Arjun tried to avoid sleep.
He drank coffee until his stomach churned. He walked circles around his dorm courtyard under the thin glow of streetlamps. He even blasted music through headphones, forcing himself to stay awake with pounding beats.
But exhaustion is a tide, and it will have its pull.
When his eyes finally closed, the world folded once more.
The air was hot, metallic. Smoke curled into the twilight sky. Arjun found himself in a courtyard lined with prisoners.
They were gaunt, dirt-streaked, kneeling with hands bound behind their backs. Soldiers stood guard, spears glinting.
At the center, a council of officers turned toward him.
"Archmage," one said — a woman with half her hair singed away, her armor battered but her eyes fierce. "The traitors have been captured. The general asks for your judgment."
Arjun's pulse jumped. Judgment? My judgment?
He stepped forward. The staff in his hand thrummed, almost as if urging him. The prisoners' eyes lifted, hollow and pleading.
His thoughts tangled. I'm not Arathen. I can't do this. I don't even know their crime.
But then Arathen's memories rose unbidden, pressing against his own. He knew — somehow — that these were collaborators who had guided enemy scouts through a secret pass. Dozens of soldiers had died in the ambush.
Arjun's throat dried. The council waited.
"What is your decree?" the officer asked.
The staff pulsed again. Words crowded at the back of his throat, heavy with authority. All he had to do was let them out.
But Arjun's real voice — his, not Arathen's — screamed inside: You can't. They're people. This isn't you.
He forced a breath. "Imprison them. Secure the pass. But no executions."
A murmur rippled through the council. Some nodded approval. Others frowned.
The officer bowed stiffly. "As you wish, Archmage."
Arjun exhaled. Relief coursed through him. I held on. I chose. That was me.
But when he glanced at the prisoners again, their eyes met his — and he felt something colder. A flicker of memory that wasn't his: Arathen, delivering executions before without hesitation, believing it necessary.
And worse: the faintest whisper in his head, not his thought but Arathen's, disapproving.
Mercy is weakness.
When Arjun snapped back into his own world, dawn light was seeping into the dorm window. He stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.
His own reflection looked… thinner. Faded.
For a heartbeat, the face staring back wasn't his at all. It was Arathen's. The sharp eyes. The high cheekbones. The silvered hair.
Arjun recoiled, slamming the light switch on. The image was gone. Just him again.
But his hands still tingled with magic. And deep inside, a gnawing dread whispered: What if the more I choose, the less of me remains?
He went to class that morning, sat in the back, tried to take notes. But when the professor called his name, he answered without thinking.
Not Arjun.
"Here," he said, before he could stop himself. "Arathen."
The whole room turned. Heat flared in his cheeks. He stammered, corrected himself, tried to laugh it off.
But his friend leaned close after class, frowning."Hey… are you okay? You've seemed… different lately."
Different.
Yes. That was the problem.
That night, Arjun lay awake again. But this time, when sleep came, he didn't resist.
He was already wondering which self he'd wake as.