Robin spent the next two days in his dusty prison of a room. He forced himself to eat the disgusting, watery gruel the sour-faced servant brought him.
It tasted like wet cereal left out overnight , but his new body desperately needed any energy it could get. He had tried to do some simple exercises, the kind Commander Justin could do in his sleep, but his body had screamed in protest.
A single push-up was an impossible dream. He felt a muscle in his arm tear after trying to lift the wobbly chair.
"This is ridiculous," he had panted, lying on the floor after the failed attempt. "I've fought beasts bigger than this chair."
He realized he couldn't stay locked away. A commander needs information. He couldn't make a plan if he didn't know the lay of the land.
He needed to see the castle, understand its routines, and most importantly, he needed to see his enemy. He needed to see his "father."
Gathering all his strength, he decided it was time for his first great expedition: a journey to the end of the hallway.
He got out of bed, his legs trembling as always. They felt less like legs and more like thin branches struggling to hold up a stone.
He shuffled to the door. The heavy wooden door was his first opponent. He grabbed the iron handle, which felt freezing cold in his small hand, and pulled.
CREEEAK.
The door groaned open, complaining loudly. Robin froze, listening. No one came running. Good. He poked his head out. The hallway was long and empty, the stone walls cold and imposing.
To a ten-year-old, it looked as wide and long as a canyon.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of his room for the first time. He stayed close to the wall, one hand touching the cold stone for balance.
Every step was an effort. His commander's mind wanted to stride forward with purpose and confidence. His body, however, wanted to flop onto the floor and take a nap.
"Come on, you useless collection of bones," he muttered to his own legs. "One foot. Then the other. It's not a fifty-mile march."
He made his way slowly down the corridor, his bare feet silent on the cold stone. He passed other doors, all of them closed. The air here was stale and quiet.
This was clearly the forgotten wing of the castle, a place where they put things and people they wanted to forget.
As he reached a larger, more open hallway, he suddenly heard something. It was a sound he knew well: the sound of power. It was the low rumble of important voices talking, mixed with the rhythmic CLANK… CLANK… of armored guards walking on stone.
His soldier's instincts took over. Hide!
He looked around frantically. There was a large, faded tapestry hanging on the wall, depicting a famous battle from long ago. It was perfect. He slipped behind it, pressing his small, frail body into the dark corner. The tapestry smelled of dust and old wool, and it tickled his nose. He fought the urge to sneeze. A sneeze now would be a disaster.
He peeked through a small gap in the fabric.
A procession was walking down the grand corridor. At the front and back were household guards, their armor polished to a mirror shine and the Tregor wolf symbol proud on their chests.
They walked with their heads held high, radiating strength and authority. In the middle were a group of advisors, older men with serious faces and expensive robes, all talking in low, urgent tones.
And at the very center of them all, like the sun with planets orbiting around it, was Duke Tregor.
Justin now Robin, his breath caught in his throat. It was him. But it was a version of him from sixty years in the past. The Duke looked younger, more vibrant.
His hair had less grey in it, his shoulders were broader, and he moved with an energy that Justin had never seen in the old man from his previous life. He looked powerful. He looked like a king.
But as the Duke turned his head to speak to one of his advisors, Robin saw his eyes.
And his heart turned to ice.
The face was younger, but the eyes were exactly the same. They were the same cold, calculating eyes that had looked at Justin with fake pride after the battle.
They held the same ruthless ambition, the same look that saw people not as people, but as tools. Tools to be used, and tools to be thrown away when they were no longer useful.
Seeing those eyes in this younger, more powerful face was like finding the same deadly snake, just in a newer, shinier skin.
The procession stopped not far from where Robin was hiding. The Duke was listening to an advisor complain about the price of grain. Robin held his breath, praying they wouldn't see the tiny movement of the tapestry.
Then, the Duke's head turned. His gaze swept across the hallway, a casual, dismissive glance. It was the look of a king surveying his property. His eyes scanned the stone walls, the high ceiling, the polished floors.
The cold gaze moved closer and closer to Robin's hiding spot. Robin's weak heart started to pound against his ribs like a trapped bird.
The Duke's eyes passed over the tapestry. For a fraction of a second, his gaze went right through the fabric, right where Robin was standing.
And it kept going.
There was no flicker of recognition. No hint of surprise. Not even a glimmer of curiosity about the dirty tapestry hanging in his own hall. It was as if Robin was not there at all. He was a piece of furniture. A shadow. A ghost.
The Duke's own son was standing less than twenty feet away from him, and he was less noticeable than a crack in the stone.
The realization hit Robin with the force of a cannonball. This wasn't hatred. Hatred, at least, was an emotion. Hatred meant you acknowledged someone's existence.
This was something far, far worse. It was pure, absolute indifference. He did not matter. The boy, Robin Tregor, had never mattered.
The procession moved on, their footsteps and voices fading down the corridor until it was silent again.
Robin slid down the wall, his weak legs finally giving out. He sat on the cold floor in the dusty darkness behind the tapestry. The anger he felt before was a hot, wild fire. This new feeling was different. It was cold. It was heavy. It was solid as a block of ice in his chest.
This wasn't just about getting revenge for Commander Justin anymore. That was his own personal battle. This was now for the boy whose body he wore.
This was for the sad, lonely child who had been so worthless to his own father that he wasn't even worth a glance.
His mission crystallized. It became sharp and clear.
Killing the Duke would be too easy. Too quick. No, that wasn't enough. He would dismantle this entire rotten family from the inside. He would take their power, their name, their wealth, and their legacy.
He would take everything the Duke held dear and crush it in his hands. He would become so powerful that the Duke would have no choice but to see him, to acknowledge him, and to kneel before the ghost he had ignored.
He stood up, his legs still shaky, but his mind was now a fortress of cold, hard resolve. He had his mission. He had his enemy.
Now, all he needed was power.