The sunlight was gentle when it returned to the world.
It poured through the towering arched windows, painting the stone floor in soft gold. Dust particles glimmered as they drifted lazily through the still morning air. The scent of lavender lingered—faint, almost artificial—like something placed to preserve calm in a place where calm did not belong.
He stirred.
Not from a dream. Not from a nightmare.
But from a silence too heavy. Too cold.
His breath trembled. His chest rose—shallow, uncertain. It felt unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else. Even the simple act of breathing ached, as if his lungs had forgotten how to fill.
His eyes opened slowly.
The ceiling above him stretched in ornate stonework. Marble pillars. Chiseled arches. Too elegant. Too pristine.
This wasn't his home.
Not a place he remembered.
Not a place that should exist.
He blinked.
The chill in his fingers registered next—the weightlessness in his limbs, the soreness in his back, the way the blanket clung like sandpaper against his skin. He felt… disconnected.
Where… am I?
Slowly, he turned his head. Pain shot through his neck like lightning. His muscles, stiff from stillness, screamed with even the smallest motion.
He tried again.
One arm. Then the other. With painstaking effort, he pushed himself upright. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and pooled at his waist. His hands trembled, and sweat beaded at his brow despite the cold.
The room was silent.
Lavish. High ceilings. Tapestries in rich reds and golds. A strange scent of burning incense and dried herbs drifted from a pot nearby. Outside the tall windows, he could see forested hills beyond ivory balcony rails—nothing like the grey buildings or scorched city streets he remembered before...
Wait.
What did he remember?
A haze clouded his mind. Faces—blurred. Words—disjointed. He tried to grasp at them, but they dissolved the moment he reached out.
And then—
He turned to slide off the bed.
His bare feet met the polished floor. Cold. Too cold. A shiver ran up his spine.
This... isn't a hospital.
That was his first thought.
The furniture was too royal. The bedsheets are too thick. Even the silence felt artificial—like something too carefully preserved.
He stood shakily, using the bedpost to steady himself.
His eyes caught the view outside again. A garden—immaculate and vast. Soldiers? Servants? He saw shadows moving below, dressed in unfamiliar uniforms. None of it made sense.
His heartbeat quickened.
This isn't home.
This isn't anywhere.
A sudden creak pulled his attention.
The door opened.
A man entered, wearing a butler's uniform—calm but cautious. He was dressed in deep crimson and black—far too formal for a doctor. His movements were fluid and careful, like someone who knew power but chose not to wield it openly.
He stared.
The man had pale blond hair—nearly silver—and eyes the color of clear emeralds. He looked young but carried himself with the gravity of someone older. Their eyes met.
The stranger froze.
So did he.
A jolt of fear twisted in his gut. The butler said nothing—but the tension between them was instant and unmistakable.
His gaze darted away—toward the corner.
There. A tall, framed mirror.
And in its reflection...
He saw someone else.
A stranger.
The boy staring back had white hair—like fallen ash—messy and disheveled. His skin was pale. Too pale. And his eyes—red-gold, tired, and rimmed with shadows.
Not his.
Not his face.
Not his eyes.
Who... who is that?
Panic surged like bile in his throat. The room spun. The mirror. The face—
"Young Master..." the man said, stepping forward gently. "Are you alright?"
He stumbled back, heart racing, eyes wide.
No. No, no, no.
That face wasn't his.
He didn't know this man.
He didn't even know himself.
The butler took another cautious step. "Young Master—"
His eyes landed on a small wooden stool beside the bed.
Without thinking, he grabbed it and hurled it—not at the stranger—but at the mirror.
It shattered with a violent crash.
Glass rained across the floor. A shard struck his hand, slicing deep. Blood splattered across the marble tile.
"Wait—!"
The butler rushed forward.
But his legs gave out.
He collapsed with a dull thud beside the bed, vision spinning as pain exploded through his arm and shoulder.
What's happening?!
Why can't I remember anything?!
Who am I?!
The man's voice called out, distorted—as though underwater.
Then—
A second voice.
Firm. Sharp. Female.
"Elric!" the butler cried.
A woman appeared at the doorway.
She was striking in a way that demanded attention—silver-gray hair, cropped neatly at her shoulders, and piercing sea-blue eyes that narrowed as they took in the chaos.
The broken glass.
The blood.
He collapsed on the floor.
The butler knelt beside him, hands glowing faintly with golden light. The magic shimmered across his palm as he placed it against the wound, and slowly, the bleeding began to stop.
He stared at it.
What is that… light?
He didn't speak.Nor wanted to speak.
Couldn't move.
He just stared—confused, breathless, overwhelmed.
"What happened?!" the woman demanded.
"I don't know." The butler's voice was quiet. "Young Master seemed… panic."
He lifted his gaze.
"Why… why are you calling me 'Young Master'?" he whispered, hoarse and shaken.
"Who… are you?"
Silence.
The woman's eyes widened.
The butler looked stunned—like he'd seen a ghost.
"Young Master… It's me. Robert." The man swallowed hard. "You don't… remember?"
Suddenly, a piercing, painful ringing exploded in his ears.
His vision darkened at the edges.
Not again—
His body couldn't take it.
The spinning.
The weight.
The questions.
Robert and the woman—Elric—began calling his name in panic.
But he was already slipping.
As the darkness swallowed him again, he heard it—
A name.
A name he didn't recognize.
A name both voices screamed in desperation
"Kael!"
And then, silence..