonged to someone whose life had been shaped by circumstances far different from his own.The memories kept coming, faster and faster, overwhelming him with their intensity.
Elian clutched his head, stumbling backward until his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the wet ground. "Stop… please, just stop…" he pleaded, his voice, this strange, unfamiliar voice, barely a whisper. But there was no stopping it. The memories forced their way into his consciousness, a torrent of emotions and images that blurred the lines between who he was and who this other Elian had been.
The memories assaulted him, forcing their way into his mind, until he could no longer tell where his own thoughts ended and this stranger's began.
Gradually, the onslaught slowed, and Elian was left panting, his body trembling from the effort of holding onto his sanity. He sat there for what felt like hours, trying to process what he had just experienced, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess, tangled and frayed. It was as if two lives had been forcibly merged into one, and the result was a chaotic blend of memories that didn't fit together.
He opened his eyes, staring blankly at the river, his mind racing to catch up with the reality he now faced. it wasn't just his voice, He was now someone else's body, in someone else's life. And that life belonged to Elian, the nineteen-year-old bastard son of Grand Duke Marcelo, a high noble of the Arcanoria Empire.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. This boy, no, this young man, was an unwanted child, the product of a disreputable affair that had threatened to tarnish the Grand Duke's reputation. He was despised, looked down upon by his own family, treated as a stain on their honor.
Ireen, his mother. Was a courtesan of unparalleled beauty at the Velvet Moon Pavilion, where Grand Duke Marcelo had been a frequent visitor. Their affair had been passionate but brief, and when Ireen found herself with child, Marcelo had accepted her into his household, not out of love, but out of duty. In the empire, no child of noble blood was to be raised outside a noble's home.
But her acceptance into the household was a bitter one. Ireen had suffered immensely at the hands of Auda, the Duke's wife. Auda had made sure to strip Ireen of any dignity she had left, forcing her to live in a small, cold room far from the luxuries enjoyed by the rest of the household. Auda's cruelty had reached its peak when Ireen went into labor. Refusing the midwives, Auda had left Ireen to suffer alone, her screams echoing through the corridors, until only Mira, the head maid, had come to her aid.
With Mira's help, Ireen had brought Elian into the world, but she had not lived to see him grow. She had died moments after giving birth, her last breath a whispered plea for Mira to take care of her son. The young Elian had taken after his mother's beauty, the same enchanting green eyes. But he had inherited his father's brown hair, a mix of traits that only served to fuel Auda's hatred for him.
Pain and loneliness was the only way define Elian's life. He had been raised as a servant in his own father's household, kept at arm's length, never truly accepted, never loved. His step-siblings had tormented him, and the servants had treated him with disdain, save for Mira. Mira had been the only one who had cared for him, who had shown him kindness and warmth in a world that had been cold and cruel.
And then there was the other secret, the one that sent a chill running down Elian's spine. The memory of a small mole, darker than the rest of his skin, located just beneath his navel. He reached down, his hand trembling as he touched the spot, feeling the slight rise of the mark against his fingertips.
Ferre.