Knock, knock
Knock, knock, knock!
Luke's head pounded with each strike on the door. The first knock sounded distant. The second was louder, more urgent. His mind stirred sluggishly, fighting against the heavy pull of sleep that seemed determined to drag him back under.
He lay still, his body aching against the cold stone floor beneath his cheek.
This wasn't his bed.
The thought surfaced like a bubble of panic, but before he could grasp it fully, memories of last night began to bleed through. The cold floor beneath him was a harsh reminder that whatever had happened last night, if it had even been a dream, wasn't over yet.
Knock, knock!
"Young Master Vencian? Young Master?"
The voice was formal but persistent. Luke's eyes snapped open to an ornate ceiling painted with patterns he'd never seen before, yet somehow recognized. Everything felt foreign and familiar at the same time.
He crushed a strangled breath and rolled to his side. "Yes?" he croaked toward the door.
"Pardon the disturbance, young master," came the maid's voice through the door. "It's well into the afternoon. Your brother, Lord Mosses, has been asking for you these past hours. He said to tell you he'll be in his study when you're ready, but that he hoped it would be soon."
Moses. The name clicked into place like a key finding its lock. His eldest brother. Luke could picture his face clearly.
But he'd never met Moses. Had he?
The contradiction made his head throb. He knew intimate, personal details about people he'd never encountered. Moses's favorite breakfast. How he straightened his shoulders when their father entered a room. Hours spent teaching Vencian proper sword stance in the courtyard as children.
Except Luke had never learned sword fighting. He had never been Vencian.
Until now.
"Maria," he called, his voice steadier than he felt. "Tell him I'll join him shortly."
Maria. The name surfaced with a flood of memories. Maria Esperanza, fifteen years with their family. She kept dried lavender in her apron pocket because her grandmother said it brought peace. She sent most of her wages to her sister's children in the capital.
He'd never met this woman in his life.
"Shall I bring you something to eat first, young master? You haven't taken a proper meal in days."
Days? That sent a chill through him. His gaze swung around the room. On the low table by the wall, parchments with strange symbols were scattered among half-melted candles. A dagger lay there, its blade crusted with old blood. The circle drawn on the floor, the runic writing on parchment – it looked like a ritual. Something secret and dangerous.
What was Vencian doing here, all alone? he thought, dread pooling in his gut. All around the table were traces of blood magic. None of it made sense – but apparently, it had worked in some horrible way.
The familiar memories that came to Luke now felt layered: childhood experiences sharp and clear, recent weeks hazier but present, and then an abrupt void where the last few days should have been. He remembered childhood pranks with his brothers, his father's pride when he mastered a new sword technique, but everything since last week was a blank. Nothing there. What were you trying to do, Vencian? What was so desperate that you'd resort to this… whatever this was?
"My lord? Are you well?" Maria's voice carried more urgency now, and Luke realized he'd been silent too long.
"I'm..." He cleared his throat, unsettled by how naturally Vencian's mannerisms came to him. "I'm fine, Maria. Just give me some bread and water. Nothing heavy."
"Of course, young master. I'll return shortly."
As her footsteps faded down the corridor, Luke's mind raced. He was living someone else's life, using their body and memories – but there was a gap, a missing piece that he couldn't see. Whatever had happened recently was gone from his mind.
His eyes fell on the table. The ritual was still laid out. Quickly, he realized that if Maria returned to find these things, there would be hell to pay. This was not meant to be seen.
Acting without thinking further, Luke sprang into action. He gathered the scattered parchment first, folding it and hiding it beneath a stack of official documents on the desk. Then he wrapped the bloodstained dagger in a spare cloth and shoved it into the drawer. He moved any other evidence into the drawer as well, working swiftly, careful not to let anything slip.
When he slammed the drawer shut, his eyes caught the polished brass handle. The reflection staring back at him was Vencian's: sharp aristocratic features, high cheekbones, but pale and drawn with exhaustion. For a second, Luke just stared at that face in the metal. A thin line of dried blood still marked the palm that pressed against the countertop earlier. Proof that everything here was real.
Then he noticed the floor. Dark droplets had dried on the stone where he'd been lying. Luke grabbed a cloth from the washbasin and dampened it with water from the pitcher.
The dried blood proved stubborn, the droplets that had fallen from his wounded palm. He scrubbed at the stains, but they had set into the stone overnight. The water turned rusty as he worked, but the marks only faded slightly. After several minutes of effort, he managed to remove most of the obvious traces, though faint brown stains remained.
It would have to do. Luke wrung out the cloth and tossed it into the washbasin.
What have I gotten myself into?
Without waiting for the maid, he headed to the bathroom. The water ran cool over his hands as he washed off what remained of the blood from his wound. The physical discomfort grounded him.
When he returned to the room, his meal was set out for him. A late afternoon meal, the shadows through the window confirmed Maria's words about sleeping well past noon. But before eating, Luke examined his palm more closely.
The cut was deeper than he'd initially thought, a clean slice across the flesh that had bled considerably. Looking at the ritual dagger he'd hidden away, the width matched perfectly. Whatever Vencian had been attempting, it had required his own blood as a component.
He found a small medical kit in the desk drawer, tucked behind some official papers. Antiseptic stung as he cleaned the wound properly. The bandage went on smoothly with his dominant hand, but it would prevent infection and stop any remaining bleeding. The pain helped clear his head.
Only then did he sit down to eat everything.
