The air was thick with the scent of burnt resin and wet soil, a pungent perfume that clung to Elias's lungs as he gasped awake.
He did not know this body.
The hands were older, calloused with years of ash and herb. His fingernails were dark, stained with things he did not recognize. His arms were wrapped in cloths that smelled of smoke and sweat. And all around him, chanting. A circle of faces, brown-skinned and glistening with sweat beneath the torchlight. Eyes gleamed, reverent and expectant.
"Papa," someone whispered. A young boy, no older than ten, held a bundle of dried sage toward him with trembling hands.
Elias stared at him, unblinking.
He was kneeling in the center of an open dirt clearing, surrounded by trees that hissed with the wind and spirits. Above him, a crescent moon hung crookedly in the night sky like a hook waiting to drag him out of this dream.
He had leaped.
And not just into the past, but into a life.
The drums began again. Slow. Heavy. Rhythmic. The beat rolled through the ground, up his spine, into his chest, threatening to crack his ribs open and let his borrowed soul pour out.
"Papa Louvier," a woman's voice intoned, low and commanding. She stepped forward—tall, wrapped in indigo cloth from her shoulders to her ankles, with bone jewelry dangling from her ears. "Guide us."
Elias opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Not words. Not breath. Not understanding.
But his hands moved. As if remembering something he did not. As if this body had done this a hundred times before. He accepted the sage. Raised it to the sky. Lit it in the flame of a nearby bowl and circled it three times over the boy's head.
The crowd exhaled, relieved.
He wanted to scream.
But Papa Louvier could not scream. Papa Louvier was the pillar.
So Elias stood. And played the part.
Ah, came the first whisper, smooth and mocking at the edge of his mind. We're finally here. I must admit, I was curious whether your soul would survive the landing.
The Watcher. Or something like him.
But Elias could not answer. Not here. Not now. Not in front of fifty expectant eyes that belonged to people he did not know but whose hopes had clearly been stitched into the fabric of this body.
A gnarled hand touched his shoulder. An old woman, eyes milked over with cataracts, leaned in close. "You wear his face well," she murmured in Kreyòl. "But your soul is not the same. Papa Louvier is gone."
Elias flinched.
Her fingers tightened. "But I will not tell. Not yet. Let's see what you are made of, thief of time."
He knew then, this would not be easy.
Not only because the world was unfamiliar. Not only because revolution burned beneath the surface of every whispered conversation and shadowed glance.
But because even here, even in 1791 Saint-Domingue, someone had seen through him.
And they were waiting.
Watching.
As am I, the Watcher said again, almost tender now. This is my favorite part. When you think you understand the rules.