Cedric. I knew the name.
My hand stopped above the blanket while the attendant placed his tray on the bedside table. A thin stream of water struck the bottom of the cup.
No. Plenty of people were called Cedric. Probably.
I accepted the cup. Cool porcelain touched my palm. Water caught against my dry throat, and I coughed after the first mouthful.
The attendant stepped forward.
I lifted a hand before he reached me.
"Wait."
He stopped so quickly I looked up. Both hands hung at his sides. His eyes remained fixed on the cup. Waiting for permission to help, apparently, but with the expression of someone expecting to be blamed for whatever happened next.
I took another drink, slower this time. It tasted like water. Cold water from an expensive cup in a room I had never entered.
That narrowed the possibilities considerably.
I set it down.
"How long?"
"Since you returned to your rooms, young master?"
I gave a small nod.
"Since last night."
"And before then?"
The attendant hesitated.
I didn't know what he expected me to remember. Asking for every detail would only draw attention to that.
"Never mind."
His shoulders lowered a little.
I watched him straighten the cloth beside the pitcher. It had been straight already.
"You were here last night?"
"Not in attendance, young master. I took over this morning."
That explained the tray. It didn't explain his face when he'd found me awake.
"Was I expected to sleep longer?"
He pressed his lips together, choosing an answer.
"We were told not to disturb you."
Someone had given an instruction. He was trying to follow it, and I was asking questions that might force him to admit he hadn't.
I knew that feeling. A manager asking why a delivery was late when he'd personally sent the driver somewhere else.
Except I was on the wrong side of the conversation.
"You didn't wake me," I said.
He looked at me, then lowered his gaze again.
"Yes, young master."
I hadn't intended that as an order. Apparently, it sounded close enough.
I took another drink and gave him something to do by handing the cup back. He refilled it carefully, watching the water instead of my face.
I examined the room again, taking my time.
Dark wood. Silver fittings. Violet cloth at the windows. A round black design worked into the fireplace mantel.
Recognition pulled at me, faint and unpleasant.
Where had I seen that design?
"The physician asked to be informed when you woke," the attendant said.
I looked back at him.
A physician. Good. A doctor would be useful. Someone who might explain the missing scar, the room, the pain beneath my ribs and why my voice sounded like a stranger's.
I opened my mouth to agree. Then I noticed how carefully he was watching me.
If this was a hospital, why did he look afraid to summon the doctor?
"Was there an instruction?"
"Only to notify the household office. Your father will receive the report."
My father.
I hadn't spoken to my father in months. Certainly not about a room with enough space for a small restaurant.
The attendant mistook my silence for something else.
"I haven't sent word yet, young master. I came directly from the kitchens."
"Then finish here first."
"Yes, young master."
I put my feet on the floor. The carpet sank beneath my toes. My legs were longer than they should have been. Not by much, but enough to make sitting on the edge of the bed feel unfamiliar.
I stood.
Pain tightened inside my chest. I caught the bedpost and waited until the room stopped shifting.
The attendant made a small movement toward me, then remembered the raised hand and stopped.
For some reason, that annoyed me.
I didn't need him to hover. I also didn't particularly want to fall on my face while he watched from a respectful distance.
"The chair," I said.
He moved it nearer.
I sat before my legs decided the matter for me. Across the room, a tall mirror stood beside the wardrobe.
I could see part of a shoulder in it. Black hair. A pale strip of cheek.
My fingers tightened on the chair.
"Leave me."
"The report..."
"After I have dressed."
The words came out flat. Not loud. I hadn't needed to raise my voice.
The attendant bowed.
"As you wish."
He left the water within reach and withdrew. The door closed with almost no sound.
I waited until his footsteps faded. Then I got up and crossed to the mirror.
A stranger stared back at me.
Black hair fell over a narrow forehead. Pale violet eyes sat beneath straight brows, cold-looking even while I stared in disbelief. His face was younger than mine, with cleaner skin and none of the tired softness around my jaw.
Handsome. Annoyingly handsome, under the circumstances.
I raised my left hand. The stranger raised his.
I touched my cheek. Warm skin. A small rough patch where the pillow had pressed against it. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, then let go.
The face returned to its natural expression.
I knew that face too. Cedric Valdrake Arkhen.
I had watched Aiden drive a sword through him. Watched Liora defeat him. Watched his body carried out of a ruined corridor in a route where he'd never even reached the final battle.
The game liked killing Cedric.
Knowing the face hadn't made it any easier to look at.
"No."
His mouth moved.
I stepped back and nearly caught my heel on the carpet.
Dream. Hallucination. Some effect of whatever happened at the desk.
Any of those would have been better than the explanation waiting for me in the mirror.
I pinched the inside of my arm. Pain. Useful. Apparently, my very important first test had established that pinching hurt.
I checked the window next. No painted background. Wind moved the leaves outside. Far below, two men were carrying a long wooden box across a gravel path. One adjusted his grip, said something I couldn't hear and waited for the other to lift his end.
Beyond the garden stood a wall, and beyond that, fields.
No traffic. No neighboring apartment block.
I pressed a fingertip against the window latch. Cold metal. A small scratch caught beneath my nail.
I remembered the Valdrake estate from a handful of scenes. A gate. A courtyard. The Duke's study. None of the routes let the player spend a pleasant morning exploring Cedric's bedroom.
If this was a dream, it was putting an irritating amount of effort into things I had never seen.
A small stone lamp stood on the dressing table. Its pale center glowed despite the sunlight.
I leaned closer. No wire. No visible flame. Three fine lines ran beneath the stone, meeting near the base.
An Aether lamp.
I reached toward it and stopped.
If this was Cedric's body, it should possess Aether. A lot of it. Cedric was one of the strongest students at the academy when the game began.
I closed my eyes.
For a few seconds, I felt nothing except my own awkward breathing.
Then something shifted beneath my ribs.
Cold.
I concentrated on it.
The feeling moved up my chest, thin and uneven. My right hand tingled. I tried to guide it toward my fingers, following an instinct I couldn't have explained.
Pain tore through my side.
I doubled over and caught the edge of the table.
The lamp rattled.
"Shit."
I tried to let go of whatever I'd reached for. My fingers locked against the wood. Cold spread farther, then snapped back into my chest with enough force to make my knees buckle.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
Footsteps hurried toward the door.
"Young master?"
I forced air through my teeth.
"Don't enter."
The handle stopped moving.
I lowered myself into the chair and pressed a hand against my ribs. Sweat cooled along my neck.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
Cedric's opening attacks cut through defensive magic. I'd spent hours learning how to survive them. Whatever I had done to myself, it hadn't even made the lamp flicker.
"Young master?"
Same voice. Same worry.
I looked down at the dressing table. A few drops of water had spilled from a small washing bowl when I struck it.
"A cloth," I said. "Leave it by the door."
A pause followed.
"Yes, young master."
I waited until I could stand without shaking. Then I fetched the cloth and wiped the water away.
Cleaning my own mess felt absurdly reassuring.
At least I still knew how to do something.
The cold beneath my ribs had settled into a dull ache. I didn't touch it again. On the wardrobe door, the black circular crest repeated the design above the fireplace.
House Valdrake.
No reasonable alternative was volunteering itself.
I was wearing the face of a man the game killed over and over, inside a house I barely knew, with power that hurt when I tried to use it.
And someone was about to tell his father I was awake.
I went back to the bed for the water.
Something pale appeared above the cup.
I stopped.
A thin line hung in the air. Then a second. Letters formed between them, perfectly still as my hand trembled underneath.
[ THE VILLAIN'S LEDGER ]
I stared at the title.
"You weren't in the game."