I woke to a silence so profound it felt like the world held its breath. The room around me was a chamber of opulence, draped in velvet and adorned with furniture that screamed wealth—polished mahogany, gilded frames, and a chandelier that glittered like a captive constellation. But none of it made sense. Why was I here, trapped in the frail body of a fifteen-year-old boy? My head throbbed, a dull ache that sharpened into a blinding pain, as if my skull were splitting to accommodate a flood of foreign memories.
The pain wasn't just physical—it was a collision of souls. I was Victor, a wizard from a world that despised my kind, a world where swordsmen ruled with iron fists and monarchs branded magic as a plague. But now, I was also Victor Stuart, the son of a duke, a boy who'd been comatose for a decade, his existence a closely guarded secret known only to the royal family and the trusted allies of House Stuart. The memories merged, jagged and unrelenting, until I was no longer just one Victor but both, stitched together by fate's cruel needle.
When the headache finally ebbed, I sifted through the boy's memories. Victor Stuart, heir to a duchy, had been locked in a ten-year slumber, his body preserved by the devotion of his family. In my previous life, I'd been no such noble. I was an orphan, a wizard scraping by in a world that hunted me. I'd clawed my way to strength through sheer will, not some divine gift. I'd even mastered the sword, earning the title of imperial knight to mask my true nature. But magic? That was my secret, my rebellion against an empire that loathed it.
"Damn those heroes," I muttered, a bitter edge to my voice. "Born with power handed to them, while I had to hide every spark of magic just to survive." The empire's nobles, those smug bastards, made sure wizards like me could never study in peace. I envied them, sure, but I'd accepted my lot—until those same heroes, those so-called saviors, orchestrated my downfall. They were the reason I was here, reborn in this strange new world.
In my old life, the empire worshipped swordsmen, their monarchy convinced that wizards were a threat to their precious order. I played their game, donning the mask of a knight while secretly honing my magic. Years of deception, of hiding in plain sight, all shattered by a single betrayal. My friend—a fellow wizard, envious and weak—couldn't stomach my success. He'd been forced to skulk in shadows, scraping for scraps, while I stood tall as an imperial knight. So, he sold me out, spilling my secret to the empire. Worse, he spun a lie, claiming I'd crafted a spell of mass destruction capable of leveling their precious kingdom.
"Damn it all," I growled, the memory still raw. "What's so wrong with wanting to live?" The empire stripped me of my title, branded me a fugitive, and hunted me like a dog. For eight months, I evaded their soldiers, their spies, their knights. I poured every ounce of my mana into a stealth spell, cloaking myself from their relentless pursuit. If I let it falter for even a moment, they'd find me. But mana isn't infinite, and by the time I collapsed in a dingy pub, I was drained, my magic flickering like a dying ember.
"There's the filthy wizard!" a voice boomed, dripping with arrogance. It was Cassian, a hero of the empire, his golden armor gleaming under the torchlight. His sneer was a blade, cutting through the crowd that parted for him. "You'll be eradicated, scum." His voice carried the weight of someone who believed the world owed him reverence, his eyes glinting with smug superiority. The crowd cheered, their adoration fueling his ego, and I hated him for it—hated his entitlement, his certainty that he was justice incarnate.
They bound me in chains, dragging me to the city square like a trophy. The ropes bit into my wrists, the weight of a thousand hateful stares pressing down on me. I was breathless, my lungs burning as I spat, "You damned hero, why don't you go slay the demon king instead of tormenting weak wizards like us? We're human too, you bastard!" The crowd didn't care. Their eyes were cold, their murmurs laced with disdain, as if I were less than dirt.
My betrayer's lies had painted me as a monster, claiming my magic could raze the empire. It wasn't true—not entirely. I did have a spell, a devastating explosion that could level a city. But an empire? That was exaggeration, a spark fanned into a wildfire by fear and envy. "If I'd had the chance to study freely," I muttered, a wry grin tugging at my lips, "I'd have brought this wretched empire to its knees. I'm a genius, after all." The thought was absurd, almost comical, given how tightly the empire had chained my potential.
As they tightened the ropes, I raised my hand, pointing a trembling finger to the sky. The crowd froze, the nobles and knights shifting uneasily. "What are you doing, Victor?" Cassian barked, his voice betraying a flicker of fear. The rumor of my "secret spell" had them all on edge, their confidence crumbling like dry leaves.
This was my end, and I'd make it unforgettable. Without a chant, without a word, I unleashed my magic. A torrent of raw power erupted, a maelstrom of fire and shadow that consumed the square. The nobles screamed, their silks singed as they scrambled for safety. Knights drew their swords, but it was futile—the spell was a beast, untamed and unstoppable. The city burned, its spires crumbling under the weight of my defiance. I saw their faces, twisted in terror, as the world dissolved into chaos. This was my final act, a blaze of glory that took them all with me.
