The streetlight flickered above, washing the sidewalk in a tired orange hue. Elias Reeds was barely aware of it. His gaze was glued to his phone screen, thumbs dancing over text replies and half-read notifications. An agent callback, some drama kid group chat arguing about Hamlet again, and a comment from her—the girl he wasn't supposed to care about.
The sound of tires screeching came a second too late.
He looked up, and in that blink of time, everything slowed. His phone slipped from his fingers. The headlights were white-hot, a wall of light surging toward him. The metal beast roared, a horn blaring as if it was the last thing the world wanted him to hear.
Then—
Nothing.
No pain. No chaos. Only silence.
And then… cold.
The last thing Elias Reeds remembered was the impact—that blinding rush of headlights, the blare of a horn, the final, terrifying thought that maybe he'd never make it to his audition.
Then—black.
And now?
Now, he was waking up in silk sheets.
His eyes fluttered open to the shimmer of sunlight pouring through tall stained-glass windows. Golden light spilled across polished marble floors and danced along the edges of velvet curtains, casting the entire room in a dreamlike hue. The ceiling stretched high above him, painted with a mural of constellations swirling around a phoenix mid-flight. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and old parchment.
This wasn't his dorm room. This wasn't even the same planet.
Elias sat up abruptly, breath hitching. The silk sheets slid down his chest, revealing a deep navy robe he didn't remember putting on—embroidered with gold thread and heavy around the shoulders. The fabric felt like it belonged to royalty, not to a broke drama kid from Earth.
"What the hell..." he whispered.
His voice—it was deeper. Smoother. Not his.
Panicked, he scrambled out of bed and nearly tripped on a fur-lined rug. The floor was ice-cold against his feet, but he barely felt it as he rushed toward the massive standing mirror framed in antique brass.
And then he saw himself.
The boy staring back had silver-blond hair, tousled and falling just below the jawline. His eyes were a steel grey, intense even in confusion. His cheekbones were sharp, his frame lean and athletic. A stranger. But not just any stranger.
He looked expensive.
Elias touched his own face, running fingers over the flawless skin, the regal features, the small scar above his right eyebrow—a detail that felt like it had history, like it belonged to someone else's story.
Then he noticed the ring.
A gold signet ring rested on his pinky—bearing an insignia of a crowned lion wrapped around a rose. The same symbol had been stitched across the left side of his robe. Beneath it, in intricate cursive, were the words:
"House of Whitman."
Before Elias could make sense of it, the double doors across the room creaked open.
A man stepped in, middle-aged, dressed in black and silver livery. His posture was military straight, but his eyes—sharp, observant—softened when they landed on Elias.
"Your Highness," the man said with a bow, voice steady. "Thank the stars. You've awakened."
Elias blinked.
Elias forced a shaky smile. "Yeah. I'm… awake."
The man at the door—stiff-backed, clearly a butler or attendant—didn't question the hesitance in Elias's voice. He simply nodded.
"I'll inform the household. The Duke and Lady Maria will be relieved beyond words," he said. "Shall I prepare your garments for the assembly?"
Elias hesitated for half a second too long. "Uh… Yes. Definitely. That'd be great."
The attendant gave a crisp bow. "Very good, my Lord." Then, with quiet footsteps, he vanished into the hallway, the heavy doors shutting behind him with a click that sounded way too final.
Silence.
Elias exhaled, sharp and ragged, like he'd been holding it since the moment he woke up.
"Okay. Okay. Think, Elias."
He spun in a slow circle, scanning the room with wild, desperate eyes. The room was straight out of a costume drama. A massive bookshelf stacked with leather-bound tomes, an ornate writing desk scattered with fountain pens and sealed letters, a fireplace with cold ashes, and a glass cabinet filled with crystal decanters.
No phone. No clues. No exit button.
"This is insane. This is—" he caught sight of himself again in the mirror and stopped.
"You're not Elias Reeds anymore," he muttered to his reflection. "You're… someone else."
He ran to the desk and yanked open drawers. Nothing helpful—quill ink, letter openers, a red wax stamp engraved with the lion-and-rose sigil again. He flung open the wardrobe. Dozens of tailored coats, waistcoats, gloves, silk cravats. No IDs, no photos. Not even a damn pair of jeans.
"Come on, come on, give me something—"
And then it hit him.
