When he awoke, the first thing he saw was light—soft and filtered, pouring through a white canopy overhead. For a while, he could not tell if it was morning or merely the end of a dream. His mind felt like a room filled with fog: there were shapes inside, half-seen, but when he tried to reach for them, they slipped away.
He lay still, staring at the canopy. His body felt strange. Lighter. Smaller. Not the aching, heavy vessel he remembered sinking into before he closed his eyes.
Hadn't he been lying down… somewhere? A floor, perhaps. A cheap bed? He could remember the roughness of the blanket, the dim glow of a lamp flickering weakly above. He had been thinking about nothing at all—that special kind of nothing that comes only when despair has settled in so deep it feels like calm.
There had been a voice. He was sure of that. Low, indistinct, neither kind nor cruel. It had asked him something. A question. And he—what had he said? He'd agreed, yes. He remembered agreeing.
Then—darkness.
Now, this.
He sat up slowly. The sheets were smooth, the air fragrant with something floral. He blinked as his vision adjusted. The room was too large, too ornate to be his. Sunlight spilled through tall windows framed by pale curtains. Every surface gleamed. The scent of polished wood mingled with incense and the faint sweetness of spring.
He swung his legs off the bed. His feet touched carpet instead of cold tile. When he looked down, his hands startled him—they were small, the fingers uncalloused, the nails neat. A child's hands.
A quiet panic began to rise.
He crossed the room to a mirror hung between two golden sconces. A child stared back at him: black hair falling to his jaw, skin smooth, eyes sharp but still bright with youth. Eight years old, maybe nine. His reflection's lips trembled as he whispered, "Who…?"
A knock interrupted him.
The door opened before he could answer. A servant stepped in, his posture precise, his eyes kind. He held a tray of bread and milk.
"You're awake, young master Akihito," he said, voice careful and melodic. "How fortunate. The Duke will be pleased."
Akihito. The name landed in his mind like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spread outward. That's me?
He wanted to tell her she was mistaken, that he wasn't who she thought he was—but the name felt familiar, as though it belonged to him more naturally than any other.
The servant smiled. "Your breakfast, young master." he placed the tray on the table beside him. Steam curled from the bread.
He hesitated, then reached for it. The first bite was too warm, too soft. Butter and sweetness flooded his tongue. He hadn't tasted something like this in… how long? Years? Centuries? He couldn't tell. Tears pricked his eyes, unbidden.
"Is something wrong, young master?"
He shook his head quickly and forced a smile. "It's nothing."
The butler bowed again. "Your father requests your presence in the great hall once you've eaten."
When he left, silence crept back into the room. Akihito took another bite, slower this time. The bread grounded him, anchoring him to the moment. But the taste also hurt—a quiet ache that whispered of hunger beyond the body.
The corridors of the mansion were filled with mirrors and marble. Servants bowed as he passed. They moved with the kind of grace born from long practice, like dancers in an endless performance. He had never been bowed to before. The gesture made him uneasy.
The great hall's doors were open. Inside, a figure stood beside a window, tall and broad-shouldered, his back straight as a blade. His hair was black streaked with silver. He turned when Akihito entered.
The Duke's gaze was sharp enough to cut. "You kept me waiting."
Akihito lowered his head instinctively, though he wasn't sure why. The figure's presence demanded obedience the way gravity demanded falling.
"You are my son," the Duke said, crossing the room with measured steps. "You will act as one. The Emeritus line is the empire's backbone. You will learn what that means."
"Yes… Father," Akihito murmured. The word tasted foreign.
The Duke studied him for a moment, then gestured toward the desk beside him. "Your tutors will resume lessons today. Do not waste them."
Akihito's eyes drifted to the desk. Amid stacks of parchment lay a single gray book, its leather cover cracked and unmarked. No title. The Duke's hand rested on it, protective.
"What's that?" Akihito asked before he could stop himself.
The Duke's eyes flickered. "A record," he said curtly. "One you are not yet ready to read." He closed the book and slid it into a drawer. "Curiosity is dangerous, my son. Remember that."
