Tears were already on Soren's face when he woke.
For a few seconds he didn't know where he was, only that his cheeks were wet, his throat was tight, and his chest felt wrong, like it had been filled with someone else's breath and hadn't figured out how to let it go.
"What the hell was that…?"
His voice came out hoarse, scraped thin by sleep and grief that shouldn't have belonged to him.
He pushed himself upright slowly and wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, but it only smeared the wetness across his skin.
His hands trembled, not from cold, but from the leftover sensation of being someone else, thinking like someone else, reacting like someone else, with no room to brace.
'It was so real…'
He knew the library did this; he knew that books in that place didn't just give information, that they gave experiences, and he had been prepared for that in the shallow way you could be prepared for anything when it was still theoretical.
This hadn't been theoretical.
He hadn't watched memories like a stranger peering through glass; he had been inside them, wearing them, moving through them with the same instincts, the same soft habits, the same helpless attachments.
He had felt the original Soren's affection with a clarity that made his own thoughts feel distant, like his real self had been forced to the edge of the room to make space.
Freya's laughter.
Freya's voice.
The way warmth spread through the original Soren's body whenever she smiled, automatic and complete, like the world had decided to be kind for once.
And then, the moment she was gone.
Even now, only thinking her name was enough to pull his chest inward, an ache blooming behind his ribs, heavy and sharp at the same time, and the worst part was how immediate it was, how it didn't ask permission.
He didn't even know her.
Not truly.
Isaac had never met Freya Arden, had never heard her speak, had never stood in the same room as her, and yet the grief sat in his body as if it had every right to be there, squeezing his lungs until breathing felt like a compromise.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to force the emotion into place, trying to pin it down like a loose page, but pain pricked at the back of his skull, a dull pressure that hinted at how much had been shoved into him at once.
The feelings were tangled, too deep to belong to him, but too strong to ignore.
'They were closer than I thought…'
He had guessed the original Soren had cared for his sister, of course he had, the axe in the dorm had been proof enough, the way it was treated like an heirloom rather than a tool, but guessing wasn't the same as feeling it, wasn't the same as having those memories flood his nerves and move his heart like it had always been trained to respond that way.
Freya filled every corner of those moments, not as a passing figure, but as the centre of gravity, and when Soren opened his eyes to the present again, his current life felt strangely hollow, like the room had been built around a person who wasn't there anymore.
He wiped his eyes again, harder this time, frustrated at himself and at the unfairness of it, at the way he could recognise the emotion as foreign and still be helpless against it.
"Damn it…"
He swallowed, but it didn't help.
The pressure stayed.
'I'm not sure how to feel about this…'
He told himself it wasn't his sadness, that he was only carrying it, that he was borrowing a wound that had been carved into someone else, but it didn't make the grief any lighter.
His or not, it pressed down on him all the same, and the alienation of that made his skin crawl, as if he were an intruder wearing a mourning cloak he hadn't earned.
Ting-♪
A faint chime echoed in his ears.
.
