Lysander awoke to the scent of damp earth and the distant bleating of sheep, a strange symphony that pulled him from the depths of unconsciousness. His body ached, every muscle protesting as he shifted on the cold stone floor. Chains clinked softly with his movement—he was shackled.
He blinked against the dim light filtering through a small barred window high on the wall. The walls around him were rough stone, ancient and damp, covered in moss and time. A dungeon. He took a slow, measured breath.
His name was Lysander.
But that was not the name he had been born with.
Fragments of memory surfaced—tactical boards, battlefields strewn with banners, arguments in council chambers echoing with the weight of nations. He had lived another life, a different world, where he was a strategist feared and revered in equal measure.
Now, he was here. Wherever "here" was.
Footsteps echoed outside the cell, rhythmic and purposeful. He sat upright, every movement calculated, controlled. The door creaked open, revealing a boy no older than sixteen, dressed in fine yet practical clothing. Behind him stood a grizzled guard, hand on hilt.
"You're awake," the boy said, stepping into the cell with surprising confidence. "Good. I was beginning to think the Regent had you beaten to death."
Lysander tilted his head. The boy's bearing, the subtle emblem stitched into his cloak—it spoke volumes. Royalty. But not the king.
"Prince," Lysander said, his voice hoarse but steady.
The boy's eyes widened slightly. "You recognize me?"
"I recognize power in transition," Lysander replied, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
The prince knelt beside him. "They say you're a heretic. That you spoke blasphemies about the Soul Weave."
"I spoke truths no one wished to hear," Lysander murmured. "And truth, in the hands of the unprepared, is often indistinguishable from heresy."
The prince frowned. "You'll be executed in three days. Publicly. The Regent wants a spectacle."
"Of course he does," Lysander said. "Spectacles are a poor man's control tactic. Flashy. Temporary. Ineffective."
The prince studied him, something shifting in his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. Or desperation.
"I think you were framed," he said. "I think the Regent fears you."
"He should."
Silence stretched between them.
"I need an advisor," the prince said suddenly. "Someone who sees what others don't. If you're half the mind they say you were…"
Lysander chuckled, low and dry. "You wish to play a game against the Regent, boy?"
"No. I wish to win."
Lysander leaned forward, the chains groaning.
"Then listen carefully," he said, eyes gleaming with an ancient fire. "The first move is already in play."