There was something final in his tone.
Akihito bowed his head again and was dismissed.
The day unfolded like a slow painting. He was shown the gardens, where pale flowers drifted over ponds like lost spirits. The air shimmered with quiet wealth: trimmed hedges, marble statues, fountains whispering to themselves. Tutors arrived, each with the solemn patience of scholars too proud to show irritation. They taught him about the empire—its sprawling noble houses, its laws, its silent wars.
The name Serathis struck him oddly. It tugged at something half-remembered, like a song he'd once hummed as a child in another life. But whenever he tried to dig deeper, his mind blurred again. He remembered only fragments—a lover's laughter, two kids running through a small apartment, the smell of ink and cigarettes. And pain. So much pain it filled every gap between memories.
He pressed his fingers to his temples.
"Are you unwell, young master?" one tutor asked.
He forced a smile. "Just tired."
Tired felt like an understatement.
By evening, he had seen enough grandeur to last a lifetime. Dinner was a ritual of precision: silver plates, crystal glasses, quiet servants standing like shadows along the walls. Across the table, his father ate in silence. Beside him sat a child—a few years older than Akihito—with long black hair and eyes that shimmered like moonlit ink.
"This is your sister, Yume," the Duke said without looking up.
Yume inclined her head politely. "Welcome back, brother. You've been asleep for three days."
He blinked. "Three… days?"
Her smile was faint, distant. "You had a fever. The doctor said it was exhaustion. Perhaps you dreamed too deeply."
He wanted to ask her what kind of person he had been before waking. What memories she carried of him. But the words caught in his throat. He wasn't ready to hear the answer.
Night descended quietly. After dinner, he wandered to the balcony outside his room. The air was cool, fragrant with damp earth. Below, the gardens stretched into mist.
Mist. It gathered thickly between the hedges, rolling like a living tide. In the moonlight, it seemed almost silver. He leaned on the railing, watching it creep closer, swallowing the stone paths.
And then, something moved within it.
A shape, faint and tall, standing still at the edge of the courtyard. It was not a servant. Not human. A shadow given form—faceless, unmoving, yet somehow watching him.
His breath caught.
He blinked, and the shape dissolved into fog.
He told himself it was a trick of light. He almost believed it. But when he turned to go back inside, he saw something on his bed that hadn't been there before: a small gray book, identical to the one his father had hidden.
No title.
He picked it up. The cover was cool to the touch, like stone. When he opened it, his own breath faltered.
The first page held an illustration—a child standing on a balcony, gazing into a courtyard filled with mist.
Below it, in elegant script, a single line of text:
"When the figure calls, the mist will follow."
He turned the page. The second was blank. The third, too. Then, faintly, new words began to appear, as though written by invisible ink slowly revealing itself:
"Welcome back, Akihito."
His hands shook. The letters bled and vanished again, leaving the page white and empty.
Sleep refused to come that night. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling's painted constellations. Each silver star seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive. His mind drifted back to the voice he'd heard before awakening. What had it said? Something about a bargain. A second chance.
Had he agreed to this? To be reborn? To lose his past?
He couldn't remember the terms, only the echo of his own acceptance.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the darkness, "Who are you?"
For a long moment, the world was silent. Then a faint sound rose from beyond the window—a low hum, like wind threading through hollow reeds. It formed a rhythm almost like breathing. Or whispering.
When he looked again, the mist outside had risen higher, pressing against the glass.
And deep within it, something moved once more.
In the days to come, he would learn that the mist never truly left Serathis. It came with dusk and lingered until dawn, a constant veil between the living and the forgotten. The people whispered of it as if it were an old friend, or perhaps an old god.
But that first night, as he lay in his borrowed life, clutching a nameless book and listening to the slow sigh of fog against glass, Akihito understood only one thing:
He had died once. He had agreed to something he could no longer recall. And now, in this land of beauty and ghosts, he had been written into a story that was not entirely his own.
TO BE CONTINUED...