Back in the present, sprawled across a luxurious bed, I shook off the memory. "Was that all a dream?" I whispered, my voice hoarse. But the memories of Victor Stuart, the boy whose body I now inhabited, were too vivid, too real. This wasn't a dream—it was a second chance, a new life in a world I didn't yet understand.
Footsteps echoed outside my door, each one louder, closer, until they stopped. The door creaked open, a sound so distinct it sent a shiver down my spine. My heart pounded as I waited, eyes fixed on the entrance. A woman stepped inside, her beauty striking like a lightning bolt. Her brown hair fell just past her shoulders, her eyes a warm, captivating brown. Her skin was pale as snow, her movements graceful in a simple maid's uniform. In my old world, women like her were rare—or maybe I'd just been too busy surviving to notice.
"Young master?" Her voice trembled, a mix of shock and joy. "You're awake?" She stared at me, her eyes wide, as if I were a ghost made flesh. I was struck by the sight of her, this boy's body reacting with a warmth I hadn't felt in my past life. The memories of Victor Stuart stirred—she was Iris, his devoted maid, three years his senior. She'd cared for him through his coma, feeding him, tending to him, for a decade. The bond they shared was deep, familial, almost sacred.
"Iris," I said, my voice soft but certain. Her name felt right on my tongue, grounding me in this new reality. She gasped, tears welling in her eyes, and I realized how much she meant to this boy—to me, now.
--
Iris had been Victor's shadow, his constant companion even through the long years of his coma. From the moment she was assigned as his personal maid by Duke Stuart, she'd followed him everywhere, her loyalty unwavering. Even as a child, Victor never pushed her away. He treated her with a kindness that belied his noble status, calling her his sister despite their age difference. Each morning, Iris would rouse him from sleep, dressing him with care, her small hands fussing over buttons and laces.
"Iris, I can dress myself," little Victor would grumble, his four-year-old voice laced with mock indignation as she adjusted his collar.
"Hush, young master," Iris would reply, her focus unwavering. "I'll do this for you, even when you're grown."
Victor's eyes would sparkle with mischief. "What if I get married? It'd be awfully embarrassing if my wife saw you still dressing me."
Iris's face would flush, her young heart stung by the thought. "Young master, I'll always do this for you," she'd insist, her voice trembling with a fear she couldn't name—the fear of losing her place by his side.
As months passed, Iris watched Victor weaken, his vibrant spirit dimming. "Young master, are you alright?" she'd ask, her voice tight with worry as he pored over books, his face pale and drawn. "I'm fine, Iris," he'd reply, his gentle smile masking a flicker of pain. But she saw it, the way his eyes dulled, the way his hands trembled.
In the grand office of House Stuart, Duke Stuart sat buried in royal documents, his face etched with sorrow. His only son, the heir to the duchy, was fading. Healers from across the kingdom had come and gone, their diagnoses grim. "His life force is strong," they'd say, "but something is wrong with his spirit." Victor had begun forgetting things—names, places, even himself. He confined himself to his room, the boy who once lit up the estate with his laughter now a ghost within its walls. The family ached for his smile, his brilliance, their hope dwindling with each passing day.
"Keep this quiet," Duke Stuart ordered. "If the public learns of Victor's condition, tell them he's in secluded study." It was a plausible lie, fitting for the heir of a powerful house.
One day, Iris knocked on Victor's door, her heart heavy. "Young master, are you there?" she called, her voice trembling. No answer came. She pushed the door open, finding Victor slumped against his bed, his eyes vacant. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hollow. Iris's world shattered, her knees buckling as tears streamed down her face. Within months, Victor slipped into a coma, his body still, his mind lost. For ten years, Iris remained by his side, tending to him, praying for the day he'd wake.
--
"Young master?" My voice cracked, barely a whisper, as I stood frozen in the doorway. Young master was awake, his golden eyes fixed on me, sharp and alive after ten endless years. My heart surged, joy and fear colliding in my chest. Was this real, or had I slipped into another cruel dream? I'd spent a decade feeding him, caring for him, whispering to a boy who couldn't hear me. And now, he was here, looking at me with a warmth that stole my breath.
"Iris," he said, his voice soft but certain, his smile a beacon in the dim room. Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable. My world, which had been gray and heavy for so long, burst into color. He remembered me. After all those years, after the fear that he'd forgotten me forever, he spoke my name. I wanted to laugh, to sob, to collapse at his feet. This was no dream—this was my young master, returned to me. And yet, the weight of those lost years pressed against my heart, a bittersweet ache that promised to linger.
**