▶ ù̷̥͇̹̽́o̶̜̊l̷̡̔͂̅S̸̥͕̬̔̐́̉̀ͅ ̴̤̝͎̅͐̓̓͝i̸̢̳͙̮͚̽̂ṉ̴̡̧̧͋̅̐e̶̩̓̾̆̀̃g̸̗͌̉̓̑̚r̵̠̠͎̱̟͛̾̚M̵̢̙̣̒͑͂͐g̶̛̪͛̍̀ ȍ̶̠̘̬̳̩͍̣̩̒͗̿̉̀͝f̷̟͊́̉͋̑͑̽̈̕̚͘͘ ̵̛̠̗̞̠̌̀̏͛̈́̒͆̄̄̕ͅͅḮ̴̪͎̙̮̲̳͌̄̒̇̉͆̒͂̊́̓̉s̶̺̭̗͓̯̭̮̜̭͎͍͕͓̏̉̈́̅͌͗̔̏͌̀͋͋̉͜͜a̵̧̘͇̤̻͖̠̮͋͂́̓̓͒͠a̶̦͙̜̜̜͉̝̜̺̓̏͌c̸̰͚͍̺̮͚͚̳̮̥̠͗̀̓̔̐͝ ̴̛̝̥͉̟̓̈́̇͜͝a̷̡̳̮̰̯͍͉̩̮͓͍̥̟͆͐͑͜͜n̴̬̫͇̫̜̘̤̼̾̇̎̏̈͊̀͘͜͜d̶̡͖̤͕̮̯̫̑̇͋̂͒̎͝͠ ̵̢̜͈͔̮̗̝̠̠͚͑̏͜S̶͉͔̬͔̯̊̎͐̔̔͝o̶͖̭̩͂̄̌̍̐͗̅͜͝r̷̡͓̥̦͕̹̯̬̽̾̽͗͂̃̉̽̋̊͛̐̒͝ë̵͇̘̺̮͉̥͈̌̇̋̆̑̕n̷͈̘͚͍̞̹̰̱͈͉̼̘̹͆̑̒̌:̴̻̹͉̌̈́ ̵͖̝̽̂̋̍͌6̷̠̳̀̀̑̉̐%̸͉̓͑̈̅͗ ◀
.
Soren blinked at the corrupted text until his eyes stung.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
No answer came, of course.
The system didn't explain itself when it decided to be unsettling, and right now he didn't have the energy to be properly alarmed.
His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slow, as if the memories had taken a bite out of his mind and left him running on whatever was left.
When he blinked again, exhaustion weighed down his eyelids so hard it felt like gravity had increased.
He left the library in a haze, the world around him blurred at the edges as if it didn't deserve focus, and when he returned to his dorm he collapsed onto his bed without changing, the mattress catching him like a silent promise.
'I just want to sleep.'
'I'm tired.'
The last thought before darkness claimed him wasn't quite his.
'Freya… I'm sorry.'
••✦ ♡ ✦•••
Days passed before Soren could think clearly about what had happened.
At first, the whole experience disgusted him, not because the memories had been painful, but because of what they had done to his sense of self.
The idea of someone else's emotions bleeding into him, occupying him, moving his body like it was theirs again, made his skin itch with the same discomfort as being watched.
He had been thrown into this life already stripped of control, and now even his feelings had been temporarily hijacked.
But time dulled the sharpest edges, and once the confusion loosened its grip, his perspective began to shift into something more complicated than revulsion.
Maybe it wasn't a curse.
Maybe it was necessary.
He had been living as Soren Arden with a stranger's history behind his eyes, and every time a name appeared, every time a relationship existed that he didn't understand, he'd had to improvise.
Now, at least, he had a chance to know.
Not neatly, not safely, but truthfully.
The glitch in the status window also seemed to have resolved itself with time, the system returning to its usual clarity as if nothing had happened, though he couldn't say it didn't bother him.
Other changes had come too.
His points had risen to 186, edging him closer to being able to buy another skill, and normally that would have made him feel a clean, practical satisfaction, but even that was slightly muted, weighed down by the lingering aftertaste of grief that still didn't feel earned.
And, of course, the student body had started treating him differently… again.
Ever since the mock duel, people had gone from quietly avoiding him to outright stepping aside when he entered a hallway, as if proximity itself might be dangerous.
Whispers followed him everywhere, his name carried in soft voices that cut off the moment he looked over.
Usually, he would have felt worse about it, but after living with a similar atmosphere for over a month, the behaviour had started to slide into the background, an irritating constant rather than an active wound.
He could handle stares.
What he wasn't sure he could handle was someone looking at him like they knew him, like they remembered the boy he wasn't.
The bell rang, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Soren packed his stationery away, movements automatic, mind still a little distant, ready to leave class when the sound of impact broke through the chatter.
