I have memorized every crack in the ceiling above my bed.
The largest one snaked from the corner like a river going nowhere. A water stain beside it looked like a continent i had never seen. I traced them with my eyes, my body pressed into the cheap mattress like it was trying to become part of the springs and foam.
The room smelled like dust and defeat, drifting in memory,
*"A business? Don't be ridiculous."*
His father's voice still echoed in his head—flat, final, like a judge's gavel slamming down on his future.
*"You'll ruin your life. You'll drown in debt. Stop these foolish dreams."*
*"Just focus on your studies,"* his mother added, her worry wrapped in steel. *"Get a part-time job if you need money. Something simple. Don't complicate things."*
Simple. Safe. Colorless.
That was all they wanted from him. He had shown them a real plan—detailed projections, loan applications that wouldn't cost them a single penny—and they swatted it away like an annoying fly. Dreams were distractions. Ambition was a disease to be cured with obedience.
Why was I even born into this family?
The question wasn't new. It had bled him so many times the wound never closed anymore, just kept seeping. They built his entire life around their fears. No school trips because they were "a waste of study time." No sports because he might get injured. No friends because other kids were "bad influences."
Hah! I became exactly what they wanted to create—awkward, quiet, invisible. An introvert by design, not by choice.
And then there was her.
The memory cut deeper than all the rest. Long black hair that caught sunlight like raven feathers. Eyes so clear and kind he felt unworthy just looking into them. We passed each other on the street last month, right before graduation scattered everyone like leaves in the wind.
My heart had tried to beat out of my chest. My throat had been closed. My tongue had turned to lead.
I couldn't utter a word. Couldn't even hold her gaze for more than a second before looking away like the coward I was. And just like that, she was gone—taking the only color my grey world had ever known.
A hot tear slid from the corner of his eye, burning a trail down his temple before disappearing into the pillowcase. Then another. He didn't sob. The misery was too deep for sound, a silent ocean of self-disgust.
*My life isn't a life. It's just waiting. Waiting for nothing.*
The ceiling blurred. The weight on my chest—shame, rage, powerlessness—pressed down until I couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes and let the grey swallow me whole.
***
When my consciousness returned, I felt something was wrong.
The first thing I noticed was softness. Impossible, enveloping softness beneath me. This was not my bed .The smell was wrong too—old books, polished wood, and something floral instead of dust and stale air.
I opened my eyes.
A burgundy velvet canopy hung above me, embroidered with silver stars in constellations I didn't recognize. I turned my head slowly. The room was massive, bathed in pale dawn light filtering through tall, lead-paned windows. Dark oak panels covered the walls between tapestries showing armored warriors fighting dragons and other monsters. A marble fireplace sat cold and clean against one wall. The furniture looked like it belonged in a museum—a writing desk covered in brass instruments I had never seen before, a high-backed leather chair that had to be centuries old, a wardrobe that looked ready to eat him.
*Another dream, heh! * I thought bitterly. *Another fantasy to escape reality. Pathetic.*
I tried to close my eyes again. As I moved, white-hot pain exploded through my skull.
"Ah—!"
grabbing my head, fingers digging into the scalp. This wasn't a headache. This was an invasion. Memories that weren't mine crashed into my mind like a flood:
*A stern man with cold brown eyes: "Aurelian, blood tells. Do not disappoint the name."*
Cold energy coiling in his chest, then shooting from his fingertips as shards of ice.*
*The weight of a sword in his hand, its blade etched with glowing runes.*
*A name: Aurelian of House Blackwater.*
He pushed himself up on his elbows. The fabric of his nightshirt—silk, expensive—slid against the skin like water.
The pain crested like a wave, then vanished as suddenly as it came.—*Aurelian*—sat there panting, sweat beading on his forehead, two lifetimes tangled in his head.
Slowly, he swung his legs out of bed. His feet touched soft fur instead of synthetic carpet. He stood. His body felt wrong—taller, leaner, humming with strength he'd never had. He walked to the window, each step silent on the thick rug.
He pushed the window open. Cold, clean air rushed in, carrying pine and lake water. The view was exactly what the foreign memories had shown him. The lake mirrored the twin moons, still faint in the brightening sky. Strange birds with long, iridescent tails wheeled silently above the trees.
Beautiful. Impossible. Real.
I stared at the alien landscape.The crushing weight of my old life—none of it had disappeared. It was still there, a dark frozen core in this new chest. But now it was wrapped in something even greater.
Despair , sorrow and the inevitably of fate.
The boy who cried under a grey ceiling was still there , in the pain of transformation. What enveloped him was something worse—his bitter regrets and cowardice fused with Aurelian's cold persona.
A smile touched his lips. Not warm. Not hopeful.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and steady, resonating in the quiet nobility of the room. He spoke not to himself but to the two-mooned sky, his eyes—once soft and defeated—now holding something hard and unforgiving.
"So even after transformation the shackles remain the same. "
The words carried only remorse.