Nuriel Malachi slowly opened his eyes, a crust of sleep built up from what must have been a long rest. He sat up, the mattress soft beneath him, and rolled his shoulders, fingers pressing into the stiff muscles along his neck.
The room was modest in size but handcrafted furniture filled the space. Clean wallpaper stretched across the walls, and a single rudimentary electric lamp was mounted above the bed, its small switch sitting just below it.
He moved to the bathroom and washed himself. Once finished, he dried off, stepped into his suit, and stood before the mirror, he took pride in appearance. He adjusted his collar, straightened the cuffs, then turning and twisted, checking the way the fabric hugged his frame. His skin was smooth. His dark hair flowed in soft waves down to his neck.
Content, he closed his right eye and pressed his fingers gently against the lid. Returning to the bedroom, he opened the drawer beside the bed and retrieved his glasses. Only the right side held a lens. The left remained empty.
He stepped out of his apartment, the red carpet soft beneath his shoes. The hallway was quiet, lined with numbered doors.
He made his way downstairs to the breakfast room. It was nearly empty. At the counter, an employee waited.
"Dark roast," he said, grabbing a newspaper from the communal basket.
Coffee in hand, he returned to his apartment, adjusting his pace to avoid spills. It looked awkward, but it worked.
Inside, he moved to the balcony and opened the door. A cold breeze swept in.
Nuriel set the coffee on a small table, sat down, and unfolded the newspaper. For a moment, he looked out.
The city stretched before him, but the cathedral stole the view. It rose above everything else, immense and unmoving against the morning sky.
He took a sip before turning his attention to the newspaper.
/Civil unrest and protest plaguing the Capital!
/Anti-war shipwrights strike at the Bose northern harbor. The new Dreadnaught-class warship delayed another year?
/New semester at Owhen University starts in just 1 week!
He read that last line again. He had already secured a position as a university librarian there. It wasn't the grand archives of La Quezon, the capital, but it was enough.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Months had passed since everything fell apart.
His family had noble blood, but when his eldest sister married into a more influential house, the legacy shifted. The inheritance meant for him was handed to a younger sibling from that union. His claim vanished overnight.
Now he lived on a modest allowance of 8 allied silvers each month. Still more than what most people earned, but a far cry from managing a family estate.
But who cared about being cast aside by step-relatives?
He was educated, grounded in ideas of reform. Monarchies would fade. Social mobility was only a matter of time. A stable, quiet job suited him more than playing politics over land and lineage.
It wasn't a lack of responsibility. I just preferred peace! Nuriel reinforced himself.
Turning the pages with one hand and sipping his coffee with the other, he settled into what felt like the peak of contentment.
. . .
"!!!"
His entire body jolted as if struck by lightning. The newspaper slipped from his hands as he collapsed, his limbs spasming against the hardwood floor.
Incoherent screams flooded his mind—voices that didn't belong to anyone, ranting in chaos. His eyes stung, and it felt like needles crawled under his skin. But the worst pain wasn't physical.
It was as if his brain was swelling, pressing against his skull with unbearable pressure. A thousand whispers howled through his thoughts, frying every nerve.
Over and over, louder and louder. Words smeared into meaningless sounds, then devolved into raw, mindless ravings.
He crawled, dragging himself towards the bathroom. A sharp edge of furniture struck his temple, but he barely registered the blow. The super migraine consumed all the synapse in his brain.
Reaching the toilet, he clutched its rim. Something vile swelled up from his throat. He vomited a sour, foul sludge that seared his mouth, then trembled as blood dripped steadily from his nose. Tears and snot pooled together, streaming freely into one... colourful waterfall.
Somehow, he retained enough control to keep himself upright. He didn't want to drown with his head submerged in that toilet liquid.
Half of his body fell back onto the living room floor separated by the door frame, legs twisted awkwardly. His chest heaved, his strength drained. Thought and will finally gave way.
He passed out unremarkably.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Nuriel woke up. A steady throb pulsed in his skull. When he tried to sit up, the world tilted. His sense of balance mocked him. He managed a single step before toppling into a drawer with a solid thud.
Lying flat again, he stared at the ceiling and sighed, lampooning inwardly.
After a long pause, he gathered himself, forcing every fiber to cooperate. With a grunt and a tremble, he stood.
Shuffling to the bathroom, he flushed the toilet, sending the vile mix of sickness and shame down the drain. His reflection in the mirror met him with quiet disdain. His once pristine suit was stained, his face painted in dried tears and streaks of blood.
Still, as he rubbed his jawline, something odd tugged at him. He looked good.
Why haven't I seen this before? This is my face. Why does it feel like someone else's?
He exhaled sharply. The smell reminded him that he hadn't brushed his teeth since the ordeal. He turned from the mirror, only for another wave of nausea to creep in. His living room swam before him, its contents blending together like wet paint.
Is it amnesia? He clenched his fists. Not now, not with the university job waiting!
He staggered to the balcony and retrieved the crumpled newspaper, familiar yet foreign. It was like relearning language from scratch, every sentence digging into his head like a needle.
Groaning, he rubbed the spot between his eyebrows, thoughts tangled in frustration and fear. What has happened to me?
He blindly reached towards the table, fingers grasping for something but found only air. His eyes locked on the lone cup of coffee, cold and untouched.
Where's my bread? He blinked. Then looked to the clock. Noon.
He stood frozen in place, the realization pressing down with a different weight. Time had slipped past him, stolen like his sense of memory.
Composing himself, he peeled off his stained suit, leaving only the vest clinging to his frame. At the bathroom sink, he wiped his face clean. The coffee cup in hand, he dumped the cold contents into the toilet and flushed.
The hallway greeted him with familiarity. He returned the cup to the breakfast room, nodding faintly at the barista, then moved toward the main entrance. There, the day was already in motion, tenants filtered in and out, employees darted between tasks, all seemingly with purpose. He stood still, uncertain.
Everyone had a goal for the day. He had only questions.
Outside, the world was a blur of sound and motion. Horse-drawn carriages jammed the roads, beggars loitered at corners calling out with hoarse voices, and pedestrians wove through gaps in traffic. It reminded him of something, Victorian era? Maybe... He couldn't place the word exactly, just the mood.
He took it all in, standing stiffly, awkwardly, like a man seeing the city for the first time. Then, slipping into the current of the crowd, he walked with his guard up, pickpockets and peddlers lurked where one least expected.
Eventually, he reached a quiet park nestled between rows of buildings. The air felt lighter there, the chaos muffled. He took off his glasses, rubbing the base of his neck. Sleeping on the floor had left his muscles in knots.
What is wrong with me? A doctor might help, but that would leave a record, one my stepfamily could find. A fair reason to cast him out for good, brand him unstable, lock him away in an asylum. No, he couldn't risk it.
His right eye tingled. He took off his glasses and massaged the his eyelid, polishing the right lens with a corner of his vest before wearing it again. Settling onto a bench, he let his mind drift.
The voices from earlier still echoed faintly in his memory, tangled and unintelligible. He closed his eyes. What were they? No science or reason could explain the sensation, the noise, the collapse. His breath caught at the thought.
Witchcraft?
He chuckled. He had no enemies worth the coin to hire a curse. It sounded absurd. Yet as the thought rooted itself in his mind, a pressure bloomed again in his skull, a whisper of pain curling behind yet again.