The first thing Merlin Asher noticed upon awakening was the scent of boiled hemp and damp stone. It sat heavy in the air, clinging to the back of his throat. It was neither the crisp hospital sanitizer he might have expected, nor the familiar mustiness of an old apartment in the city he once called home. Instead, it smelled like… like somewhere else entirely. He tried to lift his head, only to find that it ached as if he'd slept on raw iron. When he blinked, dust motes spiraled lazily through shafts of candlelight, and beyond them lay a shadowed ceiling supported by crooked wooden beams.
Wood beams? Candlelight? He squinted. A lantern with polished brass fittings swung from a rafter, and beyond it, shelves of mismatched wooden crates and rolled parchment. The walls were plaster over brickwork, peeling in places, revealing strange sigils etched beneath. He'd never seen a place quite like this—or at least, not as Merlin Asher of Earth. Yet he knew this room. The memory came sidling up from a corner of his mind: a storeroom off the main hallway of the old boarding house. He recalled carrying crates in here, stacking them just so, then securing the latch so no vagrants would slip in during the night. That was what he did, wasn't it? His job—odd shifts as a messenger and occasional porter for Mistress Halewick's establishment. Yes, he knew these walls as much as he knew his own name.
But that was impossible. Only yesterday—was it yesterday?—he'd been…
He pressed a hand to his chest and inhaled. Panic stuttered in his ribcage. He remembered collapsing on a busy street in modern London—no, not London, something like it: a city with tall glass towers and impatient cars. He had been a 22-year-old engineering student, fretting over an exam, when pain seized his heart. The doctors… no, he hadn't even made it to the hospital. He'd died. He remembered that well enough.
And yet he was here, in a dim storeroom filled with peculiar scents and half-familiar shapes. His body felt different: leaner, taller, and clad in rough trousers and a long, well-worn frock coat. His hair hung a bit too long over his forehead. He reached up, fumbled through strands that felt slightly oily and overdue a wash. As he touched his temple, a flood of new memories nudged insistently behind his eyes—memories not his own yet fully claimed by his mind. He saw flashes of a narrow bed in a cramped sleeping hall. He recognized Mistress Halewick's stern face and the way her voice snapped like a taut wire when rent was late. He recalled evening runs through streets lit by whale-oil lanterns and strange mechanical lights powered by arcane crystals. He remembered listening at half-open doors, picking up gossip about the Overlord of the West, and rumored sightings of cultists who worshiped the Goddess Eldara. Eldara, whose three moons watched silently from a sky the color of bruised violets.
Slow down, he told himself, heart thrumming. Even his inner voice sounded different: it carried a certain measured calm that his old self lacked. The memories of his new life—this body's life—offered context. His name, as far as anyone here knew, was Merlin Asher. Nineteen years old. An errand-runner employed at Halewick House, a boarding establishment in the city-state of Storshallow. Storshallow, with its winding canals and copper spires, was known for its airships, mechanical prosthetics, and libraries guarded by clockwork sentinels. He knew these details as if he'd grown up with them, a thousand fragments of knowledge slotting into place as if he were assembling a puzzle.
But he was also Merlin Asher from another world, a completely different place and era. Or was he now truly this new Merlin? He swallowed. Best not to let such confusion show. No one must know he was anything but the young man who worked and slept and ate stale bread in this old boarding house. He had to act as if nothing was amiss. The thought was terrifying and oddly thrilling.
He rose slowly, running a hand down his coat. He wore a linen shirt beneath, a bit patched at the elbows, and trousers that were a shade too short—stained at the knees from god-knows-what errands. On his belt hung a small leather pouch of keys and a folding knife. He recognized them all; they belonged to him—this body—he forced himself to think of it as simply his own now. He flexed his fingers, noticing calluses not from keyboards or smartphones, but from lifting crates, turning wrenches, and gripping iron railings. The ghost of muscle memory guided his stance.
Outside the storeroom's flimsy door came the soft creak of floorboards and muffled voices. With a cautious exhale, he inched it open. A corridor stretched out, lit by a single gaslamp hissing quietly, and lined with a mishmash of furniture: a table stacked with ledgers, a coat stand bearing a few worn hats, and at the far end, a staircase leading upward. The smell of boiled cabbage drifted down from above. Someone—he knew her name now—Bertha, the cook, must be preparing the midday meal. He should make an appearance or risk suspicion. Mistress Halewick was prickly about slackers.