Like a dam collapsing.
A surge of fragmented thoughts smashed into his mind all at once, not like remembering, but like absorbing:
A silver dining hall drenched in candlelight.
Maria, laughing behind a fan, her voice teasing but protective.
A letter written in trembling ink: "They mean to kill me, but I must endure."
The burning ache of poison in his veins.
The Duke's cold, calculating voice: "You are the heir to House Whitman, Patrick. You do not get to die."
The world outside—a place eerily familiar yet twisted, like 1800s Britain with gas lamps glowing blue and noblemen carrying enchanted canes.
Magic coursing through veins like fire.
The name etched into every corner of this world: Patrick Whitman.
Elias stumbled backward, clutching his head, breath shallow and fast.
"Patrick Whitman," he whispered.
The name tasted foreign and familiar at once. Like someone else's reflection inside his skull.
He now knew—not just from memory, but instinct—he was Patrick, the eldest son of Duke Aron Whitman. He had a twin sister, Maria. He lived in a world that ran on magic and bloodlines and power. And apparently, he'd been poisoned recently. Almost fatally.
That meeting he was supposed to attend?
It was to confirm his miraculous recovery. Everyone thought he'd been on his deathbed. No one knew the truth—that the real Patrick was gone. That an actor from another world now stood in his skin.
"Holy shit," Elias breathed. "This is not a play I can improv."
He glanced at the door.
People were expecting him. Nobles. Family. A whole damn House.
And all he had was a flood of memories and no idea how long he could keep the act going.
Still, he straightened his back.
He was an actor, wasn't he?
Time to fake it like his life depended on it.
Because this time—it probably did.
By the time Elias stood in front of the grand dressing mirror, his hands were steady—but his mind was storming.
The memories hadn't stopped dripping into him. They didn't come as words, exactly. More like impressions. Emotions soaked in context. Smells, voices, handwritten notes, years of effort.
Patrick Whitman.
The name no longer echoed like a stranger's. It curled around Elias's chest, heavy with resentment, brilliance, and a quietly burning desperation.
---
The attendants had returned shortly after he'd composed himself, laying out layers of ceremonial wear. A tailored black coat with an upturned collar stitched in fine gold, a blood-red sash across his chest, and a small pin over his heart—shaped like a star with three vacant sockets, symbolizing an unchosen constellation. A public mark of shame.
He'd noticed how the servants avoided glancing at it.
As they helped him into his attire, Elias kept quiet, pretending calm. But inside?
He was unravelling.
---
By the time they left him alone again, he'd pieced together more of Patrick's life just from touching the things in the room.
Books—hundreds of them. Journals filled with scratched-out diagrams. Arcane symbols. Constellation charts.
Patrick had been… obsessed with magic.
In this world, it wasn't something you were born with. It was earned. Hard-earned. Not taught by schools, not inherited through bloodlines—though nobility often had better odds.
Magic in this world came from Constellations.
Each person had to undergo their Myriad Trial—a spiritual, psychological test within a dreamlike mirror-world. If you passed it, you'd be shown the recipe for your personal Constellation Potion. You crafted it. Drank it. And only then could you awaken your elemental affinity.
No shortcuts. No cheating. No external help.
And Patrick? Patrick had failed.
Dozens of times.
Each failure left him more bitter, more determined. He hadn't just been trying for himself—he'd researched tirelessly for others. Even figured out how to recreate the potion recipes of every known elemental path.
Except one.
Ignis.
Fire.
The one element he'd never cracked. Not through books. Not through borrowed visions. Not through stolen relics.
Well, there was almost certainly a recipe for the Ignis potion. But, the one element you were compatible with, you had to craft a potion with the recipe obtained by clearing your Myriad Trial, otherwise it wouldn't work. This world had strict rules for magic.
It was the only one that remained blank in his journals.
Which could only mean one thing: it was his.
His compatible element. The one he needed. But the Myriad Trial refused to let him pass.
Unfair rules, Patrick's own voice echoed in Elias's head, laced with venom. It was never a fair trial. It was never designed for people like me.
People like me.
People who weren't chosen, just… cursed with wanting it too much.
Elias pulled on the final glove, fingers trembling slightly as he stared at himself in the mirror again.
