The cold touch of death had been nothing like he had imagined. It wasn't a painful sting or a fiery blaze. It was the sudden, suffocating silence that consumed everything. His body had no time to scream, no time to fight. He simply... ceased.
But death, it seemed, was not the end.
His eyes opened slowly, heavy with the weight of a world that didn't belong to him. The dull, unfamiliar light of a room flickered through the haze of his consciousness. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and decay. It was a place of misery—a far cry from the grand chambers he once commanded, where the scent of polished marble and the gentle warmth of burning incense filled the air.
He sat up with a jolt, his breath shallow and erratic. The world around him spun, disorienting and foreign. Where was he? His hands trembled as they reached up to touch his face—sharp cheekbones, a jaw that was no longer strong and regal, but lean and gaunt. His fingers grazed the coarse stubble on his chin, and his hair, once thick and rich, felt brittle against his scalp.
A surge of panic gripped him. His heart raced as memories began to flood his mind, crashing into him like a floodgate had opened. He saw flashes of his past—his throne, the beautiful woman who once held his heart, the feel of the sword in his hand, the roar of battle. And then... betrayal. A dagger in his back. The blood, the coldness of the floor as he fell, and the faces of those he trusted, watching him die.
Who had done this to him? Who had stolen his life so cruelly?
He shook his head, trying to push the memories away. They were fragments, incomplete, elusive—yet they felt like pieces of a puzzle he was desperate to solve. The name of his assassin lingered in his mind, but it was just out of reach. He couldn't remember, not yet. But he would.
Rising from the bed—no, it was more of a thin mattress on the floor—he glanced around. The walls were made of rough-hewn stone, the kind that didn't belong to a king's palace. The only source of light was a flickering candle on a rickety wooden table. There was no grand golden furniture, no silk tapestries. It was a lowly hovel. A far cry from the luxuries he once enjoyed.
And then it hit him.
He was no longer a king.
But how? He searched within himself, trying to sense the power he once commanded. His magic. His strength. But there was nothing. It was as if it had been... erased. He was not just weak; he was empty. His royal blood, his heritage—it was all gone, as though the very essence of his existence had been stolen along with his life.
The door creaked open, and a figure stepped into the room—a girl, barely a woman, with wide, frightened eyes. Her clothes were simple, tattered even, but there was a strange warmth in her gaze. She froze when she saw him sitting up, a flicker of confusion crossing her face.
"You're awake," she whispered, her voice shaking.
He stared at her, unsure of what to make of this strange encounter. Who was she? What was this place? How had he ended up here, in this forsaken state?
The girl took a hesitant step forward, and then, almost as if she had second thoughts, backed away. "I didn't mean to... disturb you. I'll go." She turned, but before she could leave, he spoke.
"Wait."
She paused, glancing back at him. There was a nervousness in her posture, but a sense of determination too.
"I... I don't know where I am," he said, his voice rough from disuse. "What is this place? And... who am I?"
Her eyes widened even more, as if his question was something she hadn't expected. She bit her lip, stepping closer. "You... you don't know?"
"I don't," he replied, his voice growing more steady. "Tell me."
The girl hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "You're... you're in the village of Rivenbrook. It's... not much, but it's home. As for you... you're... a stranger. You were found near the river, unconscious and half-dead."
Found... near the river. His mind raced. Could it be that his body had been discarded, abandoned after his death? Was this some twisted fate—this poor, broken shell of a man—left to live in the wreckage of his former glory?
His hands clenched into fists, his mind swirling with rage. The need for vengeance burned deep inside him, hotter than any fire he had ever known. He couldn't remember who had betrayed him, not yet. But he would. He would find them. He would reclaim what was his.
But for now, he had nothing. Not even his name.
He looked at the girl again, trying to read her, wondering if she had more answers. "What is my name?"
The girl seemed startled, her face flushing as though she were caught in a lie. But then, after a moment of silence, she spoke.
"They call you... Aleron."
Aleron. The name felt foreign, like a whisper in the dark. It meant nothing to him—but it would have to suffice for now.
His gaze hardened, his lips curling into a grim smile. The journey of vengeance had begun.
And he would make them all pay.
No matter the cost.
The name Aleron echoed within his mind like a drumbeat in an empty hall. It wasn't his true name—he was certain of that—but it would do. For now. Like a cloak worn to hide a blade, it would be the mask he used to navigate this unfamiliar world until the truth of who he was—who he had been—could be reclaimed.
The girl stood quietly near the door, her eyes flickering between curiosity and caution. She hadn't spoken since revealing the name, but she hadn't left either.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Lira," she replied, voice soft. "Lira Thorn."
The name felt honest. Unpolished. Like a stone yet untouched by water. There was nothing noble about it—and yet something in her gaze suggested she had known suffering far beyond her years. She looked no older than twenty, but her eyes… they carried weight.
Lira stepped forward, hesitant but steady, and set a small wooden bowl on the table beside him. A thin, watery broth sloshed inside.
"It's not much," she muttered, "but you haven't eaten in days."
Aleron—he would have to grow used to that name—nodded. His stomach twisted with hunger, but he couldn't bring himself to eat right away. He watched her instead.
"Why help me?" he asked, fingers curled around the bowl but unmoving.
She looked away for a moment, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I saw the way you were when they found you. Barely breathing. No one survives the river, not like that. You should have died. But you didn't. That… that means something."
She looked at him again, this time with a strange kind of reverence, as if she had seen something in him that even he couldn't see. "I've known death," she said softly. "It doesn't let go easy."
Aleron drank. The broth was flavorless, but warm. It grounded him in his new reality. He wasn't in the marble halls of his palace. He wasn't wearing a crown. He was a man with no past, no riches, no name—yet.
"Are you alone here?" he asked.
Lira shrugged. "Mostly. I live on the edge of the village. People don't ask too many questions. They're more afraid of their own problems than they are of strangers."
Smart. He made a mental note of it. A place like this could hide him well while he regained his strength. While he searched for the shadows of his past.
"I'll repay you," he said, setting the bowl aside.
She blinked. "Repay me?"
"For your kindness. For saving me."
A faint smile touched her lips, one not born of joy, but disbelief. "You don't owe me anything, Aleron. Just stay alive."
He let the name sit for a moment before nodding. Stay alive. Yes. That was the first step.
Later, when Lira had left and silence reclaimed the small room, Aleron stood and faced the mirror mounted crookedly above the basin. The glass was cracked, weathered, spotted with age. But it reflected enough.
The man who looked back at him was lean, not weak. His jaw was sharp, his eyes dark and piercing. There was something noble hidden beneath the rough edges. He traced the faint scar beneath his left eye—one he did not remember earning. His skin, once bronzed and regal, was now pale and worn.
But his eyes… there was fire there.
He turned away and approached the window. Outside, Rivenbrook revealed itself. A cluster of crude homes and winding dirt paths. The forest beyond stretched endlessly, thick and ancient, cloaked in mist. Somewhere out there… they lived. The ones who killed him. The ones who had torn apart his kingdom and fed it to the crows.
He didn't know their faces. Not yet.
But he would find them.
Even if he had to burn the world to ashes.
He pulled the thin cloak tighter around himself. The wind whispered through the cracks in the stone walls, and in that whisper, he thought he heard something… a memory. A voice.
Aleron… you were never meant to die so quietly.
His jaw clenched.
He would rise.
Not as a king.
But as a ghost with unfinished vengeance in his blood.
And this time, no one would see him coming.