As he stepped into the corridor, a door opened at the top of the stairs. He froze, heart in his throat. But his body had done this a hundred times before, hadn't it? He let the new memories guide him. Standing above was a thin woman of about forty, dressed in a stiff, high-collared gown of dark brown. Her hair was scraped back into a severe bun, and her eyes narrowed behind tiny spectacles. Mistress Halewick. He knew her name, her temperament, and the cadence of her speech: curt, efficient, and unimpressed by excuses.
"There you are," she said, voice clipped. "You've been down there a bit long. Don't tell me you got lost among the crates again, Merlin."
He struggled to find his voice. The panic subsided as he realized he actually knew how this Merlin would speak. His memories hinted that he was courteous, a bit soft-spoken, but earnest. "I—apologies, Mistress Halewick," he managed. "I felt a bit faint. The storeroom's air… it's stale. I needed a moment."
She eyed him sharply. "Faint?" She tapped her foot. "Hmph. Well, if you're ill, you'd best not spread it about. I won't have the guests seeing you swoon." Folding her arms, she examined him. "Did you at least find the brass fittings I asked for?"
Brass fittings… yes, he recalled something about them stored in a chest by the left wall. Without hesitation, he turned and ducked back inside the storeroom. He spied a small wooden chest near the door. Inside were neatly wrapped packages, and beneath them, a handful of brass fittings. He picked them up, felt their weight—sturdy and well-made. Returning to the corridor, he offered them up like tribute. Mistress Halewick plucked one out, examined it, and gave a curt nod.
"Good. One of our second-floor lanterns is acting up again. The tinker said we'd need new connectors. Take these to Betram upstairs in the tool room and tell him to fix that lantern before dusk. We have a new guest arriving tonight, a scholar from Rimvail. I want the halls well-lit."
"Yes, mistress," Merlin said, his voice steadier now. Inside, he marveled at how natural this felt. The last few moments had been a test, and he'd passed without faltering. She knew him well enough not to suspect anything, and he knew her mannerisms enough to respond properly. How was that possible, that he could slip so easily into this role?
When Mistress Halewick marched off to oversee the kitchens, he climbed the stairs. The house was old, all right—creaking wood floors, plaster walls stained with time, and corridors cluttered with mismatched furniture. He passed a hall mirror and caught a glimpse of himself: a lean face, slightly hollow cheeks, brown hair that curled at the ends, eyes that seemed more reflective than he remembered. He wore a loose jacket of charcoal wool over a dull white shirt and simple necktie. It looked old-fashioned and provincial, yet practical. It suited him now, didn't it?
One memory after another flowed more smoothly as he moved: He recalled that Betram was the handyman here, a burly fellow with a perpetually grimy apron and a knack for repairing squeaky doors and leaky pipes. He also remembered that Mistress Halewick's boarding house was considered respectable, if a bit austere, catering mostly to traveling merchants, minor scholars, and the occasional eccentric looking to study in Storshallow's famed libraries.
As he turned down another corridor, the patterned wallpaper and dim lantern light suddenly reminded him of the gravity of his situation. This world—so the memories said—was vast, with continents named Aventra and Quath, riddled with old gods and new inventions. Storshallow was just one city-state among hundreds, notable for its mechanical marvels, trade guilds, and the quiet influence of moon-worshiping cults. The name Eldara drifted through his thoughts, carrying an undercurrent of awe and caution. Eldara was said to be the goddess who watched over secrets and madness beneath the three pale moons that sometimes graced the sky at once.
It was all so strange. He tried to be calm. Panicking would achieve nothing. Focus on the task at hand. Perhaps the best approach was to blend in and learn more. He had memories, yes, but they were fragmented impressions rather than scholarly knowledge. He knew the shape of everyday life, but not the deeper truths. He'd need to gather information carefully. And he must never let anyone suspect that behind these eyes was a stranger—someone who had once died in an entirely different world.
