The ground trembles beneath thousands of boots ours and theirs, all churning the same mud into thick, blood-darkened sludge. To my left, a fellow soldier crumples as an arrow finds his throat; to my right, cavalry crashes through our front lines like a tidal wave of steel and fury.
"Do not falter!" A voice cuts through the roar whether our captain or another lost to chaos, I cannot tell. The words splash cold against my skin, clearing the haze of exhaustion that's clouded my mind since sunrise.
Arrows fill the air like a dark cloud of death against the crimson sky. My muscles burn with every movement; sweat mixes with dirt and blood on my skin. I swing my sword to parry, worn hands gripping the hilt as if it's my anchor to this world. Tired legs drive me forward, cutting down enemies before and behind.
Do not give up.
Today will not be my last day.
A commander moves through the chaos with unexpected grace, beheading an enemy with one clean stroke. Three strides bring him before me, blade aimed at my neck.
I block with all my strength, the impact jolting up my arm. The man pauses his obsidian eyes framed by graying hair scan me from head to toe.
"What a waste," he calls over the clang of steel and screams of the fallen. "You have skill, young man. What is your name?"
"I don't remember," I gasp, shoving back against his weight. "A lowly soldier doesn't deserve a name."
I am only one of many swords serving the king. That's all I've ever been told, all I've ever known.
He twists his wrist in a motion I've never seen. With a sharp crack that rings in my ears, my blade shatters, scattering across the mud like broken teeth.
"What loyalty," he murmurs, lowering his sword a fraction.
Instead of answering, I snatch the broken hilt and swing with my last strength. He doesn't dodge perhaps he sees no threat in a dying man's rage. But before the makeshift weapon can graze his armor, a sharp thump cuts through the din.
An arrow.
I cannot move away. It embeds itself in my chest, just above my heart. The sound of it piercing flesh and bone booms in my ears loud enough, I swear, for every soldier on the field to hear.
Breathing grows hard; each inhale grates like shards of glass against my lungs.
"I am Gilbert Poluz, commander of the Callibean Army," he says, kneeling as I crumple. "I will remember you, brave soldier. You fought valiantly."
My eyes drift toward the capital, where the king's castle rises like a white finger against the darkening horizon. What was it all for? Years of fighting, killing, forgetting who I was…
Ha. What a pitiful life.
One last glance at the battlefield bodies piled like stones in a wall, the Custodian banner still flying despite its torn fabric, the setting sun painting everything in fire and ash. Then I look at the commander's face. Something lingers in his eyes I cannot name… pity? Recognition?
Sight blurs, warm golden light spreading at the edges of my vision. The battle's roar fades to a hum, then to silence.
Finally. I am going to die.
• •• ••• •• •
The light is not what I expected.
I thought death would be cold, silent, empty. Instead, it wraps around me like a soft blanket carrying the scent of jasmine and rain-washed earth. No pain, no exhaustion only a strange sense of floating, pulled toward something warm and bright.
When I open my eyes, I stare at a face I do not recognize. Pale skin, delicate features, eyes the color of a clear morning sky nothing like the rough, scarred visage I'd grown used to seeing in my sword's reflection.
Ten days have passed since I woke like this. Fragments of my last moment press against my mind: arrows singing through the air, my commander's face blurred by smoke, the golden light that swallowed me whole. But no matter how hard I reach, I cannot recall my own name or what I looked like before. All I know for certain is that this body, and the lavish room that holds me, belong to a kingdom I once called enemy.
From the servants who tend to me, I've learned the truth: this is Vernom third prince of Callibean, son of the king's third concubine. So far from the line of succession that he's barely acknowledged as royalty. Weak, timid, with little influence or power. I'd heard whispers of him as a soldier they said he spent more time in royal gardens than court, more with books than blades.
I don't understand why I wake in his skin. Did we die at the same instant he taking his last breath as I fell on the battlefield? The thought settles heavy in my chest, a burden I never asked to carry.
"What are we going to do now?" I murmur to the mirror, where Prince Vernom stares back eyes wide with an uncertainty that feels both foreign and deeply familiar.
I pause, then speak aloud, my voice still adjusting to its new softness:
"Naturally. We live."
Away from battlefields. Away from the endless cycle of fighting and dying that consumed my past life. I don't know your story, Prince Vernom why you left this world so soon. But whatever path you walked, let's forge a new one now. Let's survive. Let's live without laying down our life for anyone else.
But the question claws at me, sharp and unyielding: As a sinner who took countless souls do I deserve this second life? Is this chance meant for atonement? Can the blood I spilled ever be washed clean? Are my sins redeemable enough?