"Prince Darien? How are you feeling?"
The question cuts through the fog in Kael's mind for what feels like the fourth time, maybe more.
He doesn't answer.
He can't.
He's still staring blankly at the ceiling above him, heart thudding in disbelief. This can't be real.
He's alive?
He remembers the execution.
The cold bite of chains against his skin. The crowd's jeers echoing in his ears. The sickening sound of the sword slicing through the air and then through him.
The pain, searing and final. And all that because of one person he admired regardless of his ruthlessness.
His fingers clinch tightly as he remembers Eryx. The night they shared, it was passionate, something he had never had in his enter life. But now, it only fuels his anger.
He flinches at the memory of his death.
So how comes he is here? Breathing? Heart still beating?
And why are they calling him Prince Darien?
Of course, he knows the name. Everyone has heard of the Olderia Kingdom's so-called "useless prince."
A man so frail he couldn't wield a sword, let alone lead a war. Whispers claimed he was sick, cursed perhaps. Others said he only went to the battlefield to embarrass his kingdom.
Kael once laughed at the name. Darien, the Shame of Olderia.
But now...
Now he lifts his hand and stares.
The hand is not his.
It's pale, smooth, and dainty. The skin unmarred, soft like a child's. His heart skips. He raises both arms now, looks at his chest, his legs. His legs are so thin, like they'll snap if he stands.
This… isn't my body.
Panic blooms like wildfire in his chest.
"What the hell…" he whispers.
The voice is weak. Shaky. Too soft. Not his voice.
He groans internally. Is this some twisted punishment? Do those who die unjustly awaken in weaker shells? Is this what happens after death?
Why would he, a warrior, a soldier who fought with pride end up trapped in the most fragile body he's ever seen?
"Leave me," he finally says, testing how far his voice can carry. It's barely a murmur, but it's enough.
The servants glance at one another, then silently shuffle out. The witch who hovered nearby follows without question.
Only one remains.
The bodyguard.
Harry.
He doesn't budge.
"I actually thought we were going to lose you," Harry says, his voice low, heavy with something like grief.
Kael stiffens.
The raw concern in the man's voice makes his stomach twist.
Wait, were they lovers?!
He side-eyes Harry warily, unease pooling in his gut. Did Darien have a thing with his bodyguard?
He forces himself to sit upright, limbs tensing up. Then he staggers off the bed toward the mirror across the room.
The floor feels cold beneath his bare feet, and his knees nearly buckle, but he catches himself just in time.
He grips the mirror frame, breathless.
The face staring back at him is… beautiful. Ethereal, even. Blue eyes. Flawless pale skin. Soft brown curls tousled like a prince in a fairy tale.
But to Kael, it's horrifying.
Was this even a man?
A twenty-year-old warrior turned into a breakable porcelain doll.
His gaze drops to his torso where pain comes from.
Sword wounds. Fresh, raw.
"What happened to these?" he asks, pointing at them.
Harry steps closer, eyes narrowing. "Wait… have you lost your memory? Tell me you remember who I am. Who am I to you? My name?"
Kael hesitates.
"I don't remember the name," he says slowly. "But I think you're my bodyguard...?"
Harry's brows shoot up. "You think?"
Kael's mind races. The way Harry is looking at him, it's full of worry. Genuine concern. He feels a little ashamed now for assuming something scandalous.
Before Harry can say more, heavy footsteps echo from the hall.
The door bursts open.
Kael tenses, spine straightening.
A tall, broad-shouldered man steps in, wearing a cloak of royal blue lined with gold. His eyes, sharp like daggers, narrow upon seeing Kael.
King Aldrich.
"Mmm," the king mutters, his voice thick with disdain. "So you made it. Just to humiliate us further, I suppose."
Kael blinks.
The hatred is palpable.
"I do not understand why you insist on dragging your fragile self into the battlefield, as if the humiliation you've caused us is not enough!" the king snaps, each word a lash.
Harry tries to speak. "My king, he only wants to prove himself..."
"Speak not!" Aldrich snarls. "You're as useless as he is."
Then he storms out, his cloak sweeping behind him like a blade.
The room falls silent after the king storms out, leaving Kael with the weight of his humiliation.
The sting of the king's harsh words still echoes in his ears even when he knows he is not the one being told all that!
Failure, useless, weak. These were not words meant for him. Yet they were spoken to him as if they were truths.
He stands still for a moment, his breath shallow, his chest tight with a growing knot of frustration.
The words replays over and over in his mind. Failure to be strong. Failure to live up to expectations.
His hands tremble at his sides, fingers curling into weak, unfamiliar fists. These hands are not his- this alone frustrates him to the core.
But he is in this body after all, and nothing can be done, except to accept this and use it as an opportunity to accomplish what he was unable to accomplish in his past life! And getting back at Eryx, is number one on the list!
He will make him suffer for what he did to him!
And changing Darien's reputation, is as well number one on the list! He won't accept to be called a weakling!
Determination begins to flicker in his chest, something stronger than the self-loathing and confusion.
He may not be Kael anymore, but he's not going to let anyone, especially not the king, and not even his previous kingdom that used to tease Darien's existence, define his worth.
"It's surprising that you aren't crying today after that scolding. Or now you are used to it." Harry says, amusement flickering in his voice.
"Cry?!" Kael asks his face twisting in disgust, cry because of that?! "So that brat used to cry when scolded!" He doesn't realise when he says that aloud.
"Which brat? We're talking about you. Duh!"
Kael turns away, massaging his temple. "This is worse than I thought!"