Thrain drifted in an endless sea of darkness. The cold void around him pressed in like a heavy mist, muffling his thoughts, swallowing his senses. He felt weightless, unanchored, a mere speck lost in the vastness of the unknown. Then, a whisper echoed through the abyss, soft yet commanding, carrying with it an eerie sense of familiarity.
"Thrain..." The voice called, its tone neither threatening nor kind. It simply was.
His pulse quickened. He turned, though there was no direction in this formless space. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice reverberating unnaturally.
Silence stretched between them before the whisper returned, weaving through the emptiness. "Do not let the blood of innocent lives be slain. Do not tread the path of vengeance, or you shall lose yourself."
A mirage-like distortion rippled through the darkness. It made his stomach churn, a nauseating feeling creeping into his being. He struggled to focus, to see beyond the haze that blurred the space before him. The presence of the voice felt so close, so intimate, as if it had been a part of him all along. He reached forward desperately, his fingers grasping at nothing but void.
"Wait! Tell me more! What does this mean?" he pleaded. The air shifted, his surroundings growing even fainter. The voice sighed, its presence flickering, retreating into the darkness. "Find the truth... before it finds you."
Then, suddenly, his name rang in his ears again—louder this time. His body jerked, a violent force pulling him back. He gasped as his vision exploded with light, and the coldness of the abyss was replaced by something warmer. Real. Tangible.
Thrain woke with a jolt, his breath ragged, his fingers still reaching for something unseen. He clung to the air as though trying to grasp what had just slipped away. His heart hammered against his ribs. His skin was drenched in sweat.
As his senses returned, he saw his twin brother, Stef, and Vynessa standing over him. Their faces were drained of color, eyes wide with shock and fear. He blinked, trying to steady his breath, but their stunned expressions told him something was terribly wrong.
Stef was the first to speak, his voice hoarse, shaken. "Thrain... You were seizing. The healers... they said there was nothing they could do. We thought we lost you."
Thrain swallowed hard. A seizure? That would explain the fatigue clawing at his bones, the dull throb in his skull. He turned his gaze to Vynessa, who still stared at him as if he'd risen from the grave.
Then, without warning, she lunged forward and hugged him tightly. "You're alive..." she whispered, her voice trembling. He felt something warm against his shoulder—a tear. She was crying. Vynessa, the same girl who had been nothing but cruel in his past life, was shedding tears over him. The warmth of her embrace sent a confusing wave of emotions through him.
He hesitated before slowly bringing a hand up to pat her back. "I'm... here," he murmured, uncertain of what else to say.
The moment was short-lived. Footsteps pounded against the polished floors outside the room. Then, the heavy doors swung open, revealing a tall, imposing woman with silver-streaked raven hair. The Matriarch.
"Thrain," she breathed, relief flashing in her usually cold eyes before she schooled her expression back into the unreadable mask of authority. "You're awake."
He pushed himself upright, his body protesting the movement. "Mother," he acknowledged, watching as she strode toward him.
She examined him carefully, searching his face for any lingering traces of weakness. Then, without another word, she turned to the royal attendants waiting at the door. "Summon the council. We proceed with the crowning ceremony immediately."
The attendants bowed and rushed off. Thrain barely had time to process what was happening before his mother turned her sharp gaze back to him. "You have rested long enough. It is time you fulfill your role."
The grand hall was filled with the murmurs of nobles, their voices hushed yet charged with anticipation. The ceremony had been delayed due to his condition, but now, the moment had arrived. The remaining heirs, those who had survived the deadly coming-of-age trial, stood in a solemn line before the council.
Eight figures. Eight survivors. Each one a force to be reckoned with.
River of House Thalion, the prodigious water mage, stood with quiet confidence, her silver-blue eyes gleaming with intelligence. Xaren of House Blackwood, a warrior of sheer brute force, held his head high, his scars visible from the battles within the dungeon. Aethera of House Emberfell stood slightly apart, her usual anxious demeanor making her stick out among the otherwise proud heirs. Vynessa of House Windrummer stood tall, her gaze steady despite the turmoil she had endured.
Kaelith of House Dragonlance, a formidable fighter, exuded a dangerous aura, his sharp golden eyes sweeping across the hall like a predator sizing up prey. And finally, there were the twins—Thrain and Stef of House Namaroth, the direct heirs to the Matriarch's throne.
The air crackled with tension. Though they stood as allies for now, each of them knew the unspoken truth: only one house could rule. And many of them wanted that power for themselves.
The Matriarch stepped forward, her commanding presence silencing the murmurs in the hall. "Today, you are no longer mere children of noble blood. You are heirs, warriors who have proven your worth. But the title alone is not enough."
She raised a hand, and a group of high-ranking officials stepped forward, each carrying a golden sigil representing their respective houses. "From this day forth, each of you shall embark on a journey beyond the influence of your house. You will forge your own name, your own legacy, through your actions alone."
A heavy silence followed. Thrain felt the weight of the declaration settle on his shoulders. This was it—the first step toward unraveling the truth behind the attack on the clan, the coming war, and the path he had walked in his past life.
He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. If fate had given him another chance, he would not squander it. The blood of the innocent would not be shed under his watch.
And whoever had orchestrated the downfall of his house in the past—whoever had plunged the world into war—would answer to him.
For better or for worse, Thrain's path had been set. And this time, he would not fail.