PART I: AWAKENING IN THE MUD
The first sensation was wet.
Not the clean, sterile wetness of a hospital or the dripping hum of a science lab. This was something colder. Grimy. Viscous. The kind of moisture that clings to skin like disease. It filled Niklaus's mouth and seeped into his ears, slithering down his back where it met raw, pulsing wounds that didn't belong to him.
He tried to move.
Pain exploded.
He stopped breathing. Just for a second. Not because he wanted to — but because his lungs didn't agree with the decision. They spasmed, seized, then choked on mud. His own cough brought him fully back into a body that felt both too heavy and too strong. His hands — no, not his hands — were thick, calloused, shaking uncontrollably against the cold ground. His arms flexed with a muscle memory that wasn't his.
The taste of iron. Dirt. Blood.
He opened his eyes.
Above him: a bruised sky. Lavender clouds and amber mist. The light didn't look right — the colors too bright, too warm in places and too gray in others. It felt… dreamlike. Wrong.
Then came the screams.
Not movie screams. Not screams in textbooks. These were real. Hoarse, guttural, wet. Someone was sobbing not far away — an animal cry, broken and rhythmic, as though it had been going on for hours.
Boots sloshed through the mud.
Lucien froze.
A figure passed him, armor clanking with a musical metallic rhythm. Plate steel greaves. Tattered crimson cloak. A war banner dragged behind her, soaked with blood. She didn't look down. None of them did.
More boots followed. All heavy. All armored. All women.
One woman — tall, broad-shouldered, her jaw angular and mouth tight — kicked a whimpering body into a pile of limbs. The body was male, stripped bare, face covered in ash and bruises. His mouth moved soundlessly. The soldier didn't even slow. She marched on, wiping blood from her sword on the boy's long hair.
Lucien's brain screamed for context.
But every logical chain broke under the pressure of stimulus. The body. The pain. The sky. The smell. And most of all…
These weren't men's boots.
He tried to move his tongue. It felt swollen. His throat tasted like copper. A scream built in the back of his skull — but he swallowed it. And swallowed again. He needed information. Needed to understand before he acted.
That was Rule #1. Always. In every strategy game. Every social experiment. Every debate. Never move until you know the shape of the board.
A memory stirred. A streetlight. A horn. A sudden crash.
No — not now. Not important.
He pressed his hands against the muck and pushed up, his muscles straining beneath unfamiliar weight. His ribs ached. His neck gave out. He collapsed again with a splash.
A boot landed next to his face.
"Still breathing?" the voice asked. Female. Harsh. Valerian accent — or something like it. "Fucking stubborn bastard."
Lucien blinked. The speaker wasn't wearing a helmet. She had braided blonde hair, braided through a spiked helmet, her face streaked with blood that didn't look like hers. Her eyes — slate gray — regarded him like one might a squashed rat.
"Throw him with the rest. Let the Duchess sort the meat."
"Again?" another woman groaned behind her. "That's the third time he's 'come back.' Maybe he's possessed."
"I don't care if he's got the Devil's balls stuck in his throat. Put him in the cage."
A hand grabbed Lucien by the hair.
He flinched but didn't resist.
He let himself be dragged.
His limbs, now more his than before, bounced limply across stone and root. His bare legs caught on twisted bits of debris — bones, cloth, a knife hilt — but he barely registered it.
All he could focus on was one sentence.
"Let the Duchess sort the meat."
A cage door opened. Lucien felt steel press against his back, then a hard shove.
He hit a pile of bodies — not all of them dead.
And above him, beyond the bars, beyond the banners, beyond the mist — a fortress loomed, carved into black stone like a wound in the sky.
He didn't know where he was.
He didn't know who he was.
But he knew this: he had already been judged guilty.
And someone was waiting for him.
PART II: THE BODY OF A TRAITOR
The cage swayed.
Chains rattled. Wheels shrieked on the uneven road. A foul wind pushed through the barred slats and carried with it the stench of blood, piss, and wet leather. Somewhere outside, a raven croaked — sharp and indignant — and was answered by three more.
Lucien's eyes opened.
Barely.
He didn't move at first.
Motion might signal awareness, and awareness meant interaction — and interaction meant risk. He kept his breaths shallow and let the pain wash over him. Pain from a cracked rib — maybe two. A split lip. Something wrong with his shoulder. His knees were scraped raw. Every breath caught on something inside his chest that felt like it didn't belong.
