A body lay still in the dim room suddenly jolted upright.
The man gasped for air, his chest rising and falling in frantic heaves, as though he'd just clawed his way out of drowning. Sweat slicked his skin, his eyes wide, darting in panic.
"Am I... dead?" he murmured, his hand flying to his throbbing head.
He reached instinctively for his pocket. Empty. No coin. Of course.
Dead? Is this death? Impossible. It feels too real.
The weight of a thin, itchy blanket over his legs. The creak of old wooden floorboards beneath the bed. Sunlight filtering through a small, cracked window, illuminating motes of dust in the air.
He sat up abruptly, blinking against the haze of confusion.
"If this is afterlife, it needs some serious renovations."
His eyes scanned the room, taking in the sparse furnishings: a single bed with a thin mattress, a simple wooden table, and bare walls with a rusted candle holder.
Everything screamed "poor."
Small. Dirty. No luxury. Damn it. Not even a proper mattress. What kind of afterlife is this?
He spoke in a low voice, almost disbelieving. "Did I really get a second chance?"
A flicker of hope lit his eyes—only to be crushed a breath later by a scowl.
Wait. No. This doesn't feel right. What's the point of a second chance if I'm stuck in the gutter?
Why here? Why this? There's no way... No way I'm going to waste another life in this… this.
With a sigh, he dragged a hand down his face and pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled, just for a moment, then steadied himself.
Focus. No time for weakness. I'm alive again. At least... that's something.
But Who am I? What's left of me now? I'll have to figure it out.
As if the question had summoned it, a sudden, blinding pain stabbed through his skull.
Ugh! What—? What now? His body jerked, a strangled groan escaping his throat as he collapsed onto the bed.
Hands clutching his temples—No! This can't be happening...
Images. Flashing. Flickering. Not his own memories, but they felt real. "What are these?"
Gasping for air, sweat dampened his hair. The pain… subsiding. Finally.
"…Sylas Mortis," he whispered, voice rough.
Sylas Mortis? Why does it feel like...
The name lingered on his tongue—familiar. But also, foreign.
My name's still Sylas... But now... I have a last name.
With a strained effort, he pushed himself upright and staggered toward the window.
Sylas glimpsed his reflection in the cracked glass—piercing red eyes, sharp cheekbones, a face that could pass for royalty… or something far more dangerous.
A face meant to rule… or ruin.
A slow grin tugged at his lips.
I can already feel the heirs begging for my autograph.
The thought lingered in his mind, laced with irony. He had already expected their desperation, their scrambling for favor.
Typical.
Ambitious, yet skillless.
A single signature, and they'll bow. Fawn. Beg.
How amusing.
His eyes shifted to the view outside, the scene unfolding.
A thick fog clung to the air, swallowing the dark expanse of the forest.
Amidst the mist, a small, fragile figure stepped into the woods—the child's movements unnatural, like a puppet.
Sylas watched, a cold weight pressing into his chest.
The child moved like a marionette on invisible strings, each step slow and wrong.
Not normal.
Not alive.
Something's inside it.
Knock, knock
A sudden knock crashed against the door—sharp, urgent, off—tearing him from his thoughts in an instant.
Sylas stiffened, instincts flaring. His gaze snapped from the window to the door, and his hand twitched instinctively, reaching for a weapon he no longer carried.
Another knock, slower this time, like knuckles tapping bone.
Should I open it?
The question whispered in his mind, quiet but unshakable.
His thoughts swirled, memories rising and fading like smoke. Did he owe someone? Had he wronged anyone?
No. None he could think of. And even if he had… he'd faced worse.
He drew a slow breath. Fingers brushed the door, palm pressing flat against the aged wood.
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
Then, with a reluctant groan that echoed like a warning, the door creaked open.
Sylas blinked. His eyes fixed on the figure standing in the threshold.
A knight. Light armor polished but worn, sword at his side. The hilt—scuffed, marked by countless battles.
A silver hawk beneath a crescent moon adorned his cloak... the emblem of the old kingdom.
Sylas's gaze sharpened, cold and unreadable.
The knight bowed deeply at the sight of him. "Young master," he said, voice thick with respect.
Still calling him that? Damn my tongue…
Was it genuine... or just performance?
Memories stirred—fleeting, fractured ghosts of a past life.
The knight held a weathered leather pouch in one hand, the other grasping a sealed envelope, its wax insignia unbroken and unmistakable in its significance.
A letter... and something more. Sylas's gaze flicked between the two items, his mind racing. This wasn't just a delivery. It was a message. A test. Or perhaps, a trap.
With a casual wave, he stepped aside. "Come in," he said, his voice cold yet inviting. Let's see what this messenger carries.
The knight entered without a word, his boots creaking softly against the weathered floorboards. Sylas followed, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, locking them in the room together.
The knight turned without a word. His steps were firm, deliberate.
With a steady hand, he extended both the pouch and the envelope.
Not once did his gaze rise to meet mine.
Loyal—yes. That much was clear.
But beneath the armor, I could smell the hesitation.
He was wary. And rightly so.
