I’m in a dream—one I’ve had before.

  A manor. Grand. Silent. The air carries that strange mix of wax and lavender that only old places know. I’m in a room gilded by silver: Victorian molding, floral trim along the ceiling, and velvet drapes pooling at the edges of tall windows that never open. Everything is drenched in quiet elegance.

  I’m a baby in this one.

  Cradled in the arms of a woman—not my mother, but one of the caretakers assigned to tend to me. Her face is soft, vague, as if blurred by time or intention. But her arms are warm and steady. She hums something wordless and I’m swaddled tight in a cloth of deep blue.

  No—not just blue.

  Midnight blue.

  And stitched into the fabric, resting just over my chest, is a crest. A stylized sun, crossed by rays in a circular pattern.

  The same crest.

  The exact same as the one on the envelope Krieg handed me. The one that burned itself into my mind when I opened it on the ship.

  Why is it here?

  Why is this crest in my dream?

  Did I miss it before? Did the memory change? Or has the dream… sharpened?

  I don’t know if it’s my understanding that’s grown, or if the dream’s just clearer now. Maybe both.

  Either way—it’s not just a dream anymore.

  It’s something else.

  A memory.

  Or a message.

  Maybe both.

  This dream is pretty uneventful, for the most part.

  The caretaker checks on me—making sure I’m fed, warm, safe. Her arms steady, her movements practiced. She hums something quiet, tuneless, the sort of melody that lulls without saying anything at all.

  Eventually, she eases me down into a crib. Morning nap time.

  And though I’m slightly aware—dimly conscious of who I am, what I’ve become—the dream holds me fast. I am a baby. And babies sleep.

  ***

  Midday now.

  My mother wakes me.

  She lifts me from the blankets like I weigh nothing, and for the first time in one of these dreams, I can almost make out her face. It’s still a little blurred around the edges, like someone smudged the memory just enough to keep me guessing. But her smile is real.

  She takes me through the manor gardens.

  It’s not the Capital’s botanical sprawl—doesn’t have the pristine symmetry or scale—but it has its own charm. A kind of natural elegance. Flowers bloom in wild bursts, vines creep lovingly over wrought-iron fences, and the air hums with something untamed. Like the garden itself is alive, not just growing but feeling.

  The stone-brick path curves toward a pavilion near the center. It rests beside a pond, dark and clear, and in its middle stands a statue. A faceless man—built like war itself. No weapons. None needed. Something about his stance says he could kill with a flick of his fingers.

  Imposing. Watching.

  We sit beneath the pavilion’s shade. My mother talks to me.

  She talks like I can understand her—maybe I can. Maybe I do. But even if I don’t, her words carry something deeper than meaning. She talks about little things. Her day. The household. Whatever’s blooming this season. She never speaks of anything terrible—not directly. Only peace, light and softness.

  And then she brings up my father.

  Her whole face changes.

  She glows.

  She tells me of his accomplishments, his bravery, how he fought off our enemies—always vague, the details blurred, like everything else in this dream. But I want to know more. I always do. This is the part I look forward to most.

  Even as a baby, I’m listening. Really listening.

  But just when I lean in—metaphorically—she shifts.

  She always does.

  Her voice softens, her eyes grow distant, and she becomes solemn.

  And then, without warning, she apologizes.

  Truly. As if she’s begging forgiveness for something I can’t possibly understand.

  I never find out what for.

  Before long, the caretaker returns. I’m scooped back up and carried to my luxurious room—to sleep again, of course.

  This time, no Void-ridden panther aiming to tear me in two.

  Must be nice.

  ***

  I drift off.

  And for a while, it’s the kind of sleep only babies know—weightless, dreamless, whole.

  Until—

  I wake.

  Not fully. Not violently.

  Just… suddenly.

  The air is still.

  Too still.

  It’s night, and everything’s wrong. There’s no wind through the window. No rustle of leaves. No drip of the garden’s fountain.

  The silence is thick and smothering.

  It isn’t peaceful. It’s dead.

  The world itself feels frozen.

  Except—something moves.

  Not a creature. Not footsteps. Just… a pressure. A pulse in the air. Tremors that ripple without sound.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  That’s new.

  It feels like something is looming. Close. Watching.

  A presence.

  My baby self shouldn’t know fear—but I do. It settles deep in my bones, carried over from who I really am.

  That’s what does it.

  That’s what triggers the shift.

  The moment that presence crosses some unseen boundary—I wake.

