Thalos awoke to the scent of moss and the cold bite of stone beneath his back.
For a moment, he didn't breathe. He just listened.
Silence—except it wasn't truly silent. His ears caught the subtle hum of enchantment running through walls. The distant hiss of mist from a street vent. A heartbeat that wasn't his, pulsing faintly through the floor below. The scrape of cutlery, laughter of children, the rustle of a heavy cloak moving down a hall.
And somehow, it all made sense.
He opened his eyes to a vaulted ceiling carved from blackstone, glimmering slightly with moisture and rune-etched veins. A soft purple glow pulsed from a lantern hanging by his bedside, the light flickering in a slow, calm rhythm. Shadows danced across the room like living silhouettes, shifting without menace.
It was beautiful in a strange, gothic way.
He sat up slowly, the sheets rustling under him. They smelled faintly of mothwood and clean blood-resin—a familiar scent, though he had never smelled it before.
The room was compact, functional. A cot, a washbasin, a wardrobe, and a small dresser lined with family carvings and faded keepsakes. A stone window sat half-open, letting in the cool night breeze from outside. Distant city sounds drifted in—hooves on stone, muffled voices, and the low echo of a bell tolling five times.
As he pushed his feet onto the floor, something stirred inside him.
A wave.
Not of dizziness, not of vertigo—but of memory.
It was like someone had dumped a warm river into his skull. He gasped as images, emotions, and experiences crashed through him—not jarringly, but as if they'd always been there, hiding just behind the curtain of self-awareness.
Names. Smells. Rituals. Habits.
Thalos Valen. That was his name here.
Born in Duskhaven's Outer District. Third son of Dregan and Mira Valen. Seven children in total. A family of modest means, rooted in service and duty. His father, once a captain of the outer city guard, now retired. His mother, a seamstress who once served in the Nightguard. Two older brothers in training, one sister on the path of the Blood Choir, and two younger siblings still in foundational education.
He wasn't just borrowing this life.
He was this life.
There was no disconnect. No dissonance. The soul that had entered the body had blended with the one that had been shaped within it. He was no puppet master. He was not an intruder.
He was Thalos—fully and truly.
He crossed the room and looked into a small iron-framed mirror above the washbasin.
The boy who stared back was pale-skinned with sharp cheekbones, dark hair swept back carelessly, and striking silver eyes. A slight frame with sinew more than muscle. Not yet a warrior, but not fragile either.
"Not bad," he murmured, voice low and even.
As he touched the basin, a soft voice echoed from the hallway outside.
"Thalos? You up?"
He blinked at the sound—familiar, motherly, and laced with that no-nonsense undertone that made you fix your posture even without thinking.
"Yeah," he called back, instinctively. "Awake now."
The door creaked open. A woman peeked in, her braid thick and streaked with silver, eyes sharp but warm. She wore a deep crimson robe tied at the waist, her hands stained faintly with thread-dye and rune-ink.
Mira Valen. His mother.
She smiled as her eyes met his. "Well, you look less like death than I expected. That's a good sign."
"I think I remember… a lot," Thalos said slowly, unsure of how much to admit.
"That's how it works," she said gently. "The soul settles. The memories rise. Give it a day or two, and you'll stop overthinking it."
He nodded, stepping toward her. "Is it always this… natural?"
"For most," she replied. "For you? I'd say yes."
She waved him out with a flick of her hand. "Come on. Breakfast before it's gone. Your brothers are already trying to steal the last marrow dumpling."
Thalos chuckled, surprised at how real the warmth in his chest felt. This is home.
The hallway smelled of stew and bloodbread, and the stone floor was cool under his feet. Familiar portraits lined the walls—his parents younger, the siblings at various stages of childhood. The carvings above each doorway were neatly maintained: a tradition in Duskhaven households, he now recalled.
The dining room was lively. Seven seats around a long stone table. Keral, the eldest, was already halfway through a cup of spiced blood tonic. Relin, the second eldest, was poking at his food while arguing with their sister Lyn, who was dressed in a deep-inked choir robe.
Two smaller forms sat at the end—Jessa and Brin, the youngest, both wearing matching tunics and chewing noisily.
Dregan sat at the head of the table. A broad-shouldered man with old battle scars visible on his forearms, short-cropped silver-black hair, and a face weathered by decades of discipline. His crimson eyes locked onto Thalos the moment he stepped in.
"Well," Dregan grunted, "you didn't dissolve overnight. That's promising."
Mira handed Thalos a bowl of stew. "Sit. Eat."
He obeyed, slipping into the empty chair between Lyn and Keral. The bowl was heavy, fragrant with bone broth, root slices, and bits of boiled heart-meat. A traditional vampire breakfast—nutritious, dense, and invigorating.
"Feeling steady?" Dregan asked between bites.
"Mostly," Thalos said. "Some things are still falling into place."
"They will. You'll adjust. Your body remembers. It's yours, after all."
"Mother said orientation is in two days?"
Mira nodded. "Yes. But the real decision comes after that."
"You'll need to decide," Dregan added. "Academy or military. You know the rule: if your scores meet the cut, you go to the Academy. If not, you join the Guard."
"The Academy opens in a month," Mira reminded, sipping from her cup. "Time enough to train. If you commit."
"I want to try for the Academy," Thalos said. No hesitation this time.
His brothers exchanged looks. Lyn raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
Dregan's gaze didn't waver. "Then we start tomorrow. Second bell. Training begins at dawn."
"Yes, sir."
Across the table, Relin smirked. "Try not to cry after the first round."
"You cried on the first swing," Mira said, tossing a chunk of bloodbread at him. It hit him square on the head. Laughter rippled through the room.
Thalos smiled. Despite everything—the new body, the implanted history, the impossible reality—this felt right.
He belonged.
And now he had a month to prove he was worthy of it.