The first thing he felt… was pain.
Not the familiar, noble pain of battle wounds or magical backlash. No—this pain was raw, human. His ribs ached with every breath. His throat was parched like a desert sun had camped in his chest. Something creaked above him, and flakes of dust drifted down.
He coughed.
The sound startled him.
It was... weak.
He tried to rise, but his limbs didn't respond the way they should—too light, too small, too unfamiliar. The once indomitable weight of his armored body was gone. His strength, the overwhelming power that pulsed through his veins like molten magic, was absent. No aura. No essence. Nothing.
Only flesh and breath.
His eyes—still adjusting—scanned the room. Rotten wood lined the ceiling. Mold spread across the corners. A torn curtain fluttered over a shattered window. Faint light filtered in, illuminating a world that felt far too mundane. Far too mortal.
Then he saw his hands.
Small. Pale. Scratched.
He stared. Then turned them, slowly, as if they belonged to someone else.
"This is… not my body," he whispered.
But it was not his voice either.
It cracked. It wavered. It belonged to a teenage boy—barely seventeen at most. He scrambled up, staggering to a cracked mirror leaning against the far wall. Shards of glass clung to the frame like teeth.
He looked.
A stranger stared back.
The boy's face was sharp but gaunt, with messy dark hair and dull hazel eyes. A faint scar curved under his lip. Malnourished. Tired. A survivor's face. His breathing quickened. His mind screamed for answers. His soul—the soul of Overlord Kael'thar the Undying—writhed inside this fragile shell.
"What sorcery is this?" he hissed, pressing his palm to the mirror. "Where is my body? My palace? My soldiers?"
There was a knock—light, hesitant—followed by a voice beyond the door. A girl's voice. Young.
"Zayn? Are you awake? You were thrashing again… The fever's gone down."
He didn't answer. He couldn't.
Zayn? Was that this boy's name?
The girl pushed open the door—no older than fifteen. Thin arms. Bandaged wrist. Cautious eyes that had seen too much of life too soon.
"You scared me," she said quietly. "I thought you'd die in your sleep ."
Her voice broke. "You can't leave me too."
Kael'thar—Zayn—swallowed hard. Emotions clashed inside him like swords: confusion.
"I'm not…" he began. "I'm not who you think—"
She hugged him.
It silenced everything.
For a moment, he froze—Overlord of a thousand legions held by a trembling child.
"You're all I have left," she whispered.
He rolled his eyes.
When she left, he sat back down on the sagging bed, heart pounding. Not from fear—but from realization.
He wasn't dead.
Someone—or something—had brought him back. But not in glory. Not in power. He'd been cast down into the world of mortals, stripped of everything.
No palace.
No armies.
No brother.
Just a broken home…
And a broken body.
But his eyes narrowed as a cold smile tugged at the corner of his lip.
"You thought you killed me, Auron."
"You thought the light would erase the darkness."
He looked down at his small hands again, curling them into fists.
"This is not the end."
"It's the beginning."
The door slammed open.
"Zayn!" the girl whispered harshly, eyes wide with panic.
Kael'thar turned slowly, already irritated by the volume. "Is this how people knock in this wretched place?"
She rushed in barefoot, almost tripping on a floorboard. "You need to hide—now! She's coming!"
"She?" he echoed, one brow rising. "Who is she? Some bloodthirsty warlord? A beast with a thousand heads? Or perhaps another fragile mortal I'm expected to fear?"
"Your stepmother!" she hissed. "She's furious! You were supposed to go sell the grain sacks this morning—you disappeared for hours!"
Kael'thar scoffed. "Let her come. I bow to no one. Not in this life, not the last."
The girl groaned. "Why are you like this today?! You were quiet—scared before. Now you're acting like some—some arrogant snob prince!"
He turned to her fully, eyes narrowing, his voice sharp. " Arrogant… snob...I am not scared. I am never scared. And don't mistake silence for submission, girl.."
She blinked. "Wait. What?"
"I'll explain when your little 'stepmother' is scraping the floor in apology. For now—"
Footsteps. Heavier than hers. Fast. Determined.
The girl's eyes widened. "Nope, nope, nope—no time!"
She lunged.
"What are you—!?" Kael'thar barked, but she shoved him toward the sagging wardrobe with the force of desperation and comical precision.
"Get in there!"
"I am not hiding in some—"
"Do it unless you want a slap from a ringed hand!"
With a grunt, she shoved the door shut just as the front door flung open.
From inside the wardrobe—cramped and dusty—Kael'thar fumed. "This is beneath me. Far beneath me."
The footsteps entered the room. A low click of heeled boots. A fragrance of roses and expensive spice filled the air.
"Where is he?" The voice was ice wrapped in silk. Controlled. Educated. Refined. And dangerous.
Kael'thar went still.
That… was not the voice of a peasant woman.
The girl replied quickly, voice shaking. "I-I don't know! He just ran out! I think to the river maybe?"
A pause. Then the woman stepped into view—Kael'thar peeked through a crack in the wood.
She was tall. Perfectly dressed in an emerald flowing gown with gold thread. Her hair coiled like fire, her lips painted blood red. Jewels glinted on her fingers, at her throat, even around her shoes. And her eyes—calculating, sharp, cruel.
This was not some stepmother scraping by.
This was someone who wore wealth like a weapon.
"Liar," the woman said softly. "He's here."
The girl flinched. "No, I swear—!"
The woman's hand moved so fast Kael'thar barely caught it. She slapped the girl, once, clean across the face.
Kael'thar's blood boiled.
His fists clenched.
But he didn't move. Not yet. Not until he understood who she truly was.
The woman exhaled. "If he's not back before dark, you'll both be punished. I'm not feeding mouths that can't earn their place."
She turned, heels clicking, and exited without a backward glance.
Silence.
The girl touched her cheek, eyes wet.
Kael'thar pushed the wardrobe open with a creak. He stepped out slowly, his face unreadable.
"You're lucky," he muttered.
The girl wiped her eyes. "How?"
"If I had stepped out," he said darkly, "I wouldn't have stopped at one slap."
She blinked. "Wait, you're not mad at me?"
He looked at her like she'd grown two heads. "For saving my life with brute peasant strength? No. You're stronger than you look. Stupider too."
"…What?"
He glanced toward the door. "That woman. She's not what she seems. Keep your eyes open."
"She's just your stepmother—"
"No," he cut in. "She's something else. Her power walks before her. I've sensed royalty. I've ruled gods. That woman... has secrets buried under her skin."
The girl gave him a weird look. "Okay, now you really sound insane."
Kael'thar gave a dark smile. "Then let's hope insanity is enough to survive what's coming."
There was no warning this time the door Brust open.