Chapter 1: The Awakening
Roman groaned as the piercing light filtered through the ornate, floor-to-ceiling windows, assaulting his senses. His head pounded like a drum in a chaotic rhythm, and his throat felt parched. Instinctively, he reached for the glass of water he usually kept by his bedside—only to pause, his fingers grazing something unfamiliar.
The surface beneath his palm was smooth, polished marble. His eyes fluttered open, and he found himself staring at an intricately carved ceiling adorned with gold accents and chandeliers. He bolted upright, the silken sheets slipping off his body, revealing a lavish four-poster bed draped with crimson and gold.
"What...?" Roman muttered, his voice hoarse. His mind raced. The last thing he remembered was clinking glasses with his roommate, laughing as they toasted to the New Year. How had he gone from a cramped apartment to this palatial room straight out of a medieval fantasy?
The scent of incense and aged wood filled the air. Ornate furniture, tapestries depicting battles and mythical creatures, and a massive mirror framed in gold surrounded him. This wasn't a dream—it was too vivid, too real. His heart pounded as panic clawed at his chest.
Before he could make sense of the situation, a searing pain exploded in his skull. Roman clutched his head, gritting his teeth as images, sounds, and emotions flooded his mind. Memories that weren't his.
He saw a tall man with a regal bearing wearing a crown, his face both kind and stern. Father. The word echoed in his mind with a pang of sorrow. He saw a grand throne room, endless court sessions, and an imposing fortress nestled among snow-capped mountains. He saw himself—or rather, the previous owner of this body—giving orders to soldiers, walking among peasants, and grieving at a grand funeral.
When the pain subsided, Roman sat there, trembling. His breathing was ragged as the realization dawned. This wasn't his body. This body belonged to a man named Roman, just like him, but this Roman was a prince—no, a king. A week ago, the King of Death, his father, had passed away, leaving the young Roman to ascend the throne.
"Death," Roman whispered. That was the name of the kingdom—an intimidating name, yet oddly fitting for its somber, icy landscape. It was one of the smaller kingdoms on the Savarnadar Continent, a vast land filled with numerous realms and three dominant empires: Xenathria, Volkaris, and Aureldom. Each empire was a superpower in its own right, wielding immense military and magical might.
Savarnadar wasn't a world of science and technology like Earth. It was a world of swords and sorcery, where warriors trained in the art of aura manipulation and magicians wielded the elements. There were light mages, revered for their healing and blessings, and dark magicians, feared for their forbidden arts. Monsters roamed the wilderness, and ancient ruins whispered of gods long forgotten.
Roman exhaled, his breath shaky. "This can't be real."
But it was. The memories were too vivid to dismiss. He knew things he shouldn't. He knew the royal protocol, the names of his council members, and the political turmoil his kingdom faced. Death was surrounded by three kingdoms—Drakthar, Eryndor, and Galvaris—all vying for dominance. The northern border was a desolate plain, home to savage orc tribes that occasionally raided the southern lands.
The weight of his new reality settled heavily on his shoulders. He wasn't just a visitor in this body; he was responsible for an entire kingdom. A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts.
"Your Majesty?" a voice called from the other side. It was deep and respectful, but Roman could hear the urgency in its tone. "The council awaits your presence."
Roman's heart raced. He had no idea how to act like a king. What was expected of him? How would he navigate this strange world with its political intrigue and supernatural dangers?
But one thing was clear: he had no choice. He was Roman, King of Death, and his journey had just begun.