The void was endless. Infinite. But what did that have to do with him? Dave didn't care about infinity—he wanted his parents. He wanted his little sister's endless chatter, his mother's warm lavender-vanilla hugs, or his father's quiet, unwavering love.He didn't know that death meant nothing, if he knew this he would have more or even tried revenge or even buried his parents, regrets were filling his mind.
He didn't ask for this. He had signed up for death. And yet, here he was—floating. Not in a body, not really. Just… being. A soul adrift in the abyss. Ethereal, untouchable, and unbound by flesh. He tried to touch his chest—his hands passed through him like smoke. Intangible. Unreal.
But what terrified him more than the ghostlike form was the silence. No glimpse of his family. No voice. Nothing. The one reason he smiled at death's door had been the promise of reunion. And now even that was stripped away.
He wanted to cry, to scream. But there were no vocal cords to produce sound, no tear glands to give his grief substance. His mourning was mocked by his form—incapable of expression, denied even sorrow.
Then, like a cosmic shift, something pulled at him—his soul dragged toward a force he couldn't see. The nothingness collapsed inward.
And then…
A heartbeat. Steady. Rhythmic.
He felt the blood pulsing through veins—something he had not felt in what felt like forever. His eyes were closed. But light touched his lids.
The sun.
He lifted a hand to shield his face. The warmth was real, the light blinding but gentle. He blinked his eyes open.
Green. Everywhere. Endless stretches of rolling fields and swaying trees, kissed by the wind. He lay on a raised hill, grass brushing his skin. The world stretched out infinitely before him—an untouched paradise. Fertile land, no signs of overpopulation, no looming towers or honking cars.
Where was he?
His hand reached up to rub his neck—no bullet wound. No pain. But something else caught his attention. Hair.
Long hair.
That wasn't right. He'd always kept a clean taper fade—modern, sharp. Not this flowing, silken length that brushed his face and neck. Had he been in a coma? Transported? None of it made sense.
A soft laugh escaped him. It was absurd. Impossible.
And yet—
"Young master," a voice called gently from behind him. "It is time for dinner. Let us return."
He froze.
That voice wasn't familiar. But the tone—the deference—it chilled him. Slowly, he turned.
Standing behind him was a man in his fifties. Crisp white hair, well-groomed beard, and the physique of a warrior. His black suit, white gloves, and perfect posture screamed old-world nobility—like Alfred from Batman, but far more intimidating.
A joke? A prank?
He was about to speak, to protest, but then he saw it.
The carriage.
It wasn't a vehicle. It was a mobile palace—massive, majestic, and gleaming in the golden hour light. Deep mahogany wood polished to a mirror sheen formed its body. Golden filigree curled around the edges—dragons, phoenixes, and crowned lions intertwined like stories carved into the frame.
Four enormous wheels, rimmed with iron and golden spokes, supported its grandeur. Scarlet curtains, embroidered with silver thread, swayed gently over the windows. Six black stallions, sleek and armored, stood harnessed in silver-trimmed leather. Each wore a crested helm; the lead bore a plume in royal blue.
The driver atop the carriage sat like a statue in navy and gold, reins held in noble silence.
And above the door, engraved in bold letters:
House Thaldrune
"As tides return, so shall we."
The language was foreign—but he understood it. Not him, Dave. But the body he was in.
Perfumed air—lavender and sandalwood—spilled from the door as it opened. The scent calmed him, despite everything.
Inside, velvet-lined walls cushioned the cabin. The seats—wrapped in royal blue silk and padded with swan-down—welcomed him like royalty. And opposite him, the butler sat cross-legged, gloved hand on chin, his eyes unreadable.
The carriage began to move.
As it did, a city began to reveal itself, frame by frame. Massive stone walls, dark gray and intimidating, towered in the distance. Each turn of the wheels brought more of the kingdom into view.
Two armored figures stood beside the gates—humans covered in thick metal plating, statues come alive. As the carriage approached, they pulled open the colossal doors with practiced might. The metal groaned like ancient giants stirring in their sleep.
But their faces… were not grim.
Pride. Joy. They thumped closed fists against their chests in salute as the carriage passed.
Inside the town, life bloomed.
Smiling citizens lined the streets. Children chased ribbons in the breeze. Vendors offered sweets, flowers, hand-carved toys. Petals rained from windows above, and everywhere laughter rang out. There was no fear—only warmth.
Only he, Dave, wore a somber mask.
He watched the joy with hollow eyes. The grief in him hadn't left. It sat like an anchor deep within, silent and heavy.
Then, the palace came into view.
Not what he imagined. Not a castle of dread or a fortress of stone.
It was radiant.
Towers climbed into the sky, crowned with banners of sapphire and gold. Domes caught the sunlight and turned it to flame. The outer marble walls shimmered like mirrors. Music—soft flutes, wind chimes, and the heartbeat of drums—echoed from within the city, rising like praise.
Children danced near the steps. Citizens bowed in reverence as the carriage rolled past. They weren't afraid—they admired. This wasn't just power. It was a beacon.
Unity.
Hope.
The gate of the palace opened with solemn majesty. The carriage stopped. The door unlatched.
Dave stepped out.
The people bowed "they looked at me with hope but hope....was for the living and he was something else.....". He walked past them with grace—natural and composed. Not because he wanted to, but because this body remembered how.
Everyone was having dinner but he told his butler he was to be excused as he lacked the appetite. There he saw the way to his room. The grand staircase awaited—each step embedded with gold and gems that could feed nations. He climbed them, not with awe, but silent burden. He knew his destination, though he'd never been.
He reached the door to his room. Ornate, absurdly so. He pushed it open.
Then closed it.
And leaned against it.
Then slid to the floor.
And cried.
Silently.
Violently.
Again.
A boy torn from one world, dropped into another.
A prince in name, a mourner in soul.
And no one could hear him.
No one, but the silence.
He was broken.