"On the orders of Queen Alicia Mortis, I have been entrusted to deliver these to you."
Renald's fingers twitched. A crack in the mask.
Loyalty is absolute. Disgust is irrelevant.
Still, handing anything to this man... Sylas Mortis—felt like feeding poison to the wind and expecting it not to return.
Sylas took the pouch, feeling the unmistakable weight of coins shift within. Loosening the drawstring, a glint of gold flashed in the light—one hundred coins. And a letter, sealed with the queen's crest. Is this... guilt?
With a steady hand, he unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the words as they began to settle in his mind.
My dearest Sylas,
I cannot bear the thought that you might believe even for a moment that I see you as guilty for what happened to Evan. I know you, my son. And in my heart, I sense something far darker at work. But I won't let it drag you down.
I've already begun speaking with your father. It won't be easy, but I'll convince him to lift the exile. Just hold on a little longer, alright?
I've sent 100 gold coins with Sir Renald, he rides under the hawk-and-moon banner. Watch for him. Use the coins to stay safe. Please, my love.
Whatever they say, you are still my son. I will not let them break you. I will not let them steal what's rightfully yours.
With all my love,
—Mother
~~~~~~
He read the letter again, this time more slowly.
When he finally lifted his gaze, his expression remained unreadable—neither grateful nor bitter, but simply… composed.
Sir Renald stood motionless, his posture rigid and unyielding, hands clasped behind his back as he waited in complete silence. He's calm. Too calm. Not the same reckless boy from the palace.
Sylas's voice was smooth, laced with a hint of charm. "Your loyalty does not go unnoticed."
Flatter them. Let them feel important. Even pawns like to believe they're kings.
Renald blinked in surprise, then quickly composed himself, giving a slight nod. His expression remained steady, though his voice betrayed a hint of surprise. "The Queen places her trust in me."
Sylas paused for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly as he caught the shift in Renald's demeanor. There was a fleeting flicker of something unspoken in the air between them.
"Of course she does," Sylas replied, his tone a delicate blend of warmth and something far colder. "She's always had a knack for reading people."
He approached the table and placed the pouch down with deliberate care, as though handling something delicate and irreplaceable.
Without glancing at Renald, Sylas's voice cut through cold and sharp.
"Tell me something, Sir Renald. Do you think a hundred coins is enough to keep someone alive in a place like this?"
A brief pause lingered, the knight remaining silent, his expression unreadable.
He won't answer. Not because he doesn't know, but because he does.
One hundred coins and this boy… Renald's gaze flicked towards him. He sees it for what it is—an insult wrapped in pity.
A faint smile tugged at Sylas's lips. "Neither do I," he replied softly.
He turned slowly, locking eyes with the knight. "I doubt the queen ever expected her son to beg or starve. Not truly. Maybe she hoped someone would… step in to fill the gaps."
His gaze dipped briefly, just enough to let the knight think he was sizing up the sword. Let him believe he's in control.
Silence thickened like a storm on the cusp of breaking.
The knight's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his expression betraying nothing. I followed orders louder than my conscience. That's the oath I swore.
Sylas tilted his head. "You know where her private vault is, don't you? You've served her for years... a few coins... here and there. Unnoticed."
Renald's expression hardened. "You're asking me to steal."
"Yes... and no," Sylas replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. I'm not a thief... well, maybe I am—but that's beside the point.
"What I'm asking for is your loyalty," Sylas said, his voice low and calculating. "You see, the moment I disappear, a different story begins. A queen forsakes her son. A knight... stands by in silence. Complicit.."
Sylas's gaze wandered to the cracked window, where dust motes danced lazily in the beams of sunlight.
"Perception is a fragile thing," he murmured, his voice low. "You understand that, don't you?"
Damn him. Renald's thoughts stirred beneath his calm. He knows how to twist a knife without drawing blood. This... this isn't loyalty. It's blackmail wrapped in velvet.
He waited for Renald's answer, the quiet in the room growing heavier, as though the world itself held its breath.
Renald fixed him with a long, silent stare.
She'll never forgive me if she finds out. But what if she already knows?. What if this is a test—not of him, but of me?
These are just possibilities... I need to inform the Queen. He'll never find out anyways.
His fingers twitched by his side. 'I will return in a week,' he said at last, his voice quieter than before.
Sylas turned, his gaze locking onto the man's. He gave a slight nod before speaking. "Thank you. And let's not trouble the queen with details."
The knight froze, his jaw clenched, muscles rigid.
He exhaled sharply, turning away without a glance as the door creaked open, then snapped shut with a final thud, leaving silence in its wake.
Sylas stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the door, as if staring through time itself.
I know he won't fall for it, of course. He'll scurry off to inform the queen—it's the only sensible course of action.
But then again...
He smirked, his eyes darkening.
That doesn't change a thing, does it?
He returned to the table.
Slipped a hand into the pouch.
Pulled out a single coin.
It gleamed in the light.
Golden. Familiar.
He held it up, turning it between his fingers.
The sunlight struck its edge—
Just like that first coin.
And for a heartbeat...
The world seemed to say yes once more.