Nathan's eyes cracked open, and for a moment, he couldn't figure out where he was. The polished wood ceiling above him was high and smooth, with exquisite carvings lining the beams. Warm golden streaks swept the area as morning sunshine poured through lofty arched windows.
Not his bedroom, for sure.
The smooth fabric of the sheets slipped down his body as he gently sat up. The mattress was solid but oddly comfy, and the bed was larger than he was used to. The lingering smell of something unknown blended with the subtle aroma of lavender and fresh paper. He noticed a tidy collection of furnishings scattered about the room: a small closet against one wall, a coat rack near the door with a few simple robes hanging from it, and a large oak desk filled with books and quills arranged neatly.
Is it possible that I broke into a boarding school by accident? was his initial thinking. "Wait, whose hands are these?" was his second thought.
In the sunlight, he raised his hands and rolled them over. They weren't his. His calloused, rough fingers with small scars etched across the knuckles had replaced his typical office-soft palms. His heart pounded as he gazed at them. There was a serious problem.
A feeling of dizziness struck him, and he froze, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His feet made contact with the smooth, chilly wood floor beneath his toes. His thoughts were rushing, so he paused to gather his breath.
His voice was shaking as he muttered, "This... this isn't right." Even that sounded too young and light for him. Stumbling toward the desk, he steadied himself with it. His gaze swept across the books scattered on its surface. One was unguarded and had sharp handwriting that he didn't recognize but somehow deciphered.
His head ached, and suddenly everything rushed in like a dam bursting.
Memories. overpowering, fragmented memories that weren't his own. He had glimpses of names he couldn't have known, faces he didn't recognize, and locations that couldn't be real. A tall spire in the center of a busy campus, luminous practice fields where students engaged in sword and magic combat, and long hours of exhausting training in dusty lecture halls were among the pictures that flashed through my mind.
Nathan Caelum. A student of the Aurelian Academy, one of the most prominent magicians' and warriors' academy. Not exceptional, not a disaster, just... mediocre. He was having difficulty keeping up with his peers in a society where talent and strength were valued highly. He was pushed to the brink of insignificance, barely making ends meet.
And that life was his now, somehow.
As the memories crept in and covered his own thoughts like a coating of dust, Nathan's breathing slowed. He was here now, in this body, in this life, but he had no idea how or why. A life that seemed precariously precarious.
He was starting to think when there was a loud knock on the door. His heart pounded in his chest as he leaped.
"Caelum! I take it you're awake?" The voice was impatient yet muted. The training will begin in ten minutes. Don't make me come in there."
Training. The word struck with the force of a bucket of icy water. His recently acquired memories awoke, completing the blanks. The academy required morning training, including magical exercises and physical fighting. Unless you wanted to spend the afternoon running laps around the campus, skipping was not an option.
"I'm awake!" Nathan's voice cracked a little as he called. He cleared his throat. "Be right there!"
He was alone again when footsteps receded down the hall. He ran a hand through his hair as he reclined in the chair. He needed time to think, to understand what in the world was happening. If his new memories were clear on anything, it was that the academy didn't wait for anyone.
He groaned and forced himself to stand, making his way to the closet. The robes that hung within were simple but well-made; the left breast was sewn with the academy's insignia. He put one on, adjusting the belt around his waist with a little fumbling. A face, young and foreign but unquestionably his own, peered back at him in the door's mirror.
With his hands clenched into fists at his sides, Nathan inhaled deeply. He didn't have the luxury of freezing up, no matter what was happening. Not right now, not here.
Outside, the corridor was a flurry of activity. Pupils of all alertness levels rushed toward the far end stairs, some yawning as they adjusted their robes, others chattering excitedly. With its walls covered with pictures of former students and the occasional illuminating magical symbol, the dorm exuded a sense of understated elegance.
Nathan lowered his head and tried to fit in with the crowd. No one seemed to notice, but he felt like a fraud wearing someone else's flesh. He followed the stream of pupils toward the training grounds, his memories acting as a compass.
The grounds itself were enormous, a vast network of open fields with well-kept arenas. Towering spell wards, intended to keep out injuries and contain errant magic, shimmered softly in the air, and stone bleachers ringed the boundaries. As pupils divided into groups and engaged in simple spells or wooden sword dueling with targets, instructors yelled commands.
As Nathan joined his designated group, his heart fell. A few faces he knew from his new memories were those of classmates who had hardly ever seen him previously, except when they wanted someone to be held accountable for a botched team activity.
The teacher moved forward, a burly man with a deep voice and a relentless frown. "Come together! Drills are where we're starting. First, swordsmanship.
Before Nathan could even reach for a practice blade, he was patted on the shoulder. A tall, broad-shouldered boy was smiling down at him when he turned. He was the type of man Nathan had always detested—self-centered, arrogant, and obviously ready to brag.
"Are you prepared to start school, Caelum?" With one hand idly spinning his blade, the boy spoke. Although Nathan couldn't recall his name, he could recall the attitude.
Nathan mumbled, holding his weapon firmly, "Sure." He didn't feel prepared for anything, but he couldn't give up.
Nathan just managed to block the boy's unexpected attack. He staggered back, his stance unsteady, as the hit shot a shock up his arms. The child chuckled as he launched a barrage of rapid, accurate blows. Nathan narrowly managed to block most of them, but his motions were awkward and erratic. His physique felt untrained and sluggish.
In a matter of seconds, he was on the ground with the boy's sword aimed at his chest. Nathan sat up when the instructor called it, his cheeks burning with shame.
The boy scowled and turned away, saying, "You're hopeless."
Nathan said nothing. No, he couldn't. His mind was racing, and his hands were trembling. He lacked sufficient strength. He lacked sufficient skill. He didn't belong here, and no number of memories could alter that.
Nathan was struck, for the first time since he had woken up, by the enormity of the situation, the distance between himself and everyone else. And he questioned whether he could live for the first time.