  Really wake.

  The dream shatters like frost underfoot.

  Not so familiar anymore.

  ***

  I wake to the sound of something being dragged across dirt—slow, careless. Like someone too lazy to lift it, dragging it no matter what gets caught beneath.

  Every few seconds, pain flares.

  Something hard bumps beneath me—rocks, roots, whatever else is in the way. Each impact stabs like a dull blade, jarring bone and bruised flesh.

  …I’m the one being dragged.

  Didn’t realize it at first. I’m that far gone. Only half-conscious.

  My body’s broken. Torn apart from the inside out.

  Dragged by something—no, someone.

  The man.

  The one who stopped me. The one who almost killed me.

  He took what was mine.

  Rage stirs in my chest, a weak ember trying to catch. My fingers twitch, useless. My thoughts blur, scattered by another jolt of pain as something sharp gouges my ribs.

  Calm down, Breathe.

  I try to get my bearings.

  Everything hurts. Not just soreness—shattered, cracked, leaking pain from every joint. My limbs feel like they don’t belong to me anymore.

  Ahead, I catch a shape. Barely.

  The panther.

  It’s walking just ahead, glancing over its shoulder—at me.

  There’s no blood in its maw. No violence in its eyes.

  Just curiosity.

  Its expression—if you could call it that—almost seems soft. Strange. Maybe this is the “cuteness” Swart was talking about. Not terrifying. Just… quiet.

  Why hasn’t it eaten me?

  Why am I still alive?

  What the hell are they going to do to me?

  I try to speak—only gurgle blood.

  It bubbles up from my throat, thick and metallic, leaking past cracked lips. I choke on it, unable to turn my head.

  Hours pass—or minutes, I can’t tell. Time slips away as I fade in and out of consciousness. Pain ebbs, spikes, dulls. My awareness flickers like a dying candle.

  Eventually, we reach some kind of cave.

  The walls shimmer faintly, slick with damp and riddled with carvings—or maybe cave morels. I can’t tell. My eyes won’t focus. My body won’t obey. Everything’s just shape and smear.

  We descend deeper.

  And then—without ceremony—he chucks me.

  Chucks me. Like trash.

  I slam into the far wall, bones jarring, blood spurting from my mouth as I bounce off and land on what must be a bed—stone frame, maybe stuffed. Doesn’t matter. Still hurts.

  I writhe in the mess he made of me, gasping as another wave of agony crashes through my ribs.

  Meanwhile, the bastard’s busy rummaging through his stash. Clanks of metal. Chinks of glass. Wooden things rattling. The thud of something heavy—books?

  He moves like he’s done this before.

  Finally, he stops.

  Turns around, a bottle in hand—thick glass, sloshing with a liquid so dark it looks almost black. But it isn’t.

  It’s blood red.

  Not just red—crimson. Almost glowing. Like it’s alive. Like it remembers who it came from.

  He walks toward me.

  I try to struggle. Twitch. Anything. But I’m too weak. All I manage is another pathetic gurgle, a thin trail of foam bubbling from my lips.

  He kneels. Pops the cork.

  And forces it down my throat.

  I gag. Try to turn away. He doesn’t let me.

  What the hell is this freak trying to do? Force-feeding me blood like it’s some twisted rite? Is this some cult shit? A curse? A kink?

  I brace for the worst—whatever nightmare this lunatic has planned next.

  But then—

  Relief.

  The moment the liquid touches my throat, something changes. The pain dulls and then fades.

  Warmth floods through me.

  Muscles knit. Bones throb, then seal. The blood clears from my lungs, from my mouth. Breathing becomes easy again. My heartbeat evens out.

  I blink. Once. Twice.

  I’m healing.

  Fast.

  ‘Oh. Alchemy,’ I sigh, internally. All that panic for nothing. My imagination really is cursed.

  Still—this could go sour at any second.

  I eye him warily, still tasting blood on my tongue.

  ’What the hell are you?’ I wonder.

  But I don’t dare ask out loud.

  Not yet.

  I study him cautiously.

  After all, he destroyed me in the blink of an eye.

  That kind of power doesn’t just vanish. It lingers in the air. In the way he moves. In the way I don’t dare move.

  He turns his back to me and walks to the far side of the chamber. There’s a mess—controlled chaos, maybe, but chaos all the same. Metal and wooden tools scattered across every surface. Glass beakers stained with residue. Vials crusted with dried mixtures. Some cracked, some still fizzing faintly.

