Alaric's first conscious breath tasted of damp straw, sour and stale, laced with the mineral tang of old wood long soaked by rain. He lay motionless for a heartbeat, ears straining against the relentless ache in every joint, the dull throb of muscles protesting a movement he'd never made before. When he dared to open his eyes, the edges of his vision swam in a haze, as if he'd been submerged beneath cold water and dragged to the surface by frantic hands.
He blinked twice. Above him, heavy drapes of faded crimson silk bore a pattern of curling griffins in muted gold thread. The sight struck him like a blow: this was no hospital room, no sterile dormer window overlooking a city governed by neon. This room was carved from stone, lit by a single brazier in the corner whose embers hissed with bitter smoke.
"What the fuck…" he rasped, voice cracking, raw as gravel. His head lolled to one side; he swore he could taste iron on his tongue. Panic set his heart galloping. Every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass.
He forced himself to sit up. Cold stone pressed against the back of his thighs, and he gasped at the sudden chill. His ribs locked in protest; the effort felt as though we had centuries of sleep pressing him down. Hands trembling, he reached for the bedcover—silk against skin, impossibly fine, impossible for anyone of his birth in the modern world.
Blearily, he swung his legs over the edge of the narrow cot. His feet found the floor, and pain flared, a white-hot lance running up his calves into knees and hips. Stars exploded behind his eyelids, and he bit out a curse, teeth chomping into the soft flesh of his lower lip until he tasted blood.
He staggered forward, bracing one hand on a rough-hewn doorframe. The wood was carved with simple flourishes—oak leaves and vines—and felt smooth from centuries of touch. A distant crackle reached his ears: voices, murmured and indistinct, drifting from just beyond the door.
Rust-colored tapestries fluttered as he passed, the fabric worn thin in places, revealing bare stone walls mottled with moss. Each step was agony; each breath a reminder of every time his mother had lashed him with that belt, the leather biting into his skin until he bled—and she laughed.
The voices grew louder. A woman's soft French accent: "Milord? Breakfast awaits in the solar." Then the clink of silverware, a polite cough, and a deep-voiced murmur: "He has—has he woken, m'lady?"
Alaric froze, a tremor running through his limbs. "Wait," he rasped to no one in particular. "Who…?"
Silence. Then the far-off tread of boots on stone. A slender beam of sunlight pierced the window at the chamber's far end, illuminating motes of dust like tiny fireflies caught in a shaft of light. It moved slowly across the floor toward him, as if drawn by his shift.
He swallowed, throat raw. Name… What was his name? He forced his memory to rally. Alaric. Alaric D'Eboncrest.
D'Eboncrest. The name echoed in his mind—a noble house he'd never known until moments ago. He had died last night. In his old life he'd slipped quietly from a cheap motel bed, a heart attack in his sleep, they'd said. But nothing was quiet now. His body throbbed with life, and images flooded him.
Fluorescent lights humming above a hospital gurney. His mother's wine-scented breath in his face as she screamed. "You worthless cunt!" The sting of her belt. His father's hollow eyes as he left for another shift—never a hug, never a word beyond "Work hard, boy."
He staggered on, weaving between a wooden chest and a curtained alcove. The air tasted of smoke and damp earth, of cold stone corridors and whispered secrets. He passed a small table set with a pewter flagon and two goblets, their contents long gone.
The door at the end of the room cracked open. A young maid in a simple gray gown stood there, cap atilt, eyes wide. "Milord…" she ventured, hand pressed to her throat. "Do you require assistance?"
Alaric's vision swam. He blinked twice, trying to clear the haze. He raised a hand, every finger cramped and numb. "Water," he croaked. "Please… water."
Her lips parted in a soft smile. "Of course. I will fetch it at once." She curtsied and slipped away, her skirts whispering against the stone floor.
He leaned back against the doorframe, closing his eyes for just a moment—long enough to let the tremors wrack his body. The weight of memory pressed down like a vice. He saw his mother's gaunt face, her eyes bloodshot and wild, as she shouted curses that cut him deeper than any blade. He saw his father's gaunt shoulders disappearing out the door, leaving him alone to face her wrath. The ache twisted in his chest, and a single tear slipped free.