He wasn't just wearing Patrick's clothes. He was stepping into a role far more layered than any play he'd rehearsed for. This wasn't some cookie-cutter noble with magic problems.
This was a brilliant failure. A noble scholar whose mind was sharper than most mages, yet whose magic—his very birthright—remained locked behind some cosmic gate he couldn't force open.
That same desperation hummed inside Elias's chest now, like residual static.
It wasn't just pressure. It was grief.
Patrick had wanted magic. Needed it. Not for power, not even for status—but to prove he was more than just a lucky-born noble with a good memory. He wanted to belong in this world of stars and spells.
Elias touched the corner of the mirror. His reflection stared back, elegant and composed—nothing like the whirlwind inside.
"Alright, Patrick," he murmured. "Let's play your part. Let's find out what the hell got you poisoned in the first place."
He straightened his coat, adjusted the sash, and turned toward the door.
It was time to face the Whitman House.
And play noble politics with people who might already suspect he wasn't entirely the same man who collapsed weeks ago.
The hallway stretched long before him, bathed in gold and morning light. Marble floors shimmered beneath a long crimson carpet, and chandeliers above sparkled like constellations frozen in motion. Gilded pillars stood between floor-to-ceiling windows, each framed with pale blue velvet drapes that danced lightly in the breeze.
Elias walked slowly, trying not to look like someone who wanted to stop and gape at everything.
Because he did. This mansion—it was beyond anything he'd ever dreamed of back on Earth. A palace, honestly. Every wall was painted with delicate frescos, and every corridor smelled of lilacs and old magic.
My apartment had water stains and a roommate who forgot to flush.
Yet, as his eyes tried to take in the beauty around him, his heart stayed cold. Detached. Not out of fear—but because Patrick had seen this all before. A hundred times over. This was the backdrop of a life lived in cold elegance, not childlike wonder.
Elias wanted to feel awe. But the body he inhabited responded with quiet familiarity.
As if it all belonged to him now.
He turned a corner and paused.
A large painting hung between two arched windows, framed in silver-gold metal. He didn't mean to stop, but his body slowed on its own. The sight pulled something deep in his gut.
It was a family portrait.
Painted in oil, styled like royalty. Four figures, seated in calm regality. The man in the center—stern, angular face, crownless but commanding—had to be Duke Aron Whitman. His hand rested gently on the shoulder of a woman: beautiful, serene, with sorrow hidden in her eyes—Lady Elara, Patrick's mother, long dead from illness.
On the left sat Maria, her expression mid-laugh despite the formality of the portrait, her hands folded in her lap like a perfectly trained noble lady hiding chaos behind her eyes.
And then—there was him.
Patrick Whitman.
Elias stared.
It was the same face he saw in the mirror now. The same silver-blond hair, storm-grey eyes, that perfect noble jawline. But something was… off. The painted Patrick had a guarded look. Shoulders too stiff. Like even in paint, he couldn't relax.
He looked proud. But so alone.
Elias swallowed and turned away before the sadness got too heavy.
The doors to the great hall were open, and the voices came first—polished, clipped tones, laughter with knives hidden beneath it. The moment Elias stepped in, the room shifted. All eyes turned.
The meeting hall was massive—arched ceilings, a chandelier like a frozen star, long tables filled with nobles in elegant coats, mage-robes, and glittering jewelry. The colors of House Whitman—navy, crimson, and gold—draped the walls like silent judges.
"Patrick!"
The voice rang out clear, amused, and just a little too loud.
Maria Whitman, dressed in a layered navy gown, marched across the marble floor toward him with her arms crossed and her smirk sharp.
"Well, look who's decided to rejoin the living," she said, tilting her head. "You didn't die just to get out of Aunt Renata's gossip circle, did you?"
Elias blinked. Then, reflexively, let out a low chuckle.
"I considered it," he said, letting Patrick's memory guide the words. "But then I realized you'd enjoy the peace too much."
Maria mock-gasped, touching her chest. "You do remember me. What a relief. I was worried your brain melted."
He opened his mouth to respond, but someone cleared their throat from the high platform ahead.
Duke Aron Whitman stood at the head of the long room. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark ceremonial attire trimmed in gold. His expression was unreadable, but his presence silenced the room like a spell.
Elias tensed as the Duke raised a hand.