As he chewed the bread, Luke's mind turned to Moses waiting in his study. His brother had been asking for him for hours - any longer delay would seem suspicious.
He couldn't hide in this room forever. Eventually, he would have to face the world as Vencian.
Luke finished the last of his meal and stood, brushing crumbs from his clothes.
With a firm resolve, Luke opened the door.
Vencian's deeper memories, those from childhood and adolescence, helped him navigate the mansion easily. These older recollections felt solid and reliable, guiding his steps without hesitation. It was only the recent memories, the ones from the past few days, that remained frustratingly absent. Yet despite the familiarity, the mansion felt off. Servants scurried away with their eyes averted. Anyone who spoke to him quickly hushed their voice as soon as he drew near.
Guards stood at rigid attention, hands on sword hilts like they half-expected an attack. The usual afternoon bustle was gone, replaced by an oppressive silence. It felt as though disaster had struck, though Luke had no idea what it was. As he walked, Luke let Vencian's memories fill in some blanks about his brother. Moses was twenty-three, calm and logical. Their father had always groomed Moses to inherit the family duties. He was protective of his younger brothers, yet never patronizing.
On his way, Luke rehearsed the mannerisms he'd gleaned from his borrowed memories, trying to make them seem natural.
Finally, Luke arrived at Moses's study door. It was slightly ajar. He could hear the scratch of a quill on parchment inside. With one last shift, Luke adopted Vencian's confident pose, finding solace in its familiarity. Clearing his throat, Luke gave a firm knock.
"You are late," came Moses's voice from within.
Luke pushed the door open. Moses stood behind a hefty desk piled with papers. He didn't look up at first. When he finally met Luke's eyes, exhaustion was written on his face. Moses studied Luke's face for a long moment, then his expression softened. "You look better. Are you eating?"
The question caught Luke off guard. It was such a simple, brotherly concern, but Moses delivered it with the weight of someone who'd been genuinely worried.
Luke kept his wounded palm pressed against his leg, the bandage hidden beneath his sleeve. Moses was observant, any visible injury would prompt questions about how it happened, and Luke had no safe answers.
"I am now," Luke said carefully, drawing on Vencian's memories of how they usually spoke.
"Good." Moses set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. "I was beginning to think you'd waste away in that room. Three days, Ven. Three days without a proper meal or word to anyone."
Three days. That lined up with the gap in Vencian's memories. Luke nodded, hoping it looked like acknowledgment rather than the dawning understanding it actually was.
"I needed space to process everything," Luke said.
"About Father? Or about what came after?" Moses's voice was gentle, but Luke could hear the underlying tension. "Because honestly, I'm not sure which hit you harder."
Luke felt his stomach drop. Moses was referring to recent events that Vencian should know intimately. The gap in his memories became a yawning chasm of potential exposure. But he kept his expression neutral, channeling Vencian's natural composure.
"Can you tell me why you were looking for me?" Luke asked, deflecting rather than answering.
Moses moved to the window, gazing out at the mountains. "I need to leave soon. There's something I must investigate personally." He turned back. "But first, I need to know you're handling everything as well as you appear to be."
Luke felt the weight of those words but had no context for what "everything" meant. He needed to buy time and information without revealing his ignorance.
"I've been thinking," Luke said, settling into a chair with Vencian's natural grace. "Sometimes I need quiet to process everything properly."
"That's exactly what worries me." Moses joined him, taking the opposite chair. "You've been too quiet since Father's arrest. And then when the second news came..." Moses's gaze remained fixed on him. "You disappeared into your room for days. Even Jeriko couldn't get you to respond."
Father's arrest. The information hit Luke like a physical blow, but he managed to keep his expression neutral.
"I needed time to think," Luke said carefully. He let Vencian's memories guide his tone, the way the youngest brother would speak when processing difficult information. "Some things require... careful consideration."
"And have you reached any conclusions?" Luke's stomach knotted. Moses expected insight, analysis, the brilliant observations that
Vencian was known for. But Luke had no facts to analyze, no context to draw from.
He chose his next words like stepping stones across a raging river.
"I keep thinking about timing," he said, watching Moses's face for any reaction. "When things happen... it matters."
Moses's eyes sharpened slightly. "Go on."
"It's just..." Luke paused, pretending to struggle with putting thoughts into words. "Nothing feels random anymore. Does it?"
Moses was quiet for a long moment. "No. It doesn't."
The confirmation told Luke he was on the right track, but he still had no idea what specific events they were discussing. He needed Moses to reveal more without asking direct questions.
"Where are you going?" Luke asked. "For your investigation."
"The capital. General Herrera has bought us some time by personally taking charge of Father's case. She's insisting on a thorough investigation rather than a quick execution."
Moses stopped pacing. "But that window won't stay open forever. I need to reach the archives before anyone can alter or destroy the evidence."
Evidence of what, Luke couldn't guess, but clearly it was connected to their father's arrest.
"And Jeriko?" Luke asked, remembering Moses had mentioned their middle brother.
"He's pursuing a different angle. Following certain... connections." Moses stopped pacing and looked directly at Luke. "Which brings me to what I need from you."
The weight of expectation settled on Luke's shoulders like a heavy cloak. He maintained Vencian's attentive posture while his mind raced through possibilities. Whatever Moses was about to ask, it would require knowledge Luke didn't possess.
"I'm listening," Luke said, keeping his voice steady