"Don't be a damned child," he muttered to himself. "Get up."
With effort that felt Herculean, he picked his feet up and shuffled across the floor toward a high-backed chair. Every step was agony—each movement, a test of will. He sank into the seat, drawn by gravity and exhaustion. Beneath him, the wood groaned.
Moments later, the maid returned with a pewter jug. She poured water into a goblet and set it on the table. "It's cool, milord." Her voice was gentle, laced with concern.
Alaric reached for it. His fingers closed around the goblet, and he lifted it with shaking hands. The metal was cold against his lips, and he drank deeply, the water rushing past a dry throat, soothing the fire in his belly. Three gulps later, he set the goblet down.
"Where… am I?" he whispered.
The maid—Callista, by her name pin—blinked. "You're at Eboncrest Manor, milord. We found you unconscious in your bedchamber this morning."
Eboncrest Manor. The name pressed heavy on his tongue. He drew in another breath. It tasted of ashes and something metallic—blood. His gaze dropped to his hands. They were slender, long-fingered, with faint calluses at the tips. No hospital bands, no IV lines, nothing that marked him as a patient. Only these hands—and the silent question of what they would become.
He stood, unsteady, and crossed the room to the looking glass. Reflection. He stared, unblinking, at that stranger. Black hair so dark it swallowed the light, shifting with a faint bluish sheen. Eyes like twin sapphires, bright and haunted. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips that curved with a hint of skepticism.
He pressed a fingertip to the glass, and his reflection mirrored him. Then memories flared again—his real life in Rome, endless nights of exhaustion, debt, loneliness. He'd never felt reborn. Here—here he would have to live, had to fight.
A sharp knock at the doorframe pulled him from his reverie.
"Milord Alaric," a deep voice intoned—the clipped accent of a man born to service. "Your breakfast is served in the solar. Lady Brienne awaits."
Lady Brienne—his aunt, the dowager countess, if he recalled the titles right. A stern woman, as cold and imposing as the marble halls of her domain. He felt a surge of panic: etiquette, protocol, expectation. He didn't know the rules here.
He took a steadying breath—one, two—then squared his shoulders. "Tell them… I'll be there shortly." His voice was steadier than he felt.
The steward bowed and left. Callista lingered for a moment at the door. "If you need anything, milord…"
He managed a nod. "Thank you."
When the door clicked shut, he lingered in the silent room for another heartbeat. Then, in one fluid motion that surprised him, he strode across the floor, palpitating muscles singing in protest, and climbed onto the overturned bench beneath the brazier. His eyes fixed on the ancient sword hanging above the mantel—a single-edged blade with a fluted fuller running its length, etched with near-faded runes that glimmered faintly in the morning light.
He reached up with he callused finger and traced the hilt. A tingle of recognition—or was it destiny?—ran up his arm. He tipped the blade down, and it slid free with a rasp of metal on metal. The weight in his hands was staggering, a pressure he'd never known. But as he held it steady, pain lancing through untrained wrists, a spark ignited in his chest.
He closed his eyes, the smoky scent of embers and ancient steel filling his senses. The sword hummed, as if alive, resonating with something deep inside him. His jaw set.
"I swear it," he whispered, voice hoarse, "by every ounce of strength I possess—and every drop of blood my mother spilled—I will master this body. I will learn the blade. I will forge my own destiny. This life… my life… begins now."
He took a deliberate breath, arms trembling, and planted the tip of the sword into the dusty floorboards. As he lifted the blade in a crude salute, the griffin draperies stirred in a sudden breeze that snuck through the open window, carrying the scent of dew-drenched grass and distant oaks.
For a moment, the world held its breath with him. Then, with the resolve of a man reborn, Alaric D'Eboncrest set his jaw, eyes blazing with newfound purpose—and stepped down from the bench into a future he would carve with sweat, steel, and the relentless fire of his will.