"Silence," he said. The room obeyed. "As of today, the heir of House Whitman—my son—has recovered fully. His survival is nothing short of divine grace."
A few nobles clapped politely. Others exchanged hushed whispers behind fans and wine goblets. Elias felt their stares crawl across his skin.
"Let it be known," the Duke continued, "that Patrick Whitman will resume his duties as my successor—effective immediately."
More whispers.
Elias stood tall, but inside, his mind screamed.
He didn't know what those duties were.
He didn't know what they expected of him.
But as the nobles stepped forward to greet him—bowing, speaking riddles of politics in disguised compliments—he smiled, nodded, and replied like a man used to playing roles.
Maria stood nearby, arms folded, watching him with curious eyes.
And as the noble greetings stretched on, Elias had only one thought:
I need to survive this scene.
Elias stood near the Duke's table, a crystal goblet of violet wine in hand, his posture perfectly noble—shoulders relaxed, chin slightly raised. The hall had erupted into soft conversation once more.
But behind his composed façade, he was studying.
Scanning the hall, he slowly began to categorize the people approaching him.
Lord Henrick, his mother's cousin—stiff, judgmental, always suspected Patrick of being too bookish. Lady Verissa, an aunt of some sort, with a smile like poisoned sugar. Cousin Emmet, who used to mock Patrick in sword lessons but now gave an oddly respectful nod.
Patrick's memories helped. Not like a clear file, but a fractured scrapbook—faces and feelings, cold meals, muttered gossip, old arguments. Elias used every fragment to reconstruct how Patrick had handled these people.
Polite. Distant. Detached.
Elias mimicked it perfectly.
But one thing kept tugging at his thoughts—the girl who stood near the Duke, arms behind her back, watching like a queen waiting to be amused.
Maria Whitman.
She approached him again now, swirling her own goblet of wine with bored precision.
"Still alive?" she asked, lips quivering.
"You've lasted a whole twenty minutes without fainting. New record."
Elias allowed himself a chuckle. "Don't jinx it."
She grinned wider, the resemblance between them suddenly sharper.
Elias took a moment to look at her fully this time.
Her presence was magnetic—posture relaxed but precise, as if every breath she took was intentional. Despite the gown, he could see the faint shimmer of magical circuitry glowing beneath her skin—threads of pale lightning curled like vines from her wrist to her shoulder.
That was Voltaris, her Constellation.
At thirteen, she'd braved her Myriad Trial and emerged with lightning at her fingertips. Not only that—she was now Sequence 3.
Elias didn't know exactly what Sequence 3 entailed, but from what he could feel in the room, it made her a storm hiding behind a wine glass.
"You've changed," she said, almost too quietly. "You're quieter now. Less… broody."
He paused, eyes flicking to hers. "That a bad thing?"
"No," she murmured. "Just unfamiliar."
Then she nudged him lightly with her shoulder. "Heads up. Cousin Renalla's approaching. She'll try to sound concerned and make you admit to something scandalous. Lie well."
She drifted off like smoke as a new noblewoman appeared, all perfume and insincerity.
Over the next ten minutes, Elias endured a parade of nobles—each asking about his miraculous recovery with the fakest sympathy money could buy.
He played the game like a pro.
"Strength of will," he told one.
"Prayer," he told another.
"Alchemy. That, and Maria threatening to electrocute me awake."
The last one got a laugh.
But as he deflected and weaved through their questions, something offbeat caught his eye.
A girl.
Standing toward the far end of the hall, half-shadowed behind a pillar of light.
She didn't belong here.
Not by presence, not by look.
Her hair was an ethereal shade of purple, almost silver under the chandelier's glow. She wore a muted violet gown with silver embroidery, simple but elegant, and her eyes—
God, her eyes.
They were the kind of violet that looked designed, not natural. Like they belonged to some forgotten painting or dream. She wasn't watching the Duke. Not the family. Not politics.
She was watching him.
Directly. Like she knew he didn't belong.
The moment their gazes locked, Elias felt it—not fear, not recognition, but intrigue. Like something in the air paused, just for a breath.
He stepped toward her, letting the noise of the room fade behind him. Every step echoed louder than it should have.
When he finally stood before her, he offered the most natural thing he could say.
"Can I help you?" he asked, voice soft.
She tilted her head slightly. And then…
She smiled.