Slam-!
The door burst open.
A tall girl stood framed in the doorway, shoulders squared, short black hair brushing her chin, crimson eyes gleaming like fresh blood.
There was something sharp about her presence, not just in her gaze, but in the way the room seemed to recoil instinctively, as if everyone had collectively decided it was safer not to be noticed.
Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her breathing wasn't quite steady, making it clear she had rushed here the moment the bell had rung.
"Is Soren Arden here?"
Her tone cut through the room, and instantly, every head turned toward him.
Soren froze, fingers still resting on his bag strap, and met her eyes.
The intimidating expression she wore cracked the moment she saw him, not slowly, not cautiously, but all at once, like a mask being yanked away.
Her face softened so suddenly it was almost disorienting, and for a heartbeat the shift reminded him of a memory he didn't want to touch, warmth breaking through sternness with the same instinctive familiarity.
"I'm here…?" he said, and his voice came out weaker than he intended.
Before he could add anything, she crossed the room in long strides and grabbed his wrist, her grip firm enough to be unquestionable, her face breaking into a bright smile that didn't match the scar running across her features, a thick, pale line that cut over her nose and into one cheek, harsh against otherwise smooth skin.
"Oh! There you are! I've been looking all over for you!"
"Wait—" he started, but the word didn't matter.
Too late, she was already dragging him out of the classroom, and the sudden motion left him stumbling for a step before he caught himself.
"Let's go somewhere! It's been so long since I last saw you!"
He tried to pull free out of reflex more than resistance, but her grip was like steel, and her stride didn't even falter.
'She's not letting go...'
It wasn't fear that tightened in his chest, not really.
It was confusion, and something else beneath it, a faint unease that came from the way her voice hit the same part of him Freya's memory had lit up, affectionate and certain, as if their closeness was a fact that didn't need rebuilding.
He swallowed, forced himself to stop resisting, and let her lead him through the corridors while he tried to get his thoughts into order.
While being hauled along, he opened her information window out of sheer necessity, because his brain wanted something concrete to hold onto.
.
[Louise Cruentus]
Age: 20
Gender: Female
Race: Human
.
'Another name I don't know…'
Yet one glance at those crimson eyes told him enough to make his stomach dip.
Red eyes were rare in Ivansia.
Deep crimson like hers was practically unheard of, except for him.
Freya's eyes in the memories had been brown, warm and ordinary in a way that had somehow made her presence feel even more real, and the only other person Soren could remember with even a hint of red was Sofia, and hers had been closer to a tint than a true colour.
'So she's… family.'
Before he could settle on what that meant, Louise turned mid-stride, still holding his wrist, and pouted at him like she had been storing the expression up for weeks.
"I only found out you were here after the mock duels! Shouldn't you have at least come to tell your big sister that you were here? I missed you!"
The words were playful, but there was genuine warmth underneath, the kind that didn't feel forced.
Soren blinked.
'Big sister?'
The phrase sank in slowly, dragging questions behind it like hooks.
Why hadn't the original Soren gone to her?
After what Soren had felt in those memories, after seeing how the original had clung to Freya as if she were the last stable thing in his life, it didn't make sense that he would ignore another source of comfort, not unless something else was tangled in it.
'Unless he didn't want to burden her.'
That thought landed with a quiet weight, because it fit too well, grief making people small and stubborn, shame making them disappear from the people who might have actually wanted to help.
Louise didn't give him time to respond properly.
She kept moving, pulling him along with a certainty that suggested she had already decided today was happening, whether he agreed or not, and eventually they reached her destination.
A café.
Soren slowed at the threshold, taking in the warm light, the smell of sugar and roasted beans, the noise of students packed into tables and booths, voices overlapping in an easy way that still felt foreign to him.
He didn't come to places like this, at least not anymore, not with any intention of being part of the atmosphere.
Louise led him to a corner booth and sat first, posture relaxed, as if this had always been theirs.
