The first thing Elias knew was pain—a sharp, throbbing ache behind his eyes, as if his skull had been split open and hastily stitched back together. His breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers clawing at the roughspun sheets beneath him. The scent of aged wood and faintly bitter herbs filled his nostrils, grounding him as the world spun violently behind his closed eyelids.
Then, the memories came.
They crashed into him like a floodgate breaking, a torrent of images, emotions, and sensations that did not belong to him—or at least, not to the *him* he remembered. A life of fluorescent-lit offices, the hum of computers, the stale taste of cheap coffee. A name he could no longer grasp. A death he couldn't quite recall—only the screech of tires, the blinding glare of headlights, and then… nothing.
And then, another life.
Elias Veyne. Sixteen years old. Son of Orlan and Liora Veyne, a scholar and a weaver in the mid-tier district of Lotheris' capital. A world where the sky sometimes bled violet at dusk, where children whispered of the *Vein*—an unseen river of power that flowed beneath the earth, granting strength to those who could touch it.
His eyes snapped open.
The room was small but warm, the morning light filtering through thin curtains, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. A bookshelf stood against one wall, crammed with leather-bound tomes and scrolls—his father's influence. A worn practice sword leaned in the corner, its hilt wrapped in fraying cloth. His?
Elias sat up slowly, his muscles protesting as if he'd been asleep for days. His hands trembled as he raised them, turning them over, inspecting the callouses on his palms—marks from training, from chores, from a life he had never lived.
*This isn't a dream.*
The realization settled over him like a shroud. He had died. And now, he was here.
A knock at the door.
"Elias?" A woman's voice—soft, warm, but edged with concern. "You're awake early."
His throat tightened. *Liora. His—no, Elias's—mother.*
"Y-yeah," he managed, forcing his voice steady. "Couldn't sleep."
The door creaked open, revealing a woman with silver-streaked auburn hair and tired, kind eyes. She studied him for a moment, her gaze lingering on his face. "You look pale. Another nightmare?"
Nightmare. That was one word for it.
"Something like that," he muttered.
She sighed, stepping inside and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. "No fever. But you should rest. Your father wanted to speak with you before he leaves for the archives, but if you're unwell—"
"No," Elias said quickly, then winced at his own urgency. "I mean… I'm fine. I'll come down."
Liora hesitated, then nodded. "Alright. Don't push yourself."
The moment the door closed behind her, Elias exhaled sharply, dragging his hands through his hair. He needed to think. To *understand*.
He was in another world. A world with its own rules, its own dangers. A world where power existed—real, tangible power. The Vein.
The word sent a shiver down his spine.
In this world, the Vein was legend and fact intertwined. Some said it was the lifeblood of the earth itself. Others claimed it was the remnant of an ancient god's dying breath. But one thing was certain: those who could harness it wielded abilities beyond mortal comprehension.
And Elias—both the old and the new—had never been able to touch it.
Until now.
Because as he sat there, his fingers twitched, and for the briefest moment, he *felt* it. A pulse. A whisper. Something beneath his skin, beneath the floor, beneath the very air—waiting.
His breath caught.
Was this why he was here? Had something—or someone—brought him to this world for a reason?
A sharp rap at the door startled him.
"Elias." A deeper voice this time. His father. "We need to talk."
Elias swallowed hard. Whatever was happening to him, whatever power he might have stumbled into, one thing was clear:
His old life was gone.
And this new one had only just begun.