The last thing Adrian remembered was the sound of screeching tires. He had been crossing the street after a long, unremarkable day, the hum of the city in his ears. He wasn't paying attention—too distracted by his phone to notice the truck barreling toward him. There was no time to react.
The world went black before the pain could even register.
And now… now he was here.
Adrian gasped, the sudden rush of air filling his lungs like he had been drowning. His eyes flew open, his heart hammering as he jolted upright. The first thing he noticed was the cold—the sharp, biting chill of an unfamiliar breeze brushing against his skin. Then the silence. The comforting noise of the city was gone, replaced by the faint rustle of fabric and distant, echoing footsteps.
His surroundings were alien. He was lying in an enormous bed, its frame carved from dark wood and draped in deep blue silks. The room was massive, far grander than any place he'd ever been—walls lined with ornate sconces, their candles flickering with soft light, and high windows letting in beams of golden sunlight.
Adrian sat up slowly, his body heavy and unfamiliar. His fingers curled into the fabric of the sheets, but even the act of moving felt wrong, like his limbs weren't his own. Panic surged as he caught his reflection in the polished silver mirror hanging on the wall across from the bed.
The person staring back at him wasn't Adrian. The face was sharper, more refined, with ash-white hair that fell messily over his forehead and piercing silver eyes that practically glowed in the dim light.
"What the—" His voice, deep and unfamiliar, cracked as he stumbled out of the bed. His legs buckled, forcing him to lean against the edge of a nearby table for support. "This isn't… this can't be real."
Adrian—or whoever he was now—staggered to the mirror. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold, smooth surface. His reflection mimicked every movement, every terrified breath. He pulled back sharply, clutching his chest as his heart raced.
"I'm dreaming," he muttered. "I have to be dreaming."
But dreams didn't feel like this. Dreams didn't have weight, texture, or the faint smell of lavender that hung in the air. Dreams didn't leave his legs aching as though he had just fought a war. This was real. Somehow, impossibly, this was real.
---
The door creaked open suddenly, making Adrian jump. A young woman in a maid's uniform stepped inside, her expression one of relief.
"You're awake, young master Eryndor," she said softly, bowing her head. "We were so worried after your accident."
Eryndor? The name sounded faintly familiar, tugging at memories that weren't his. Adrian blinked, his confusion mounting. "What… where am I?"
The maid's brows furrowed. "You're in your chambers, young master. Do you not remember?"
Adrian gripped the edge of the table tighter. His mind raced, fragments of memories that weren't his own flashing like a broken reel of film. Sword fights in sunlit courtyards. A stern man's voice lecturing him about discipline. A name: Valmont.
He shook his head, panic creeping into his voice. "This—this isn't right. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not… I'm not him."
The maid stepped closer, concern etched on her face. "You must still be disoriented from the fall, young master. Please, rest. Lord Eldrin will want to see you once you've recovered."
Lord Eldrin? The name sent a shiver down Adrian's spine. He didn't know who this man was, but the weight it carried in his borrowed memories was enough to set his nerves on edge. Before he could respond, the maid left, closing the door quietly behind her.
Adrian sank to the floor, his legs giving out beneath him. His mind was a storm of emotions—confusion, fear, and an overwhelming sense of wrongness. This body, this place, these memories… none of it belonged to him. And yet, he couldn't escape the nagging feeling that he was bound to them.
He buried his face in his hands, taking deep, shaky breaths. "Okay, think," he muttered to himself. "You're not dead. Or maybe you are? No. You were hit by that truck. You… died. So how are you here?"
The silence offered no answers.
---
As the minutes passed, Adrian—or Eryndor—forced himself to calm down. He couldn't afford to fall apart, not yet. Not when he didn't even know where he was or why this had happened. He needed answers. And the only way to get them was to play along until he could figure out what was going on.
But as he stood and moved toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room, his hands trembling as he reached for the handle, fragments of those alien memories surged forward again.
Sparring in a grand hall, a sword heavy in his grip. A stern, commanding voice—his father's—demanding perfection. The humiliation of losing to his elder siblings again and again. And then, the fall. A misstep during training that sent him tumbling down a flight of stairs. Pain. Darkness.
"That's how he died," Adrian whispered, the realization settling heavily on his shoulders. "That's how I'm here."
He wasn't just inhabiting a body. He was inhabiting a life, one that came with expectations, burdens, and a name: Eryndor Valmont, second son of a family renowned for their mastery of the sword.
Adrian—or Eryndor—gritted his teeth. This wasn't his world, but it was his now. He had no choice but to figure out how to survive in it.
He pulled open the wardrobe, his reflection catching his eye again in the mirror. The silver eyes stared back at him, no longer as unfamiliar as they had been before. "If I have to be you," he said quietly, addressing the reflection, "then I'll be more than what they expect. I'll make this life mine."
The memory of the maid's words lingered: Lord Eldrin will want to see you. Whoever this lord was, Adrian had the sinking feeling that this meeting would determine the path ahead.
With a deep breath, he stepped out of the room, determined to uncover the truth behind his reincarnation—and the life of Eryndor Valmont.
---