Soren stormed through the mansion's endless corridors, his footsteps echoing harshly against the marble floors.
Servants scattered like frightened animals, turning their heads away and pressing themselves against the walls to avoid his path.
Unlike before, none dared to meet his eyes any longer.
The lingering coldness from the dining hall still clung to him, and even those who hadn't been present could feel it leaking from his body.
His breath came heavy and ragged.
His vision blurred at the edges.
When he turned a corner, he caught sight of two servants hurriedly sweeping up splintered wood.
The flimsy door he had kicked to pieces earlier now lay in fragments, being cleared as if it were nothing but trash.
The frame stood empty, a gaping wound in the hallway wall.
There was no door, no barrier, no sense of privacy.
Soren clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms, but he said nothing.
He pushed past them without slowing down.
The servants didn't speak either; they bowed their heads and avoided his gaze.
The moment he crossed the threshold of his room, his body lurched.
He stumbled forward, falling to his knees.
"Blerggghhh!"
The contents of his stomach spilt onto the floor, the bitter stench of bile filling the air.
His chest heaved as wave after wave poured out, until there was nothing left but acid and air.
He gripped the floorboards, his body trembling uncontrollably.
His arms shook, and each breath came like fire scraping against his lungs.
It wasn't just anger, it was fear, exhaustion and a multitude of other feelings he couldn't comprehend.
Those feelings weren't his own.
They were his, the original Soren's.
The emotions had surged up like a flood, overwhelming everything.
The hatred, the guilt, the fear, the suffocating bloodlust.
All of it felt so real that, for a moment, Soren couldn't tell where his emotions ended and the original's began.
His vision spun, sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes.
"Dammit…" He panted, his voice hoarse. "What the hell… is this…?"
His body refused to move correctly, drained by the storm of emotions that weren't entirely his own.
For a long moment, he just sat there, hunched over, forcing air in and out of his burning lungs.
The bile on the floor steamed faintly from his body heat, the sour stench mingling with sweat.
It was disgusting, yet he didn't even have the strength to care.
Slowly, the trembling began to fade.
The tightness in his chest eased, and his heartbeat slowed, just enough for him to think again.
It was like coming up for air after nearly drowning.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, swallowing the sour taste lingering on his tongue.
His hand shook as he forced himself upright.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips were pale.
His appearance was almost ghostly.
"I need to get a grip," he whispered to himself.
The floor still smelled of bile, and his body shook faintly, but at least he could breathe again.
He cast [Clean] on himself and his surroundings before grabbing a canteen from his inventory and downing the contents to wash the acidic taste from his mouth.
The cool water burned going down, but it was better than the sour bile.
Only after that did he dare to think back on what had just happened.
'It's happening more frequently…'
Ever since viewing some of the original Soren's memories a few months ago, there had occasionally been moments like this, in which his mind would feel like it was someone else's.
He had quickly figured out that they were the emotions of the original, but he still felt uncomfortable whenever it happened.
Uncomfortable wasn't even the right word; it was terrifying.
Initially, he had thought it might be helpful, as he would be able to learn more about the original over time; however, the problem only seemed to be getting worse since the summer break began.
Ever since setting foot inside the mansion, his mind had been swirling.
Hatred, rage, sorrow, resignation, inferiority, and longing.
There were so many emotions that weren't his that he struggled to sort his own from the original's.
To be honest, Soren couldn't help but find it somewhat scary.
Randomly, without warning, his body would stop being his own, and he had no way of controlling it.
It was a genuinely terrifying concept.
What if it happened in front of his friends?
What if it happened in the middle of a battle?
What if… he made a mistake because of it?
His breathing hitched again, but this time he forced it down, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt.
"Not now," he muttered.
He sat back against the wall, taking in long breaths until his chest finally steadied.
His face was still pale, but the panic had faded.
For now, at least, he could think clearly.
But the unease didn't leave.
The emotions weren't his, yet they were inside him all the same.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
The lack of a door meant nothing was holding him back anymore, no more barrier to keep him shut away.
Soren stepped out into the hallway again, his body still weak, and his mouth still bitter with the faint taste of bile, but his mind craved air.
He walked.
The corridors stretched endlessly, their polished floors reflecting the pale light of the chandeliers.
Every wall gleamed with framed portraits, fancy banners and ostentatious decorations, as if screaming wealth into the faces of anyone who looked.
To Soren, however, it only made him smile bitterly.
Every room he peeked into felt more hollow than the last.
A music room with gaudy, golden instruments that looked untouched.
A hunting hall with stuffed beasts mounted proudly.
A private library where leather-bound books lined the shelves, though the air smelled of dust and disuse.
All of it was impressive, but none of it felt alive.
When he stepped into the garden, the heavy fragrance of blooming roses and lilies smothered him instead of refreshing him.
The neatly trimmed hedges, the marble fountain with its sculpted soldier sitting atop it, the perfectly arranged flower beds.
It was all too orderly.
Too perfect.
None of it felt natural in the slightest.
Even here, in a place that should have carried refreshing warmth, he felt cold.
As he turned to leave, he passed two servants carrying baskets of laundry.
The moment they saw Soren, they froze in place.
