Ajax was underwater again. The light above shimmered faintly, just barely reaching him as he sank deeper. The water was cool, quiet, and calm. He wasn't scared. Why would he be? This place was safe, like slipping into a heavy dream where the world couldn't touch him. No noise, no pressure—just peace.
He let himself drift further, watching the surface light ripple, growing smaller and more distant. He didn't feel the need to rise. What was the point? Here, he could let everything else go. No expectations. No pressure, just free.
Then, something stirred. A ripple broke through the stillness. He blinked, not alarmed but curious. The water around him felt different, like something huge moved just out of sight. He turned, squinting, trying to make sense of it.
That's when it brushed against him. Soft at first, like a faint touch. Then it grabbed him, tight and unrelenting.
Before he could react, he was yanked upward. The water roared around him, pulling him toward the surface like a hand dragging him by the collar. His lungs burned even though he wasn't struggling. The peace shattered, replaced with the rushing force of something dragging him out of his dream.
Through the blur of water, he saw it. A scarab, shimmering and made of sand, its tiny body shifting like it couldn't decide what shape to take. It hovered in front of him, watching him—or maybe waiting for something. Then it crumbled, turning into a swirl of golden grains that shot straight into his lungs as he gasped.
And just like that, the truth hit him. The contract has begun.
The heat hit him first, dry and heavy, like standing too close to a fire. He was... somewhere else. Somewhere he didn't recognize. But the strangest part was that it didn't feel like he was standing there at all.
His vision shifted. His body moved, but it didn't feel like his body. It was like he was watching through someone else's eyes.
"Hey! There's a riot in Klaj Market! Those bastards are looting everything!"
Ajax—no, not Ajax, Akhra—felt someone shaking his shoulder. He blinked again, and the view snapped into focus. He wasn't underwater anymore. He wasn't himself. He was standing at the gates of a bustling city, sweat dripping down a face that wasn't his.
"Jax, Welt, let's go! We've got our hands full with the real rebels," the voice barked again.
Akhra moved. Ajax didn't. Or at least, that's how it felt. He was stuck inside this man's body, watching as Akhra grabbed his spear and jogged down a flight of steps toward the market square.
'What the hell is happening?' Ajax thought. 'I mean, I've had lucid dreams, but this? This is like waking up in someone else's life.'
The thought lingered, frantic and small, as Akhra's body charged ahead with purpose.
When they reached the square, the scene was... ugly. A middle-aged man, wrapped in layers of fine fabric that screamed wealth, stood at the center. His face was bloated and red—a stark contrast to the gaunt, skeletal figures surrounding him. People, if you could call them that, hunched with hollow eyes and trembling hands, too weak to fight but desperate enough to take.
Ajax watched as Akhra thrust himself between the wealthy man and a group of hungry children scrambling to grab food. "What are you doing? Think you're gonna rebel?" Akhra yelled, jabbing his spear at a small boy.
Ajax winced inside. He'd seen violence before, on screens, in news articles, but this? This hit different. The way Akhra's body moved—the anger in his voice—it felt disturbingly natural. Like a reflex.
The fat merchant smirked, adjusting his robes as a group of men in bright, colorful clothing gathered around him. They carried themselves with confidence, their presence enough to make the looters scatter. Shop owners, Ajax guessed, come to reclaim their goods now that the riot was under control.
A scream broke through the noise.
Ajax flinched, or maybe Akhra did, as the guard struck a young boy across the face. The child fell to the ground, clutching his cheek as his father dropped to his knees beside him, hands raised in a silent plea.
The merchant's lackeys didn't seem to care. They muttered amongst themselves, already counting the costs of the riot. Akhra, or whoever he was, didn't flinch either. "Control the market," someone shouted. "The rebels are waiting for us to slip up!"
Ajax's stomach turned. He didn't want to watch this anymore, but there was no way out. He wasn't in control. He could only observe, trapped in someone else's skin.
Pain shot through his head, sudden and sharp. Ajax squeezed his—Akhra's—eyes shut, the noise around him fading into a dull hum. When he opened them again, he wasn't looking at the market.
Instead, he saw a piece of paper, glowing faintly, the words [stabbed... back... knife] scrawled across its surface.
The pain faded as quickly as it had come, leaving Ajax disoriented. His heart raced. 'Stabbed? Someone's going to betray the guards? But who?'
He didn't have time to think. Akhra was already moving again, his gaze snapping to the merchant. The man grinned as he handed a pouch of gold to the guards' captain, whispering something too low for Ajax to hear.
Ajax's thoughts raced. 'Someone's going to betray the guards.' The words on the paper pulsed in his mind, but Akhra didn't react. Or maybe he couldn't. Ajax had no idea what the sand—or the scarab—wanted him to do.
He looked around the square. The civilians were too weak, too scared to fight. The guards' weapons were crude—wooden spears with copper tips—but the imbalance of power was clear. The merchant and his men held all the cards.
Ajax didn't know what his role was here, but the paper's warning loomed over him like a shadow.