The last thing Connor Throne remembered was the screech of tires, the blinding flash of headlights, and then… nothing. A soft, velvet nothing that tasted like regret and cheap coffee. He had been thinking, in that final stupid heartbeat, how unfair it was to die at twenty-eight without ever really figuring out what love was supposed to feel like. Not the movie kind. The real, messy, terrifying kind.
Then the darkness cracked open like an eggshell.
Light poured in, not warm, not kind, but cold and glittering, the color of moonlight trapped inside a bottle of absinthe. A woman's voice wrapped around him, smooth as silk, dangerous as a promise.
"You died, Connor Throne. But death is only boring if you let it be."
He tried to speak. His throat didn't work. His body didn't feel like his.
She laughed, low and musical. "Don't panic. Panic is for people who still have something to lose. You? You have everything to gain."
A figure shimmered into view: tall, radiant, crowned with living rose vines that bloomed and withered in the same breath. Her eyes were the color of fresh heartbreak.
"I am the Goddess of Love. And I have a job for you."
Before he could scream that he was the least romantic person on the planet, she continued.
"Thirty realms. Thirty loves. Thirty chances to prove that even the coldest heart can burn. Succeed, and I will give you a new life. A real one. Fail…" Her smile turned wicked. "…and the void keeps you. Forever."
A tiny spark appeared beside her head. No bigger than a firefly, but shaped like a boy with translucent wings the color of flushed cheeks. He hovered, arms crossed, smirking like he'd already won a bet against the universe.
"This is Eros," the Goddess said. "Your guide. Your conscience. Your very patient babysitter."
Eros rolled his eyes so dramatically that tiny golden hearts fluttered off his lashes. "I'm the fun one. She's the scary one. We're a package deal."
Connor finally found his voice. It came out hoarse, cracked, terrified. "I don't even believe in love."
The Goddess leaned close. Her breath smelled like summer rain and stolen kisses. "Perfect. Then you have nothing to lose."
She pressed one glowing fingertip to his forehead.
And everything exploded into color and stone and cold, dripping darkness.
Connor woke up screaming inside someone else's skin.
His hands—someone else's hands—were smaller, calloused, quick. They were already moving, slipping a thin black blade between the teeth of an ancient lock. Click. The chest popped open like a surprised gasp. Inside: a dagger that drank light instead of reflecting it.
He blinked. The world swam into focus.
Cavern. Huge. Ceiling lost in shadow. Walls veined with glowing blue-green fungi that pulsed like slow heartbeats. The air tasted of wet stone, iron, and something faintly sweet, like rotting orchids.
He looked down at himself. Black leather armor hugged a lean, wiry frame. Dark hair fell into his eyes—longer than his had ever been. A mirror of polished obsidian on the cavern wall showed him a stranger: sharp cheekbones, emerald eyes that looked too knowing for the face they lived in, a mouth made for smirking and lying.
Caelan Shade, the name floated up like a memory that wasn't his. Rogue. Thief. Member of the Veil Thieves. Currently stealing from a very angry dungeon.
Panic clawed up his throat, but before it could escape, a voice purred directly into his skull.
"Easy, handsome. First rule of transmigration: don't die in the first five minutes. Makes me look bad."
Eros.
The tiny winged menace materialized in front of him, hovering upside-down, wings buzzing lazily. Up close he was even more ridiculous: delicate features, mischievous golden eyes, a tiny leather harness across his bare chest that held exactly one arrow made of light.
"Welcome to Eldoria," Eros said, spinning in a lazy circle. "Land of dungeons, wyrmbeasts, very grumpy warriors, and one very important mission."
Caelan—no, Connor—whispered, "Mission?"
Eros grinned, showing perfect, wicked little teeth. "Turn the blade of your sworn enemy into a caress of passion. Or, you know, fade into nothing. Your choice. Personally, I vote for the kissing part. Way more entertaining."
Connor felt something inside him flicker: not warmth, not yet. Just the tiniest spark of curiosity. Dangerous curiosity.
He closed the chest, slipped the dagger into a hidden sheath at his lower back, and stood.
The cavern stretched before him like an open wound. Somewhere in the distance, a low, metallic clang echoed—boots on stone. Patrol. Ironclad Order, his new memories supplied. Honor-bound. Ruthless. Led by a captain named Thorne Ironfist, who apparently never smiled and never forgave.
Connor's pulse kicked hard against unfamiliar ribs.
Eros floated closer, voice dropping to a delighted whisper. "That's him, by the way. The one you're supposed to seduce. Towering, broody, built like a siege engine, and currently walking this way with a sword bigger than your ego."
Connor swallowed. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Darling," Eros purred, "I'm the God of Love's favorite problem child. Enjoying it is literally my job description."
He flicked one glowing wing toward the tunnel ahead.
"Run, fight, flirt, or die. Your call. But do it fast. The clock is already ticking, and your Love Points? Currently sitting at a very chilly zero."
Connor—Caelan—took one breath. Then another.
Then he moved.
Shadows swallowed him like old friends.
Somewhere deeper in the dungeon, a broadsword scraped free of its sheath.
And the game began.