She picked up the menu, then looked up with that same bright expression.
"Sit, sit," she said cheerfully. "You have to try something here, everything's good."
Soren sat down, stiff, still trying to process the fact that this woman was apparently part of his life.
Louise flipped through the menu, then handed it across to him.
"How are classes going?"
"They're fine," he answered, and after a second, he added, because it felt like she deserved the truth, "I'm in Class F."
"Oh, really?"
She rested her chin on her hand, studying him with an expression that was too attentive to be casual.
"I'm guessing you majored in Arcane Studies, right?"
"…Something like that."
A few minutes of small talk followed, awkward in the way that made his stomach twist, because it wasn't the awkwardness of two strangers meeting, it was the awkwardness of two people who were supposed to be close and weren't, a gap where history should have been.
Then a cheerful voice cut in.
"Welcome to Etheheart Café! The usual, Louise?"
Soren looked up to see a purple-haired beastkin smiling down at them, her long tail swishing lazily behind her as if the crowd didn't bother her at all.
"Yep!" Louise grinned, and the change in her demeanour was immediate.
The sharp, commanding girl who had kicked open a classroom door now looked radiant, laughing as she chatted with the waitress, her features softening in a way that made her scar seem less like a threat and more like a story.
Soren blinked, caught off guard.
When Louise turned back to him, she winced slightly, as if she remembered herself.
"Ah… sorry, Soren. I got carried away. Shirone's an old friend."
"It's fine," he said, and he surprised himself by meaning it, because her warmth wasn't unpleasant; it was simply dangerous in a different way.
"Oh, right!" Louise leaned forward, crimson eyes sparkling with interest. "What was that thing you did in the duels? People said you were moving while casting magic! How did you pull that off?"
He scratched his cheek, buying time.
"Honestly, I don't really know. I just sort of… figured it out."
It wasn't a lie, not exactly, but it still sat strangely in his mouth, because the real explanation involved a system that didn't belong in a normal world, and he still didn't know how much of that he could safely reveal to the people around him.
Louise's smile widened, and for a moment her expression was so fond it made his chest tighten.
"So you're saying my little brother's a genius now?"
The words were light, but the affection behind them hit him harder than he expected, because they weren't aimed at Isaac; they were aimed at Soren Arden, and the disorientation he had been keeping at bay surged again.
'I'm not Soren.'
The thought came sharp, instinctive, and the guilt followed right behind it, because it wasn't her fault, she didn't know, and she was looking at him like she had been missing him for years.
He forced his expression to stay neutral, then reached for a question he had been curious about, partly to change the subject and partly to anchor himself in something practical.
"I was just wondering, Louise"
"—Sis."
He paused.
'Huh?'
He tried again, carefully.
"Louise—"
She pouted, not angry, but stubbornly insistent.
"Call me Sis."
He could already tell he wouldn't win this, not because she was stronger, though she clearly was, but because her insistence carried the weight of familiarity, like she was reclaiming a shape that had always existed between them.
He let out a slow breath.
"…Sis," he relented. "What rank are you?"
Her eyes lit up immediately, pleased at the victory.
"Rank? Oh! I'm sixth in Martial Studies. Pretty cool, right?"
"Wow," he exclaimed, and he meant it.
Sixth in Martial Studies, among third years, was impressive enough that it made the earlier grip on his wrist make perfect sense.
It also made her presence feel even more intimidating in retrospect, because power like that drew attention, and attention was something Soren had been trying to avoid.
They finished their drinks, and despite the awkward start, the conversation began to flow more naturally, Louise filling the space with stories and questions, easy to talk to once the initial stiffness faded.
For a moment, Soren could almost relax.
Then, as they were leaving the café, Louise asked, quietly enough that it didn't feel like gossip, but carefully enough that it felt like stepping around a bruise.
"So, how did things go with Aunty Sofia?"
————「❤︎」————