Kieran Valtheris awoke to the stench of blood and burning flesh.
His first breath was raw, thick with the metallic tang of iron. The world swam, his thoughts sluggish, as if submerged beneath an ocean of shadows. Every nerve in his body screamed, his wrists ached from iron shackles biting into his flesh, and his throat felt as dry as a corpse left in the sun.
His vision flickered between blurred colors and sharp clarity. Faces. Rows upon rows of twisted, leering faces. A mass of people packed into a city square, their expressions alight with a cruel kind of joy.
Something heavy cracked against his ribs.
The impact sent a shockwave of pain through him, wrenching him back to the present. Kieran coughed, barely able to stay upright as rough hands grabbed his shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees.
The world snapped into focus.
He was on a raised platform, towering above the roaring crowd. The sharp, acrid smell of torches and sweat filled his nostrils. Stone walls and spires of unfamiliar architecture surrounded him, alien yet familiar, like fragments of a world he had once known.
A figure stepped forward.
"Kieran Valtheris, bastard son of House Valtheris," the voice rang out, cold and final. "You stand accused of treason, blasphemy, and murder."
The words sliced through the fog in his mind.
Treason? Blasphemy? Murder?
The Magistrate's voice continued, each word sinking into Kieran's skull like hammer strikes on iron.
"Your crimes have been weighed. Your sentence is death. Let your blood be the warning that echoes through the ages."
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Kieran tried to force his body to move, to demand an answer, but his limbs remained stiff, unresponsive.
Something was wrong. Deeply, horribly wrong.
Memory came in fractured pieces. A war. A kingdom in ruin. The end of all things.
And yet, here he was.
Not in the broken world of his last memory, but in a city that should not exist. A city untouched by fire and shadow.
His mind raced. This wasn't possible.
I died.
And yet… he was here.
Reincarnation. It wasn't an unfamiliar concept. The gods of old whispered of souls reborn, of destinies twisted upon the wheel of fate. But this—this was something else.
His body was alien to him. Weak. Thin. This was not the body of a warrior, nor the form of the man he once was.
A different time. A different place. And now—a different self.
Something burned in his skull, a flicker of a memory not his own. He saw flashes of a young nobleman, a face similar but not quite his. A life lived in whispers and shadows, an outcast among the lords.
The realization sank in like a dagger to the gut.
This body wasn't just some random vessel. It belonged to someone. Someone who had already lived. Someone who had already been condemned.
They were going to kill him for crimes he did not commit.
And no one would know he was never supposed to be here.
Kieran's breath steadied.
Panic was a luxury for dead men. Survivors had no time for fear.
His surroundings blurred as his mind dissected every piece of information, calculating probabilities with icy detachment.
Two guards beside him. One armored, the other in chainmail. Both armed.
The executioner. A towering brute with an axe too large for quick swings.
The Magistrate. Standing several paces away, backed by enforcers.
The platform. High, unstable. A fall would break bones—but not necessarily kill.
Options.
Options.
A memory stirred—not his own. A battlefield. Steel clashing. Magic searing the sky. A whisper from the past, a voice half-remembered.
"The first strike is the killing blow."
The axe rose.
Kieran twisted.
The movement was instinctive. A reflex, a fragment of something buried deep. The executioner's blade whistled down in a deadly arc, but Kieran's sudden shift threw off the timing by half a second.
It was enough.
The axe slammed into the wooden platform with a thunderous crack, splintering the planks. Kieran rolled. His bound hands hooked under the executioner's belt, using the man's own stance to jerk himself upright.
Momentum.
Leverage.
His knee shot up, slamming into the executioner's chin. Bone cracked. The brute staggered, his grip loosening.
Kieran's hands found the axe's shaft.
The guard to his left lunged—too late. Kieran twisted the axe sideways, catching the man across the throat with the handle.
The second guard raised his sword.
Kieran kicked the first one into the second, sending both crashing into the platform's support beams.
The executioner roared, regaining his balance. But Kieran was already moving. He spun the axe, using the momentum to bring the weapon around.
Not the blade—the flat of it.
It smashed into the executioner's skull with a sickening thud.
The brute crumpled.
A moment of silence hung in the air—then the crowd erupted into chaos.
Guards surged forward. The Magistrate barked orders, his face twisted in fury.
Kieran didn't wait. He ran.
His body screamed in protest, weak and battered, but survival was instinct.
He saw one chance—a stack of wooden crates near the edge of the platform. He threw his weight into them, sending them toppling over the side.
Then, without a moment's hesitation, he jumped.
The world tilted.
Stone and sky blurred together as he plummeted.
He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his ribs. The impact sent him rolling through dirt and debris, his vision flickering.
For a moment, he lay still.
Then—a shout.
The guards had found him.
Pain or no pain, he had to move.
Kieran forced himself to his feet and sprinted into the nearest alleyway.
