The whistle screamed across the field, but Asher Reed didn't flinch. His eyes scanned the horizon, calculating every movement, every shadow. Dust and smoke stung his eyes, but he ignored it. Survival didn't come with excuses.
"Left flank!" he barked, pointing. His squad moved without hesitation, precision drilled into them like steel. Arrows whistled past, and he ducked instinctively, rolling behind a boulder. Every decision was immediate, every action deliberate.
Always anticipate. Always act. Never hesitate.
He counted. One, two, three—enemy archers on the ridge. His heart didn't race. Discipline wasn't just habit—it was instinct.
A sudden explosion shook the ground. He dove instinctively, rolling to avoid the shockwave. His ears rang, a high-pitched scream drowning out every other sound. Another flash—an enemy charge, closer than expected.
"Hold the line!" he shouted, but the battlefield around him began to distort. The wind turned icy and then… warm. The shouts and screams melted into a deafening ringing in his ears.
Pain. Blinding, relentless, pulsing pain.
Asher dropped to one knee, clutching his head. "What the—"
A flash of light. Everything went white.
Then silence.
Absolute silence.
He opened his eyes.
And froze.
Above him was a pink ceiling. The room smelled overwhelmingly of perfume, soft and floral, and silk brushed against his skin. He tried to lift his hands—and they felt impossibly light, delicate, not his own. Panic clawed at his chest.
Then it hit him. A flood of foreign memories, intense and disorienting, crashed into his mind all at once. His head spun. His vision blurred. He staggered backward, tripping over the bed, heart hammering. A strangled shout escaped him, trembling in terror.
"What… is happening?!"
As he tried to compose himself, he was still rubbing his head from the pain, assessing his surroundings. That's when he noticed the room was blinding—everything was so colorful and shining. His eyes fell on his reflection, and they widened in shock.
"Who the fuck is this?!"
He bolted toward the nearest door, flinging it open, and nearly collided with a wall. The palace corridors were blindingly bright, every surface polished and shining. He darted down the hall, eyes scanning for any reflective surface.
And there —a mirror.
He froze.
The face staring back at him was… impossibly delicate. Long, silky hair framed wide, pale eyes that reflected pure shock. His jaw clenched, lips impossibly soft, hands small and fragile. The soldier in him wanted to analyze, adapt, and regain control—but all he could do was stare.
"Who the fuck is this?!" he shouted, the sound shrill and higher than his own ears could believe.
And then it hit him. Memories—foreign, overwhelming, chaotic—flooded into his mind again, more intense than before. The room seemed to tilt as flashes of someone else's life—someone scandalous, someone dramatic—poured into his consciousness. His knees buckled, and he pressed both hands against the sink, letting out a strangled, panicked scream that echoed off the marble walls.
I… I can't… I can't handle this…
The soldier in him fought to reassert control, taking a shaky, measured breath. Stay alert. Assess. Survive.
But the body, the memories, the reflection in the mirror—they were all screaming at him in unison.
And he had no idea who he even was anymore.