He was alive.
But someone else wasn't. The body beneath him had gone cold. He shifted — subtly — letting the dead man's weight slide to the side.
Around him, the cage held maybe a dozen men. Most naked. Some clothed in rags. Ages varied: young teens, grown men, a few old enough to be someone's grandfather. One had a gold earring and no tongue. Another bore lashes across his back so deep they wept blood with every breath.
No one spoke.
Until someone did.
"That one's cursed," said a voice to Lucien's left. Low, cracked with fear. "I saw them bury him already. I saw them pour salt in his mouth. Three days ago."
Lucien remained still.
"Can't be him," another whispered, "He's too still."
"His name was Alwin. The Duchess's pet. Golden-eyed, with the black mark on his chest. Look."
A hand pulled at his torn shirt. Lucien didn't resist. He let his head loll just enough to seem unconscious but not comatose.
Fingers prodded his collarbone. A breath hitched nearby.
"There. The brand."
Lucien blinked slowly.
He didn't need to see it to understand — the man whose body he now wore had been owned. Branded. Collared. Likely kissed in public, displayed like a necklace. And then — what? Betrayed her?
No. The word was stronger than that.
Traitor.
"That's Alwin," said the first voice again. "I heard he let the fortress fall. Whispered to the Drahmians where to dig. Gave them the map from the Duchess's own quarters."
"Why?"
"For another woman, they said. A merchant girl. She was promised freedom if she helped him escape. They both got caught. She's dead. He…" The voice trailed off. "He didn't die fast."
Lucien's stomach twisted.
So the body he now wore — this Alwin — had not just fallen from grace. He had been the favorite. And he betrayed the most powerful woman in this region. Publicly.
Executed, even. Or… tried to be.
Then why am I still breathing?
He glanced subtly down at his chest. Beneath the grime and crusted blood, he saw the faint, symmetrical scar of a brand. Circular. A stylized spiral — or a blooming flower. No, not a flower. A womb. The symbol of ownership.
Lucien's fingers drifted to his throat.
No collar. Just bruising where one had been torn off.
The wagon bumped. A groan escaped from the tongue-less man across from him. Someone cried softly at the back of the cage, a boy barely older than twelve. The guards on the flanks laughed about something — names of wine, names of men.
Then the cage jerked to a halt.
Lucien braced instinctively, eyes shut.
The doors unlatched.
A horn sounded. Two sharp notes.
Then a voice. Not barking. Not cruel. Calm.
"Unload them."
The other men didn't move. They waited to be taken, as they had likely waited every day of their lives.
Lucien stood up on his own.
Every face turned.
The guard who opened the cage took a step back.
Lucien was taller than he expected — than they expected. His muscles, inherited from this life, weren't built for passivity. He had a nobleman's strength, not a slave's. Broad shoulders, long arms, good posture. And for the first time, standing barefoot on the cobblestone with mud between his toes, Lucien felt a wave of clarity.
This body might be marked. Doomed. But it's not weak.
He stepped down from the cart before anyone could shove him.
The other men were pulled out behind him.
Above them, set against the storm-colored sky, loomed Castle Valtieri.
Black stone, sharp spires, no banners. Its windows were tall and narrow — arrow slits disguised as elegance. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a judgment.
The guards flanked him. Their swords remained sheathed, but their eyes were wary now. They didn't speak to him. Just pointed toward the stone steps leading inside.
Lucien followed.
Every step up those stairs was a test of will — of breath. Of pain management. But he never looked down. Never stumbled. When the massive oak doors opened, they creaked like bones grinding in a tomb.
Inside: candlelight, tapestries of conquests, scent of myrrh and sweat.
At the far end of the long hall stood a woman.
Duchess Ysara Valtieri.
She wore no crown. She didn't need one.
Her hair: silver-blue and twisted high in a rope braid. Her dress: the color of crushed berries, cut low enough to reveal the start of a sword scar along one collarbone. Her eyes: navy, sharp, rimmed in kohl. She held a glass of red wine like it was blood she'd won in battle.
Lucien recognized her instantly — not from his life, but from every book he had ever read about predators.
She didn't look at him like he was a man.
She looked at him like he was a puzzle someone had broken.
And now she wanted to know why it was still moving.