Prologue – Not My Name
The first thing he noticed was the ceiling—cracked, water-stained, and unfamiliar.
The second was the silence.
Conor sat up with a sudden jolt, his breath catching in his throat. He was no longer in a hospital bed. No IV drip, no beeping machines, no sterile white sheets. Instead, he found himself in a worn-out bed with a splintered wooden frame, inside a room that looked like it belonged in an old-fashioned motel—or worse, a low-budget medieval set.
"What the hell…?" he muttered under his breath, eyes darting around.
The air was thick with the scent of old wood and dust. His feet met the floor—creaky, uneven boards that groaned beneath his weight. A wooden chair sat in the corner, and on it lay a neatly folded set of clothes. Judging by the fact he was only wearing black cloth-like boxers, he guessed they were meant for him.
He approached the chair cautiously, picking up the garments. The clothes looked dated—thick linen, dark tunic, simple leather straps. Something straight out of a fantasy show.
But then, something glinted.
On the silver cuff of the belt, he caught his reflection—brief, distorted, but enough to send him stumbling back onto the floor.
"No—what…?"
Heart pounding, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the belt again, this time forcing his hands to stay still. His reflection stared back at him.
It wasn't him.
The face belonged to someone else—someone younger, early twenties maybe. His hair was messy, black with faint hints of blue under the light. His eyes were a piercing gray, bordering on charcoal, and his skin was smooth, slightly pale. He had high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and the kind of handsomeness you'd expect from a game character—not from a guy who spent most of his life in and out of hospital rooms.
"This isn't real," he whispered. "This can't be real."
And yet, everything felt real.
Before he could process anything more, a loud neigh of a horse cut through the silence, followed by the distant chatter of a crowd.
He rushed to the window, tugging open the wooden shutters—and froze.
Outside, the world stretched into something out of a medieval fantasy dream. Horses pulled ornate carriages. People bustled along cobblestone streets in tunics, robes, and armor. Market stalls lined the roads, filled with exotic fruits, glowing trinkets, and weapons. Beyond it all, rooftops rose and fell like waves—old architecture, foreign and grand.
Then he saw it: a towering castle that loomed over the city like a crown. Beside it, another building almost identical in size and design. An academy, maybe? It all felt surreal. Too detailed. Too alive.
Before he could get lost in the awe of it, a voice barked from behind.
"Dray!"
Conor spun around just as the door creaked open. A gruff-looking man with a scruffy beard and permanent frown stepped in, eyeing him with clear annoyance.
"Quit gawking out the damn window and get dressed. You'll be late—again."
And just like that, he was gone, muttering something under his breath as he slammed the door shut.
Dray.
That was the name he used.
But that wasn't his name.
Conor stood frozen, a cold sweat trailing down his face. He stared at the clothes in his hands. At the window. At the door.
His name wasn't Dray.
And wherever this place was…
It wasn't where he was supposed to be.