One year had passed since that fateful moment in the elevator—since the final breath she took as Cassa, and the first breath he inhaled as Eiser Waxzi, nicknamed Icey.
And in that span of a single year, everything had changed. Icey was now a four-year-old boy in a body not his own, in a world that bore no familiar landmarks. Despite how small and fragile he felt, his mind remained sharp, older than anyone around him would ever guess.
The Waxzi household had grown. His mother, Audinna, had given birth to a baby girl—Ariel Waxzi. His little sister. Small, red-faced, and soft. She cried often and clung to Audinna like a barnacle, yet her presence brought a strange sense of peace to the household. Perhaps it was the way Audinna held her, or the way Ethan, Icey's father, smiled when she gurgled. For the first time in forever, Icey felt something he didn't know how to describe.
Warmth.
He had never felt that from his previous family.
But comfort didn't erase confusion.
During that year, he had begun collecting information. Eiser Waxzi—his full name—sounded strange on his tongue. His parents were simple people. His mother, soft-voiced and gentle, was always in the kitchen or tending to Ariel. His father, firm but kind, worked as a town guard. Not much of a talker, but observant.
From overheard conversations and idle bedtime stories, Icey pieced together that this world had seven continents, like Earth—but none of the names matched. Cities, countries, systems—all different. Yet something about the sun, moon, and stars... felt eerily similar.
"So... am I in a parallel universe?" Icey muttered one day at the breakfast table, eyes distant.
"What are you muttering about, Icey?" Audinna's soft voice broke his thoughts. She approached with a plate of food and a motherly smile.
"Nothing, Mother." He quickly shook the thought from his mind, offering a polite smile as she laid the food in front of him.
It wasn't just the food that tasted different—everything did. This home wasn't made of concrete and sharp corners like his last one. It smelled of herbs, grilled vegetables, and firewood. It had color, laughter, gentle scolding, and long hugs.
Unlike…
He bit down on his sandwich before that memory could finish forming.
"How are you feeling, Icey?" Audinna asked again from the kitchen, chopping vegetables. "No more headaches?"
He nodded silently, swallowing.
"You know, son... if your body hurts, or your mind feels heavy, you can always tell me. I'll listen, okay?"
He hesitated before responding, "Okay."
He finished his food and stood up, brushing crumbs from his shirt. "I'm going outside to play."
"Don't push yourself too much," his mother called after him, worry in her voice.
Outside, the Waxzi house stood tall and humble—two stories of warm-colored wood, soft blue paint, and flowers in every window. The front yard had a rickety swing, its ropes old but sturdy. There was a tiny basketball hoop near the edge of the porch, though it was clearly handmade and uneven.
Icey approached the swing and sat down. The sun was hot, but the tree above offered enough shade to keep him cool.
He gripped the ropes and started swinging gently.
"I need to get stronger... I can't let this weak body keep slowing me down," he muttered under his breath.
His mind wandered to the future. School would start soon, and with it, more opportunities to gather information. Languages, history, geography—anything that could help him understand the fabric of this world. But he had to be careful. He couldn't speak too intelligently or act too mature. He was supposed to be a four-year-old boy.
And I used to be a girl.
A pang of discomfort rippled through him. Sometimes he still forgot. Other times, it hit him like a slap. The pressure to perform—walk like a boy, speak like a boy, react like a boy. But it wasn't that hard. Not for him. He had met countless people in his past life. Mimicry came naturally. Faking it? That was survival.
A warm breeze swept over him, ruffling his short dark hair. A bark echoed nearby, pulling his attention toward the fence.
A small dog stood there, barking playfully from behind the wooden slats. Icey's gaze lingered on it—until a face suddenly popped into view.
"Wha—?!"
He jolted backward and landed on the ground with a painful thud, groaning.
"Ah—Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!" a boy's voice said, clearly panicked.
Icey blinked, disoriented, and saw a blond boy crouching near him, concern painted all over his freckled face. "Are you okay?"
But Icey didn't hear the words—not at first. He saw the boy's hand reaching out toward him, and in an instant—
That man's hand.
The one who had ended everything.
His breathing turned ragged, eyes wide. Panic clawed at his chest. He slapped the offered hand away with a gasp.
The blond boy's eyes widened in surprise and guilt. "I—I'm sorry! I didn't know you'd get scared like that!"
Icey pressed his palm to his forehead, breathing deeply. "It's... just a kid," he told himself. "Just a kid."
After a few moments, he slowly sat up in an Indian seat, his back still sore. He glanced up at the boy again.
The boy had messy blond hair that shimmered like gold in the light, eyes bright blue like seawater, and a splash of freckles across his cheeks. He looked harmless.
Still, Icey's guard didn't lower.
"Who are you?" he asked, wary.
"Klyden Yurei," the boy answered with a grin, pointing toward the white house next door. "I live right over there."
"And?"
"I wanted to be your friend!" Klyden said, earnest and enthusiastic. "I saw you playing alone and thought maybe you were lonely—"
"No," Icey cut him off coldly, brushing past him and heading back inside.
Klyden stood there, stunned as the door shut. But instead of sulking, he clenched his fists and shouted, "I won't give up!"
From behind the window, Icey watched him. The boy marched off back to his house with determined steps.
Friend?
The word echoed in Icey's head like a foreign language. In his past life, he had never had something like that. Companions? Allies? Maybe. But never someone he trusted enough to call friend.
Everyone had used him. Every smile had strings. Every gesture was a ploy.
He pressed his fingers to his temples. Another headache bloomed.
"Can people really change?" he murmured. "Do they change?"
"Is he your friend, kiddo?" a familiar voice asked behind him.
Icey turned to find Ethan—his father—standing in the doorway.
"...No."
"Why not?" Ethan asked casually.
Icey didn't respond.
"It's okay," his father said after a pause. "I can tell you—they're good people. That boy's family is kind."
Then he smiled. "Come on. Dinner's ready. You've got to play with your sister later, remember?"
He disappeared into the kitchen.
Icey lingered at the window a moment longer. Watching the spot where Klyden had stood.
Maybe Father is right...
Maybe people can be good...
But what if they're not? What if they betray me?
Another pulse of pain slammed into his skull.
He winced and cursed silently.
Then, like a whisper in the back of his mind, he remembered.
The promise.
The vow he made as Cassa.
The vow that followed him into this strange new world.
"I guess… I'll give him a tiny bit of a chance," he muttered.
Then he stepped away from the window and went to eat.