At the far end of the hall, a door stood ajar to the tool room. He rapped lightly on the frame. "Betram?" he called.
From within came a deep grunt and the clang of metal. Betram emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He was broad-shouldered, with a patchy beard and a flat cap jammed over thinning hair. He wore a leather vest over a stained shirt. "What is it now?" he said, voice gruff but not unkind.
"New fittings," Merlin replied, holding them out. "For the lantern upstairs. Mistress says it must be fixed before dusk."
Betram grunted again, accepting the fittings. He peered at Merlin with small, shrewd eyes. "You look off-color, lad. Slip in the cellar again?"
Merlin forced a faint smile. "Just feeling a bit under the weather. It'll pass."
"Hmm, well, don't go keeling over. Halewick's temper's sour enough without you fainting in front of guests. I'll see to that lantern. You get some fresh air, maybe. The courtyard's open—Annabelle's hanging linen outside. A bit of breeze might do you good."
Grateful for the suggestion, Merlin nodded. The courtyard. Yes, he remembered it now: a small, walled space behind the boarding house, where laundry lines crossed overhead, and potted herbs struggled for sunlight. Annabelle was the chambermaid—quiet, practical, given to humming old lullabies under her breath. Just the thought of stepping outside this dim house brought him some relief.
He thanked Betram and made his way downstairs again. The kitchen door opened onto the courtyard. He had to pass through the dining room first, where the long wooden table bore fresh linens and a centerpiece of dried flowers. The smell of cabbage soup grew stronger, and he glimpsed Bertha stirring a cauldron at the stove, her broad back turned, her frilled cap bobbing with each motion. Beyond a small back door with flaking paint, he found the courtyard.
Stepping out, he felt a cool breeze and saw a glimpse of the sky: a washed-out blue tinged with pearlescent clouds. Thin towers of neighboring buildings rose around him, their metal balconies and twisted piping speaking of a city that combined old masonry with new mechanical veins. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, pretending he was simply Merlin Asher, a young man on a break from chores.
And in truth, wasn't he? He had no reason to think otherwise. Better to accept this reality. After all, he was alive, wasn't he?
Annabelle stood by the laundry lines, pinning fresh sheets. She wore a simple dress of pale green and an apron, her dark hair tucked under a scarf. When she noticed him, she tilted her head slightly, a gentle question in her eyes. She was not one to chatter aimlessly. He remembered that from the body's memories—she was kind but reserved.
"You all right?" she asked softly. Her voice was low, soothing.
Merlin managed a half-smile. "Just… needed a moment. The storeroom was cramped. I've got the midday doldrums, I suppose."
She nodded, accepting this without judgment. "A bit of fresh air will help." Turning back to her work, she said nothing more, yet her presence felt calming. The quiet rustle of linens and the distant hum of city life beyond the courtyard walls offered a gentle reassurance.
For a long moment, Merlin stood there, absorbing the details of this strange new life. He was in a world where mechanical wonders mingled with whispers of gods, where boarding houses held secrets in their attics, and where a man named Merlin Asher was known to everyone but himself. He had memories to guide him, muscle memory, the tones of voices he'd heard a hundred times, the layout of these halls, the shape of his duties. Yet he also had the knowledge that once he had died far away, in a world of glass and steel.
But perhaps that no longer mattered. This was his life now. He needed to embrace it, or at least navigate it skillfully. No one must know he didn't truly belong. And if he could learn the rules of this place, maybe he could find purpose here. Maybe he could become something more than a confused lodger in his own flesh.
A distant bell tolled somewhere in Storshallow, echoing against the masonry. Annabelle hummed quietly, and he let the sound anchor him. He would take this one step at a time: perform his duties, listen, learn, and unravel what this world had in store. He would keep his strangeness hidden behind a careful smile and a respectful nod.
As he turned to head back inside and resume his tasks, he glanced up. For a moment, he thought he saw something flit across the sky—a faint shimmer, like wings made of glass—but when he blinked, there was nothing. Just empty air and distant rooftops. He shook off the unease and stepped through the door, back into the boarding house's dim corridors.
He had work to do, a life to live. He was Merlin Asher, and no one would say otherwise.