Grey awoke with a jolt.
The air was still. Familiar. A soft breeze filtered in through the half-open window, stirring the linen curtains like ghostly fingers. Above him, the stained wooden ceiling of his rented room greeted him, unchanging and unremarkable. He lay upon the narrow bed, its mattress uneven from years of use. Everything was exactly as he had left it.
Or so it seemed.
He sat upright, heart pounding, and glanced around. His books were stacked neatly on the shelf beside his desk. The flickering oil lamp on the table had long gone out. He was home.
But he had no memory of returning here.
Panic, subtle but creeping, curled around his ribs. He tried to retrace his steps, to recall how he had come back from the stone chamber, from the priest, from the woman in red, but the memories slipped from his grasp like smoke. There was nothing.
This isn't right.
Grey swung his legs off the bed and stood, pacing slowly. Something tugged at the edges of his consciousness, a gap in memory that shouldn't exist. And then it struck him. He hadn't just forgotten his return.
He couldn't remember the final five days of his predecessor's life.
Those last moments before he, Grey, had been drawn into this world were gone. As if someone had taken a blade and sliced them clean from the scroll of his memory. But he knew the previous owner of this body had planned a ritual. A summoning. A deliberate act to escape death or invite something in his place.
Grey narrowed his eyes.
He warned me, Grey recalled. Told me to cover the mark on my hand use artificial skin. Said it would give me away.
And yet. the mark had been there. Exposed. Uncovered. And the agents of the Church of Light had seen nothing.
Not the woman in crimson.
Not the priest.
Impossible. Unless, the ritual had been hijacked. His predecessor hadn't summoned him, not directly. Someone or something else had intervened. Someone more powerful. More hidden. Someone capable of sending a soul across realms and veiling even divine detection.
A cold shiver ran down Grey's spine. He clenched his fists, breathing deeply.
If she had seen the final message in that illusion if the priest had discovered my true mark. I would already be dead.
There were gaps in the illusion. Blind spots. Protected truths. Grey's lips thinned. Someone was playing a very dangerous game using his predecessor's ritual as a vehicle for their own ends.
He sat at the edge of his desk and began reviewing what fragments of this world he did remember.
This was Corovus
The current year: 1125, Fourth Era.
An age of divine conflict.The War of Orthodoxy. The Seven Churches of Light had declared a holy war at the dawn of this era against the cults of the Evil Gods. The echoes of that conflict still shaped the politics and faith of the world.
His home: Rose County, under the dominion of the Northern Duke's Kingdom.
City: Falling Star, a sprawling, chaotic capital clinging to order through tradition and holy law.
And here, names held weight. Only the nobility bore surnames. The common folk, like Grey, lived nameless in the eyes of history. His current life was that of a final-year university student, mere months away from earning his degree. Modest savings three silver coins would keep him fed and sheltered for a time.
There had also been a reward, a single silver coin promised by the Church
Grey paused.
Aunt May...
He remembered her in a dream. Or had it been real? She had spoken of the reward. But now even that memory felt suspect.
He left his room and descended the stairs to the common floor. Morning light poured through the open windows, and the scent of warm bread wafted in from the street.
In the hallway, he saw her Amilia, Aunt May's twelve-year-old daughter. She wore a white frock dotted with yellow symbols, her braided hair bouncing as she walked.
"Amilia," he called softly.
She turned with a wide grin. "Oh, the bookworm speaks. What is it?"
"Where's your mother?"
"She went to the church to collect the reward money," Amilia said, tilting her head. "Didn't she tell you?"
Grey's brow furrowed. "When?"
"Oh, I forgot you only listen when books are talking," she teased. "It was a few hours ago, just before she left. She reminded you. Twice."
Grey nodded slowly, masking his growing unease behind a faint smile. "Thanks."
He returned to his room in silence.
Didn't she spoke me in illusion
Grey sat down, the chair creaking beneath him. Thoughts tumbled through his mind in a whirlwind.
Was the illusion that woman mentioned not a test, but a veil? A mask placed over real events? Did the Church truly interrogate me after Aunt May's visit? Did they extract me from my room, question me, and return me all without leaving a trace?
Impossible or at least, it should be.
This district was crowded. There were always eyes on the street. Even a thief would struggle to vanish unnoticed, let alone an entire group kidnapping an adult man of over 180 centimeters.
And yet, they did.
Sweat gathered at the base of his neck.
The Church had means far beyond what Grey could comprehend. Illusions, divine light, soul-reading spells and yet even those tools had failed to expose him.
Who had helped him? Who had intervened?
Grey stared at the mark on his hand, faintly visible now in the morning light. Hidden from gods. Hidden from sight. A mark that should have damned him and yet had spared him.
He exhaled slowly and came to a terrifying, inevitable conclusion:
There is someone or something else at play. And they are watching.