Darkness.
Then pain.
A white-hot burst of agony surged through Zane Cross's head as consciousness slammed into him like a truck—ironically, not too far off from what he remembered last.
Didn't I die? The last image burned into his brain had been headlights, horns, and shattering glass. Then... nothing.
Now he was here—wherever here was.
The first thing he noticed was the cold stone beneath his back. The second was the smell. Damp air laced with candle wax and something coppery—blood?
His eyes fluttered open.
Arched ceilings. Stone walls. Iron sconces burning low flames. He wasn't in a hospital.
Definitely not a hospital.
Groaning, Zane pushed himself up and glanced down at his hands.
They weren't his.
The skin was pale and slender, with long fingers better suited to a pianist than an engineer. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled toward a dusty mirror in the corner of the chamber.
The reflection made his breath catch.
He was younger—no older than twenty. Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. Jet-black hair falling over strange silver eyes. Eyes that gleamed with... something unnatural.
"This isn't real," he muttered.
Then the memories hit him like a flood—alien, scattered, but slowly knitting together.
Kael Veylor, third son of House Veylor. A disgraced noble family once loyal to the throne of Irosmere, now relegated to the borderlands. Known for their arcane bloodline. Hated for a betrayal that Kael—he—couldn't remember.
And Kael had just died. Poisoned in his sleep by a cousin, if Zane was putting the pieces together right.
Except I'm awake now... and I'm him?
It made no sense. But neither did being alive again. His logical mind screamed for answers, but instinct said one thing: play along until he figured this out.
The heavy door creaked open.
A man entered—tall, scarred, armored in black leather. He froze, eyes wide, as if he'd seen a ghost. "My Lord... you live?"
Zane's mind raced. Play along. Name. Think fast.
"Barely," he rasped. "Fetch me water... and silence."
The man bowed low, confusion in his eyes. "At once, Lord Kael."
As the guard retreated, Zane turned to the mirror once more.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't madness.
He was in a world he didn't understand, in a body not his own, surrounded by enemies and expectations.
But one thing was clear.
Whoever Kael had been, whatever fate had cut his life short—Zane Cross wasn't going to waste his second chance.
He would learn their magic, break their rules, and if the world wanted war...
He would bring fire.
Zane sat alone in the high-backed chair that loomed like a throne in the corner of Kael's chambers. A silver goblet of water rested in his hands, trembling slightly—not from fear, but from adrenaline. His body still felt foreign: too thin, too weak, but sharp. His senses were heightened in a way he couldn't explain.
Magic?
That thought gnawed at him. He needed answers.
The chamber door opened again, more cautiously this time. A figure entered, tall and imposing—a woman in dark violet robes with a sash bearing the Veylor crest: a broken flame within a ring.
She had eyes like daggers.
"You were dead," she said coolly, arms crossed. "The healers pronounced you gone."
Zane narrowed his eyes. "Clearly, they were wrong."
She studied him with suspicion. "What did you see? On the other side?"
Zane exhaled slowly. Ah. They're superstitious. Maybe I can use that.
"I saw nothing. Only cold... and a voice that pulled me back." He stood slowly, meeting her gaze. "Who are you to question me?"
She blinked at the sudden confidence. "I am Arienne Veylor. Your half-sister."
Of course. Another noble family with a web of complicated bloodlines.
"You always spoke like a coward," she said slowly, as if testing him. "Now you speak like... someone else."
Zane offered her a smirk. "Maybe dying changed me."
She frowned but said nothing more.
Moments later, a second visitor arrived—a hunched, grey-bearded man with ceremonial robes covered in runes. The family magister, if the memories whispering in his mind were accurate.
"Lord Kael," he rasped. "We must test your bloodline again. There are whispers you were... tampered with."
Test my bloodline? That doesn't sound good.
Zane stepped forward. "Fine. Let's test it."
The magister drew a small dagger, its blade glowing faintly with runes, and sliced across Zane's palm. Pain lanced through his hand, warm blood dripping into a crystal bowl beneath it.
The blood sizzled. Glowed faintly blue.
Arienne's eyes widened. The magister knelt. "The arcane blood... has awakened."
Zane blinked. That wasn't me, was it?
But something had changed. He could feel it now—like static under his skin, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. It was subtle, but real. Like a hidden circuit waiting to be switched on.
The magister looked up, voice shaking. "You've inherited the Veylor spark. After all these years, it's awakened."
Zane tried to remain calm, but inside he was buzzing. So I can use magic in this world. But how? What kind?
Arienne, still watching him, suddenly bowed her head. "Then perhaps the house isn't as doomed as we thought."
Zane clenched his fists. "You said Kael was a coward. That ends now."
They both looked at him.
"I want to know everything," he said. "How the noble houses work, how the arcane arts are trained, and who wants House Veylor dead."
The magister blinked. "That will take time."
Zane's gaze hardened. "Then we start now."
Later That Night…
Zane stood on the balcony, overlooking the cracked stone courtyard. Moonlight lit the walls of Veylor Keep—crumbling in places, faded banners swaying in the cold wind.
This place was falling apart.
But Zane saw something else: potential.
Not just to survive—but to thrive. To rebuild this family. To master the arcane. To carve a place in this new world where he was no longer just another cog in the machine—but a player on the board.
Behind him, the door creaked open again.
It was the guard from before.
"Lord Kael," he said, eyes still slightly wide. "Your cousin, Lord Thalen, has summoned you. He demands to speak on the matter of succession."
Zane turned.
"Tell Lord Thalen…" he said slowly, voice cold, "...that I no longer answer to anyone who tried to poison me."