One of them whispered under her breath, just loud enough for Soren to hear.
"...What is he doing outside?"
Soren stopped dead in his tracks.
His head whipped toward them, and the two servants flinched, almost dropping their baskets.
"What the fuck did you just say?" His voice was sharp, cracking through the air like a whip.
The man paled, opening his mouth to stammer something, but Soren cut him off, stepping closer.
"I'm not allowed to walk through the halls now? Not allowed to step into the shitty garden? Why? Because I'm not a real Arden?"
The servants trembled, neither daring to answer.
Soren's hands curled into fists, the nails digging into his skin.
"You think I want to be here? You think I asked for this?" he snarled. "That woman dragged me back. She sent for me. I didn't want to set foot in this fucking mansion, but she basically threatened me. And now you look at me like I'm the problem?"
His words tumbled out, bitter and raw.
"She says I'm a part of the family, but I'm treated like some stray dog dragged in off the streets. So tell me, why the fuck can't I even breathe without people whispering about it?"
The servants shrank back, bowing hurriedly, muttering apologies that sounded empty in his ears.
Soren stared at them for a moment longer before he clicked his tongue and stormed off.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath; whether the words were directed at the servants or himself, he didn't know.
He wandered again through more gilded halls, past rooms that looked like they belonged in palaces rather than at home.
Each chamber was extravagant, designed to impress guests rather than comfort those who lived within.
Every sight pressed down on him like a weight, suffocating him further.
Eventually, his steps slowed.
He stood before a door he hadn't expected to find.
Freya Arden's room.
His chest tightened at the sight of it.
Unlike the other rooms, this one felt different, even from the hallway.
His hand hovered above the handle before he carefully pushed the door open.
The room inside was quiet.
It wasn't extravagant, nor was it cluttered with the useless displays of wealth.
The furniture was simple, sturdy and practical.
A tidy desk with neatly arranged books.
A wardrobe without jewels hanging off its edges.
A few personal trinkets lined the shelves, but nothing gaudy.
The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, bringing a refreshing feeling.
Soren stepped inside slowly, his eyes sweeping across the chamber.
"...It's well kept," he murmured, almost surprised by how different it was from his own room when he arrived.
His own room had been left to rot, dust gathering in every corner, the mattress as stiff as a board.
Freya's was the opposite.
Although the room hadn't been lived in for some time, it still felt warm.
His gaze landed on the bed.
Plush, but simple, with a pale quilt stretched neatly across it.
Without thinking, he moved closer and lowered himself onto it.
The softness welcomed him, a sharp contrast to the harsh bed he had been used to.
Silence filled the room as Soren lay still in the covers.
And then the words slipped out, quiet and broken.
"...I miss you."
Soren blinked in shock the moment he heard his own voice.
The words weren't his.
They weren't feelings he owned.
They belonged to the original Soren.
His hand clenched the quilt tightly, his heart thumping against his chest.
He wanted to deny it, to push away the emotions, but he couldn't rid himself of the comfort he felt at that moment.
His body fell to the bed, exhaustion creeping in.
Before he realised it, his head rested against the soft pillow.
His eyelids drooped as his body was enveloped in a comforting warmth that he missed.
A faint wetness trailed from the corner of his eyes, though he didn't understand why.
By the time sleep pulled him under, the only sound in the room was his quiet, uneven breathing.
Tears stained Freya's pillow, shimmering faintly under the dim light.
And in the silence of the Arden estate, Soren slept comfortably for the first time in a while.
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
.
▶̶͈̺͇̬̞͚͗̀̕̕͠ ̶̨̥̳̟̦͒ứ̴͉͈̫͎́̓͐̎o̸͕͈͈̬̙̎̀̍̋̐l̵͔̬̮̣͌̅S̷̡̻͇̟̺̒͐̆́͐̾ ̸̨̖̓̀͛͠ì̴͚̪n̷͕̠͔̖̤̥̾̑e̶̙̲͑͊̎͐͒g̸̨̡͖͔̯͙̈́̓͆̀̒͝r̵̮͙̼̰͗̄Ḿ̵̛͇̌̃͋g̶̬̒̔ ̸̼͎͛ō̶̫̜͕̬̠̇̉̈́f̵̢̭͍̮͈̈́̅̍̚ ̸͇͒̋̌͐̾Ì̴̛͖̮͒s̷̡̼̤̺̠̼̅̾͒̋a̵͇̯̼͖̲̍̋̊a̶̫̘̙̞̥̺̓͆͠c̵͍̰͈̎̌͝ ̸͖̐̊̆̐̕a̷̧͈̹̅́̒͘n̴̨̢̛̒͋̓d̴̲̊͊̅́ ̵̝͌͆̒̽͊̑S̷̤̓̂̋̓͜o̵͇͇͒͂r̴̭̻̈́̋̉̈́ḛ̶͎̪̐n̸̪͈̞̒̊͛͝:̸̢̭̩͖͖̫̿ ̴̛̋̄̑̒͜2̵̢̞̖̪̿́5%̶̨́̽͑̋͝ ̶̣͖̱̹̟͜͝◀̸̱̬̮̥̯̱̇͗͐̐̄͘
————「❤︎」————