The city closed in around him, twisting alleys and towering spires. The slums, if his instincts were correct. A place where shadows lived, and where the lost were quickly forgotten.
His breaths came ragged. His mind raced.
And then, just for a moment—
He heard something.
A whisper, distant, yet terrifyingly familiar.
"You should not be here."
Kieran stopped.
Not because of exhaustion. Not because of the guards.
But because, in the depths of his soul, something stirred.
Something that had been buried.
Something that had been waiting.
Kieran ran.
The cobblestone streets of the city blurred past him, twisting alleys and towering spires casting long shadows beneath the setting sun. Boots pounded the ground behind him, shouts echoing through the slums as the city guards pursued.
His body was weak—too weak—and every ragged breath burned his lungs. His ribs ached from the fall, his wrists raw from the iron shackles. If they caught him, he wouldn't get a second chance.
Up ahead, the narrow alley split into two paths—one leading into the bustling marketplace, the other disappearing into the darkness between abandoned buildings.
The marketplace was a death trap. Too many people, too many prying eyes. He needed shadows, cover, places to hide.
Kieran took the darker path, his boots kicking up dust as he darted between piles of discarded wood and broken barrels. The stench of mildew and decay filled his nostrils.
Behind him, the guards hesitated.
Good. They feared these streets.
That meant Kieran was headed in the right direction.
As he ran, flashes of memories not his own flickered through his mind—fragments of a life lived before this one.
This body belonged to another Kieran. A young noble. A bastard son of House Valtheris. But what had he done to be sentenced to death?
Treason. Blasphemy. Murder.
The accusations rang hollow. The memories were too fragmented, slipping through his grasp like sand. But something about them felt… wrong.
Like they had been tampered with.
Like someone wanted to erase the truth.
Kieran gritted his teeth and pushed the thought aside. Right now, survival came first. Answers could wait.
The alley opened into a desolate courtyard, surrounded by crumbling stone buildings. Rusted iron gates, half-collapsed wooden balconies, and tattered banners from a forgotten era.
A den of outcasts.
Kieran slowed his pace, ducking behind a pile of crates. His heart pounded in his chest. The guards were close.
Across the courtyard, figures lurked in the shadows. Cloaked men and women, scarred, hardened survivors with wary eyes. A makeshift fire burned in an iron basin, casting flickering orange light across the ruins.
They had seen him.
And more importantly—they had seen his chains.
A low murmur passed between them. Outsiders in chains meant trouble.
Kieran needed to act fast.
He stepped forward, chest heaving, exhaustion tugging at his limbs. But he forced his expression into one of quiet confidence.
"I need these shackles off," he said, voice steady.
The group eyed him like a predator assessing wounded prey.
Then, a figure stepped forward.
A woman.
She was tall and lean, wrapped in a tattered red cloak. Her dark hair was streaked with silver, her eyes sharp like a knife's edge. Her presence commanded attention—not just because of her aura, but because the others immediately deferred to her.
She was the one in charge.
Kieran's gaze flickered down—a dagger at her hip. Rusted but sharp.
A dangerous woman.
A useful woman.
She crouched in front of him, tilting her head. "You look like a dead man walking."
"I've been better."
A smirk. A test.
Kieran kept his expression unreadable.
She nodded toward his chains. "Who wants you dead?"
"Too many people."
That made her laugh. Short. Amused.
But her eyes remained cautious.
"You got coin?"
Kieran clenched his fists. He had nothing. No money, no weapons. Just his mind.
So he gambled.
"I have information."
She raised a brow. "Information isn't worth much from a corpse."
"This corpse knows things others don't."
A pause.
The woman exhaled through her nose, then drew her dagger.
Kieran tensed, expecting a strike—but instead, she reached for his shackles.
The iron bindings fell away.
"Fine." She sheathed her dagger. "You're free. Now tell me—what does a dead man know?"
Kieran rubbed his sore wrists, watching the firelight flicker.
He had to be careful. He had no allies, no resources, and he was playing a dangerous game.
But he did know something valuable.
Not from this life.
But from the one before.
"The city is in danger," he said finally.
The woman scoffed. "We're in the slums. The city's always in danger."
"No." Kieran's voice was firm. "Not from thieves. Not from war. From something worse."
The fire crackled.
The slumlord narrowed her eyes. She was listening now.
Good.
Kieran didn't have all the answers yet—but he had glimpses. Fragments. Pieces of the past that weren't supposed to exist.
A war that had already happened, yet had not.
A kingdom that should have fallen, yet stood.
And whispers.
Whispers of something watching him.
Something waiting.
A gust of wind swept through the ruins, carrying the scent of ash and decay.
Kieran exhaled, tilting his head toward the night sky. The stars were different here.
Everything was different.
Yet, as he stared into the darkness above, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had been here before.
Not in this body. Not in this time.
But somewhere.
And if that was true—
Then something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.