The taste was foul.
Thick. Bitter. Like someone had crushed a thousand dried leaves, mixed them with old blood, and strained the result through rusted iron. It burned going down—not just in his throat, but in his chest. As if something inside him recoiled against it.
Kyle winced, coughing after the first swallow.
The robed woman stepped back and watched without blinking.
He sat there, gagging, his hand pressed against his stomach. Every instinct screamed at him to spit it out, to throw it up—but he forced it down. He'd made his choice.
The aftertaste coated his tongue. His vision blurred for a moment. Then a deep, nauseating heat pooled low in his stomach.
"What… the hell… was that?" he croaked.
The woman didn't answer right away. She knelt again and began repacking her cloth pouch, slow and careful.
"It will keep the fracture from spreading," she said at last.
"Fracture?" Kyle echoed.
She tied the pouch shut with a tight knot. "When a soul not of this world takes a body, it doesn't always… fit. You're not meant to be here. The body resists."
Kyle's jaw clenched.
So it was true. He wasn't dreaming. He really wasn't Kyle Moreno anymore—not completely. Or at least… his soul wasn't supposed to be inside this prince.
"I felt it," he muttered. "Before. Something inside… twisting."
She nodded. "That was the first sign."
Kyle leaned back again, letting his body rest against the cold stone. His arms were too tired to support him for long.
The woman remained kneeling for another moment, then stood and stepped toward him.
Her hood was still up, but now that she was closer, he could make out the shape of her face in the low torchlight. Young. Early twenties, maybe. Eyes like polished stone—gray, hard, but not cruel.
"What's your name?" she asked.
Kyle hesitated.
He could lie. He probably should.
But something in her expression told him she'd know.
"Kyle," he said quietly. "Kyle Moreno."
She repeated it under her breath, testing the name. "Kyle…"
Then she nodded to herself. "Very well, Kyle-not-Kael. We don't have long."
"Long for what?"
"For you to understand the mess you've landed in."
She sat down across from him, cross-legged on the cold floor like she wasn't surrounded by filth and rot.
"You're in the northern wing of the Third Imperial Dungeon. Deep under the Grand Citadel of Vireon. And you're occupying the body of Kael Vireon—the Third Prince. A noble-blooded bastard. The son of a concubine, and widely hated by the nobility."
Kyle leaned forward slightly. "Why?"
"Because he was vicious. Arrogant. And stupid."
That much, he'd already gathered from the guard.
"He was also," she continued, "in line to inherit one of the most powerful border territories in the empire. Until he tried to assassinate his own brother."
Kyle blinked. "Did he actually do it?"
Her silence was telling.
"He tried," she confirmed after a moment. "Poorly. He had neither the talent nor the allies to pull it off. And after it failed, he was captured, beaten, and sentenced to death."
Kyle exhaled, voice dry. "Guess I picked the worst time to drop in."
"You didn't pick anything," she said sharply. "You were brought here. And whatever brought you is now keeping you tethered to this body. That potion will delay the backlash, but not forever."
"So I'm still dying."
"Eventually. Unless you figure out why you were chosen… and survive long enough to do something about it."
Kyle frowned, staring down at his chained wrists.
"I didn't ask to be here," he muttered.
"No one ever does."
Silence fell between them. The only sound was the slow dripping of water and Kyle's shallow breathing.
Finally, he looked up. "Who are you?"
She didn't answer at first.
Then she stood and reached up, pulling back her hood.
Her hair fell loose around her shoulders—long, ink-black, straight. Her eyes were sharp, her skin pale, but not sickly. She had the look of someone used to walking in shadows, used to keeping secrets.
"My name is Talia," she said. "And I used to serve Prince Kael. Before he betrayed everyone who believed in him."
Kyle studied her face. She wasn't angry. She wasn't even cold. She was… tired.
And that made her dangerous.
"Then why are you helping me?" he asked.
"Because you're not him," she said simply. "And because… something strange is happening. Your presence wasn't part of anyone's plan. Not the emperor's. Not the church's. Not the mages'. You are—unexpected."
Kyle chuckled weakly. "Yeah. That's me. Unexpected delivery guy."
She didn't smile.
Instead, she stepped closer again and placed something beside him.
A small, folded scrap of parchment.
He looked down at it. No words. Just a single ink-drawn crest: a winged serpent wrapped around a sword.
"What is this?"
"A sigil," she replied. "Memorize it. Burn it into your mind. If you ever see this symbol outside this cell—follow it. Whoever carries it… might be able to help."
"Might?"
"There are no certainties in this place. Only chances."
Kyle stared at it for a few seconds, then nodded. "Got it."
Talia stepped back again. Her posture tensed. Time was running out.
"One more thing," she said. "You'll be questioned tomorrow. Officially. By an imperial inquisitor."
"Great," Kyle muttered. "Sounds fun."
"You can't pretend to be Kael. Not convincingly. He was too unstable. Too erratic. If you try to mimic him, they'll see through it."
Kyle frowned. "So what do I do?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Be clever. Be silent. And above all—listen."
She turned to leave, her steps soft and swift.
But before she passed through the cell door, she paused, her back still turned.
"If you want to survive, Kyle… don't waste time trying to be someone else."
Then she slipped out, the door closing behind her with a faint *click*.
Kyle sat still for a long moment.
The parchment lay beside him. The air felt colder now. The warmth of the soup and potion faded from his gut, replaced with gnawing tension.
He lay back down, arms still chained, the torchlight dancing across the wet stone.
For the first time since arriving in this world… he closed his eyes.
And didn't dream.