Felix Arundel's eyes snapped open, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. The air around him was thick with dust, the faint scent of iron and sulfur lingering in his nostrils. His body felt... wrong. The room he found himself in, dimly lit by flickering torches on the walls, looked foreign, unsettling. The stone beneath him was cold, and as he tried to rise, his hands felt heavy—calloused, broad.

His heart pounded in his chest, panic seizing him.

Where am I?

As he pushed himself up, his reflection caught in a tarnished mirror across the room. His breath hitched as he stared at the face staring back at him—an unfamiliar, angular face with sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and hair the color of midnight. It was unmistakably a man's face—strong, intimidating. He was no longer Felix Arundel, the thin, weary scholar. This was... someone else.

The figure staring back at him was tall, broad-shouldered, and unmistakably regal, with eyes so cold they could freeze fire. His once-straight posture now seemed hunched, and a faint scar ran along the man's forehead, a remnant of past violence.

He reached up instinctively, his hands trembling as they grazed over the contours of his face—strong, dark eyebrows, a smooth forehead, and those cold, emotionless eyes. His fingers brushed against a deep scar just below his left eye, the texture rough and indented.

"No…" he whispered to himself. "No, no, no…"

He stumbled backward, only to crash into a nearby chair, the sound echoing in the still air. His breath was shallow, rapid. A dark wave of nausea washed over him. His mind whirled in a torrent of confusion and disbelief, trying desperately to process what was happening.

This can't be real. This has to be a dream.

But as his hands fumbled over the ornate armor resting beside him, the weight of it told a different story. The chest plate was cold, heavy, crafted with intricate detail. His fingers gripped the leather straps tightly, each movement natural, as if he had worn this armor countless times before. He ran a hand over the polished metal, his fingertips tracing a familiar, yet unknown emblem on the breastplate.

A loud thud broke his spiraling thoughts. The door to the chamber swung open, and a man stepped inside—tall, broad, and wearing dark clothing trimmed with silver. His expression was unreadable, though a hint of disgust flickered in his cold, gray eyes as they locked onto Felix.

"Lord Varrick," the man intoned in a voice thick with authority, but also fear. "The council awaits your presence. They... they have matters of grave importance to discuss."

Felix froze. Lord Varrick. The name sounded faintly familiar—too familiar. His mind fought to grasp onto something—anything—that would make sense of this.

But there was nothing. His memories felt like smoke, slipping through his fingers as he reached out. The name Lord Varrick... it was more than just a passing familiarity. It was as if it was embedded in the very marrow of his bones. He could almost taste the bitterness on his tongue at the thought of it.

"I'm... I'm not him," Felix whispered hoarsely, trying to make sense of the words that barely left his lips. The man before him—whoever he was—didn't seem to notice the hesitation. His expression remained impassive.

"You are Lord Varrick," the man said again, this time with a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "The council—"

"No!" Felix snapped, a sudden, unexplainable surge of panic rising within him. "I... I'm not him!"

But the man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition—or perhaps confusion—passing through his expression. The tension in the air was palpable.

"You speak of things you should not, my lord," the man said carefully, taking a cautious step back. "You would do well to remember who you are. The kingdom's future is at stake."

Felix stared at the man, trying to make sense of the situation. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest. He was a scholar. A pacifist. He was a man of books, not battle. He could never be someone like Lord Varrick Dreadmoor—famed conqueror, feared tyrant. A man who had destroyed kingdoms, betrayed allies, and left chaos in his wake.

Felix's body shook as the realization slowly dawned on him.

I'm... him. I'm Lord Varrick Dreadmoor.

The room seemed to tilt around him, the weight of the truth pressing down like a stone upon his chest. Felix barely registered the footsteps approaching him before the man reached out to steady him.

"My lord, please," the man said, his voice edged with concern. "You must gather your strength. The council is waiting."

Felix opened his mouth to protest, but the words caught in his throat. The familiar name. The face. The memories that were flickering in and out like a dying flame. The truth was undeniable, even though it made no sense.

The body that had once been his—Felix's—was now bound by this monstrous identity. He was stuck in the very skin of the tyrant he had read about in history books, the name he had loathed, the face he had despised. His new reality felt like a nightmare—a waking hell.

"How... How did this happen?" Felix muttered, more to himself than to the man. "How did I end up here?"

The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he stood at attention, waiting. It was clear that he had no intention of explaining what Felix—or rather, Lord Varrick—was experiencing. Whatever had happened, Felix had no choice but to accept it.

The footsteps of the man who had entered earlier grew distant as the door closed behind him, leaving Felix alone in the cold chamber. His mind swirled with an impossible list of questions, none of which seemed to have an answer.

Felix stood up again, his head spinning. His body—this other body—felt as though it had a life of its own. It was powerful, intimidating, and completely foreign to him. Every movement felt both alien and instinctual, like he had known how to wield this form for years.

As he walked to the window, the faint glimmer of a dim sun filtering through the storm clouds outside, his thoughts raced. There was one undeniable truth now: he had inherited the body of the man whose sins had stained the entire kingdom. He had become the villain.

The kingdom was in ruin, and he—Felix, who had spent his life in peaceful pursuit of knowledge—was now the very tyrant that had shattered it.

Felix turned away from the window, staring at his reflection once more, this time with a deeper understanding of the person staring back at him. There was no escaping the reality. He would have to wear the name of Lord Varrick Dreadmoor until the end of his days, whether he liked it or not.

But as the weight of his predicament settled on him, a spark of defiance ignited in his chest.

He would not let this be the end.

Felix—no, Varrick—would rewrite his story. He had to. The kingdom, and perhaps his very soul, depended on it.