  A stack of books leans against the wall nearby—one of them open, its pages warped with use and stained in every color imaginable. Blues, reds, greens, something metallic—alchemical run-off, probably. It looks more like a painter’s rag than a tome.

  The room isn’t large, but it’s lived-in. Functional.

  An alchemist’s den. No doubt.

  Glassware hangs from hooks above, cords tied with drying herbs, racks of strange minerals laid out for inspection. A couple of tall bookshelves line one wall, crammed full to bursting—no order I can make out, but clearly well-used.

  There’s a bed beneath me—firm, layered with wool and rough linens. A small table and single dining chair sit nearby, half-covered in scrolls and dried inkpots.

  This isn’t some dungeon.

  It’s a lab.

  His lab.

  And now, I guess, my recovery room.

  Still, I don’t relax.

  Because nothing about this makes sense.

  Not why he stopped me.

  Not why he saved me.

  And definitely not why the Void Panther—the same one that hunted me night after night—now lounges across the room, watching me like a curious housecat.

  Something’s off.

  Everything’s off.

  And the worst part?

  No one’s talking.

  I just sit there.

  On guard.

  Not sure what to do—or what I’m allowed to do.

  Across the room, the man moves in silence, cleaning up the mess he made. Rearranging tools. Wiping down vials. Straightening books that still look like they’ve survived chemical warfare. Not a single glance my way.

  After a while, he leaves.

  Just like that.

  Door open, boots echoing down a tunnel somewhere behind me.

  Now I’m alone.

  With the Void Panther.

  It blinks slowly. Head tilted. Still watching me like I’m something interesting—but not dangerous.

  Not anymore.

  I don’t move. Not because I’m afraid—well, not just because—but because I still don’t know the rules. And until I do, it’s safer to stay still.

  He returns before long.

  Slung over one shoulder: one of those deer-hyena things I’ve seen out in the jungle—leaner than it looks from a distance, but still heavy. Over his other shoulder: a leather bag.

  He clears a side table with one sweep of his arm, then drops the carcass onto the wood with a dull thud.

  Next, he opens the bag and starts pulling out knives.

  All kinds.

  Skinning blades. Boning knives. A cleaver that could split bone in one swing. I count ten in total. Every edge gleams, freshly oiled and honed.

  I’m not exactly a butcher—but I’ve dabbled. One of many hobbies I chased, thinking maybe it would spark something. It didn’t. Like the others—cooking, martial arts, woodworking—it left me with skills but no satisfaction.

  The numbness always came back.

  Still, watching him work triggers something half-familiar. Muscle memory. The way he slices behind the joint, finds the seam, carves clean.

  The cuts are quick, methodical—slabs of meat sectioned out with strips of lean fat, marbled and dark like high-grade beef. Almost… appetizing.

  My mouth waters a little, embarrassingly enough.

  But then I remember where I am. Who this man is. What he did to me.

  And just because he’s prepping food doesn’t mean he’s planning to share it.

  Or that it’s for humans.

  For all I know, I’m next on the menu.

  So I sit.

  And wait.

  Still hungry. Still broken. Still completely in the dark.

  He picks up the prepped meat and grabs some kind of burner from the mess behind him. With a flick, it hisses to life—flames bursting out, hot and steady. Not overdone. Controlled. Just right for cooking.

  A pulse brushes past my skin—faint, but there. Mana.

  So the burner’s powered by it. Figures.

  He sets an old but well-maintained pan on top. Then he tosses in a chunk of butter—something thick, rich, and slightly greenish at the edges. Alchemical, maybe. It hits the metal with a low sizzle, bubbling as it melts and starts to caramelize.

  While the butter browns, he seasons the meat—salt, definitely. And something close to pepper. Probably is. Probably isn’t.

  Either way, it smells right.

  Once the butter’s ready, he lowers the heat—another twist, another gentle pulse of mana—and lays in the meat.

  The sizzle that follows is obscene. Rich, fatty and loud.

  It fills the room.

  The scent hits me like a punch.

  My stomach twists. Growls.

  He’s cooking four cuts. Two for himself, apparently. Two—he tosses, clean and precise—toward the panther. It catches them mid-air like a trained beast, trots off to the corner to devour them in raw, bloody silence.

  I watch with what I hope is a neutral face and not open envy.

  Then—he hands me a plate.

  Just hands it over.

  One of his.

  Cooked.

