The wind howled outside, battering the window as if testing its resolve. Frost crept through the thin walls of Mal's apartment, biting into the air. He didn't flinch—after all he had two years with this feeling, he was used to it. He sat cross-legged on his bed, a single candle casting flickering shadows across the cramped room as he scanned the pages of a book he had been rereading for the last few days.
With a slow, exasperated exhale, Mal tossed the book onto the floor, where it landed with a dull thud. He leaned over to rummage through his bedside drawer, pulling out an old lighter and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The story irritated him, and he blamed the author entirely for ruining a premise that might have been promising with their so-called "ideas.", Mal wouldn't even be reading it if he wasn't desperate for it.
The live adaptation of The Stars Show Their Golden Paths had been announced last year, and Mal had landed a role in the production. The book was popular—annoyingly so—following the all-too-familiar themes of empires and royalty clashing over a "minor act of violence." In Mal's opinion, the characters were morons unrealistic to the actual world, escalating problems where a little common sense would have sufficed.
The irony wasn't lost on him, Mal had been cast as one of the villains. Specifically, a rogue villain from the slums of Voxpits Wastes, also known as the Insanity Lands where no laws exist—a treacherous country where chaos reigned supreme. The character even shared his name and a vague ideology resemblance, which had made the casting director's choice easy.
But now, after reading the book four times, Mal regretted every choice that had led him here. Why hadn't he walked away? The answer was painfully simple.
He was broke.
His rent was overdue, and the last of his money had gone toward medical bills from a recent allergy attack. Refusing the role hadn't been an option. which brings Mal to where he is right now
The air outside was bitter, slicing through Mal's thin sweater as he stepped out of the apartment. He hadn't bothered to grab his jacket as he was only planning on stay out for a short time, but the cold sank into his bones almost immediately. He lit cigarette breathing in the smoke, the warmth of the flame momentarily comforting before the frost reasserted itself.
The street were quite only leaving the sound of snow crunched beneath his boots as he wandered aimlessly, his breath fogging in the freezing air. Reading all day sure has gotten to him, feeling a headache growing when he thought about it about that damn story again.
Shaking his head, he rounded a corner and spotted a small figure huddled near a dumpster. A cat, its fur matted, and ears perked up at his approach, blinked at him with wary eyes. Mal crouched, extending a hand. "Hey there," he murmured. The cat hesitated before padding closer, brushing against his fingers.
For a moment, Mal forgot the cold, scratching the cat behind its ears. "You've got it rough too, huh?" he said softly. The cat purred in response, leaning into his touch.
A sudden honk shattered the moment, echoing through the stillness. Mal ignored it at first, focused on the cat. But the sound grew louder, more insistent. He glanced up, irritation flickering in his eyes.
His annoyance turned to alarm as he spotted headlights barreling toward him. A car careened down the icy street, skidding wildly. Mal froze, his body refusing to move. His heart pounded, each beat deafening in his ears.
The world seemed to slow as the car hurtled toward him. Mal shut his eyes, bracing for impact.
---------- BANG -------------
Mal woke with a jolt, drenched in sweat. His breaths were shallow, frantic. His chest heaved as he pressed a trembling hand to his face, wiping away the sweat. The vivid memory of the crash lingered—so real that his body still ached, as if the impact had happened mere moments ago. Tears swelled in his eyes as panic clawed at him. He tried to calm himself, focusing on his breathing to stave off an impending panic attack.
He sat there for a few minutes, breathing in for three, out for three. His mind struggled to process what had just happened. When he finally opened his eyes again, his surroundings came into focus. This wasn't his shabby apartment. What greeted him made his breath catch in his throat.
The room around him was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The bed he was lying on was massive, its frame adorned with intricate carvings. Thick velvet curtains draped the windows, and golden light spilled through the room from a chandelier overhead. The furniture was ornate, polished wood with intricate designs that looked straight out of the 1600s.
"What the...?" Mal muttered, slowly creeping out of the bed.
He reached down, instinctively playing with his sweater—a nervous habit—but his fingers met smooth fabric instead of his usual fuzzy attire.
He looked down at himself and froze. He was wearing an outfit he didn't recognize: a crisp white dress shirt and a pair of loose slacks with suspenders. The material was fine—far better than anything he owned.
BANG
Another loud sound jolted Mal from his thoughts. He stumbled toward the window, pulling back a small section of the curtain. What he saw outside made his heart sink even further.
Chaos. Fire raged, engulfing buildings, and smoke billowed into the sky. It was a battlefield, strewn with the bodies of fallen soldiers. Mal gripped the curtain, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
"This... this isn't real," he whispered to himself.
"Yeah... yeah, that sounds about right. I'm probably still dreaming," Mal muttered, a hysterical giggle bubbling up from his throat. He stumbled away from the window, shaking his head.
He slapped his cheek hard, wincing at the sharp sting.
"No, no, that's not right! I'm supposed to be awake now... please, I want to wake up," he cried, his breaths quickening. Desperation surged as he slapped himself again—harder this time. His chest heaved, and his vision blurred as fresh tears filled his eyes.
But the pain confirmed it—he wasn't dreaming. This was real.
He wanted to cry about now, but a knock on the door startled him. Mal froze, staring at the ornate door as a voice called from the other side. He cautions grabbed some iron pole from the fireplace.
"Come in?" he said slowly, gripping the metal tighter in his hands.
The door creaked open, revealing a young maid. She was petite, with long brown hair braided and pinned in a crown-like fashion around her head. She stepped closer, bowing slightly as she addressed him.
Mal, still reeling, loosened his grip on the pole. "Hello?" he greeted, his voice hoarse.
The maid straightened up. "Your highness, the emperor of Borealisia shall shortly pass the gates. Does his grace have orders before his arrival?" She looked calm despite Mal's current disheveled appearance.
Mal stared at her, dumbfounded. The words sounded so familiar but made no sense. Emperor? Gates? Borealisia?
Then it clicked, 'Borealisia'. "Hold on, did you just say Borealisia? Like the great empire Borealisia? Where the ice king lives?" Mal asked dropping the metal pole and walking closer to the to the maid, his voice full of fear.
The maid shows a quick look of confusion before she changes back to neutral and bows again, "Indeed, your highness, Borealisia is one of the empires around Voxpits, her sovereign, Emperor Sylas the second." She answers.
Sylas, Voxpits, Borealisia, those are all from the novel The Stars Show Their Golden Paths, It has to be fake or some prank, but as mal looks as his surroundings and the feeling of pain in his cheeks, he knows deep down its not fake or a prank.
Did he Iskai into the story?
"Can you tell me my full name then? And my role?" He asked, Mal knows he probably sounds insane to the lady, but he needs to know that didn't become who he thinks he is right now.
The maid answered with perfect stability like last time, "By your grace, 'tis name is Mal Somnium Zaxus The crown prince of Voxpits".
…
..
.
Someone may have as well signed his death sentence, as he truly have possessed the body a villain who is set to die a few months from now, and guessing from how the outside looks its too late to change stuff.