  Proper cutlery balanced on the edge.

  He doesn’t say a word. Just turns and settles at the table near my bed, seating himself like this is routine. Like it’s dinner. Nothing strange. No wariness. No questions.

  I stare at the food.

  Still warm. Still steaming. Medium-rare, if my eyes haven’t gone dull.

  I wait a few seconds—watch him take a bite. No grimace. No spasm. No collapse.

  Not poisoned.

  Probably.

  And even if it is—

  I’m famished.

  I cut a piece. Small, careful.

  Slide it into my mouth.

  And—

  Heaven.

  The flavor’s deep, rich—somewhere between venison and marbled beef, but cleaner. Leaner. With just enough fat to round out the bite. The crust is perfect, browned by butter and flame, locking in everything beneath.

  It’s almost too good.

  Which makes it very suspicious.

  But right now? I don’t care.

  I eat.

  Because whatever this is, whatever game he’s playing—

  I need strength.

  After we finish eating, he quietly takes my plate and leaves the room—presumably to wash it somewhere deeper in the cave.

  Which gives me time to think.

  Isn’t it dangerous to have a burner in a cave? Carbon monoxide poisoning and all that?

  I glance up, scanning the ceiling—and there it is.

  A ventilation shaft. Roughly carved, but deliberate. Channels winding out from the room, probably connecting to other chambers—and, eventually, to open air. I can feel a faint current tugging upward. Mana-fueled, most likely. Intake fan. Makes sense.

  Guess he’s not as reckless as he looks.

  He returns a minute later and settles into the chair across from me, posture relaxed, but eyes locked on mine.

  Studying me. Dissecting me.

  I stay still.

  I don’t know what he wants. Don’t know what I want. So I wait.

  Finally, he speaks.

  “Kaizer—right?”

  The name hits like a hammer. I jerk upright, eyes wide. “What!? You know my name? Have you seen my crew?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I snap. “Then how the hell do you know my name?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Just stares.

  I want to hit him. I want to scream. But I can’t even stand, let alone wring a cryptic answer out of someone like this.

  I deflate. “Okay, whatever… Why did you attack me?”

  “Test.”

  “A test for what?”

  Again—nothing.

  Swart is eccentric. This guy? Somehow worse.

  “…Where am I?” I ask, changing tack.

  “On an island.”

  “Yeah, I figured. But where’s this in relation to the New World?”

  For a moment, he frowns—like I spoke in code—then something clicks behind his eyes.

  “Close.”

  Man of many talents. Words not among them.

  “Alright,” I mutter. “Then why did you save me?”

  This time, he doesn’t pause.

  “To train… you.”

  I burst into laughter.

  It comes out harsh, wheezing—raw from my cracked ribs. I can’t help it. The sheer absurdity of what he just said—to train me—it’s too much.

  “You’re going to train me?” I scoff between gasps. “What the hell kind of freak are you?”

  But after the laughter dies down… the fear sets in.

  Train me? For what?

  Slavery? Some kind of living weapon? Am I just meat for sharpening his experiments?

  Of course he’s been feeding me—keeping me healthy. Not out of kindness. No. To make sure I don’t fall apart before the real horror starts.

  While my thoughts spiral into worst-case territory, he moves.

  Silently.

  And then, without a word, he removes his hood.

  I freeze.

  The man beneath isn’t what I expected.

  He looks my age—maybe even a little younger—but there’s nothing youthful about his face. His features are sharp. Flawless. Cut from stone, but somehow too perfect to be real. His hair is pitch white, the same shade as the streaks in mine. His eyes—

  Gold.

  Bright and rich. Alive with something old.

  And that’s what gets me. The age in them.

  Not the physical kind.

  Wisdom and Memory plagued with burden.

  Eyes that belong to a man who’s seen too much—and carries it anyway.

  He looks at me and offers the faintest smile.

  “The day,” he says, voice almost warm, “it came. Sleep—tomorrow I make you proper.”

  The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  And in my head, I recoil. Proper? What the hell does that mean?

  Conditioning. Indoctrination. Breaking me down and building me back up into whatever twisted image he has in mind.

  No.

  No way.

  I’ve got to escape. I can’t stay here—not with him.

  But before I can even lift a limb, my vision sways.

  Heavy.

  Too heavy.

  The warmth in my belly curdles into dread.

  The food.

  That bastard.

  The last thing I see is his face above me, the glow of his golden eyes watching as I fade—

  And then, nothing.