Chapter 1: Echoes in a Fading Castle
Consciousness came like a slow, cold tide, dragging Alfin Leontarde out of a nameless void. It wasn't his phone alarm that roused him, nor the faint aroma of instant coffee he usually brewed.
The first thing he felt was weight. A suffocating heaviness pressing down on his body, as though he were wrapped in layers of damp yet expensive fabric.
Silk.
He opened his eyes slowly. The familiar ceiling of his cramped room—stained faintly with watermarks in one corner—was gone. In its place loomed a grand canopy of carved dark wood, with drapes of deep blue velvet hanging at the sides, their color dulled by time.
The air was sharp and cold, carrying the scent of ancient stone and fine dust, mingled faintly with the ghost of a long-dead hearth. Alfin pushed away the heavy blanket. The cloth felt smooth against his skin, yet rough along the seams, as if it had been mended countless times.
He sat up, his head pounding. This body... it felt foreign. Lighter, weaker, as though it wasn't his own. Staggering, he placed his bare feet upon a floor of icy stone, every step unsteady.
A large silver-framed mirror, tarnished at the edges, caught his eye from the corner of the room. Driven by a desperate need to understand, he stumbled toward it—then froze.
The figure staring back at him wasn't Alfin Leontarde, the 29-year-old office worker with glasses and a slight stoop.
It was a stranger. A young man of perhaps eighteen, with pale golden hair falling to his shoulders in a deliberate mess, and eyes of striking steel-blue, crystalline yet ringed with shadows that spoke of fragility and exhaustion. An aristocratic face—handsome, but drained of vitality. The face of a dying prince from a forgotten fairytale.
Who is this?
The moment his gaze locked with the reflection, pain detonated in his skull. Not a clean transfer of information—this was a tidal wave crashing without mercy.
Fragments of memories that were not his own slammed into his mind.
A cold council chamber. An old man in armor, eyes heavy with disappointment... A dim corridor, his heart racing as paralyzing fear gripped him in the presence of his towering uncle...
Each memory was an echo of a life lived in fear, failure, and isolation. Memories of the true Prince Eldrin Vaelmont: weak, cowardly, broken. And the helplessness resonated horribly with Alfin's own trauma—with the night he'd been so absorbed in his screen that he failed to notice his younger sibling in danger.
Through the storm of alien recollections, sharper fragments emerged, naming his dread with brutal clarity.
Vaelmont. The kingdom on the brink of ruin.
Kaelos. The enemy pressing at its borders.
Duke Morcant. His uncle's cold visage.
Commander Gregor. Those eyes of disappointment.
This was the world of Chronicles of the Shattered Throne.
A game.
He had reincarnated into the very game he once completed. And worse still—into the body of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont, the infamous "Trash Prince," a side character whose existence in the lore symbolized only failure and the downfall of a kingdom.
A polite knock at the heavy oak door snapped him out of his spiraling panic. Before he could respond, the door creaked open.
A young woman in a black-and-white maid's uniform stepped inside and bowed with practiced precision. Every motion was flawless, every fold of fabric immaculate. Yet Alfin's modern eyes noticed more—the faint fading at the elbows, the subtle, near-invisible stitching at the collar. Repairs done with painstaking care.
"Good morning, Your Highness," she said, her voice calm and formal. "I am Elara Vance, your Head Maid. I trust you rested well."
Eldrin—he would have to get used to that name now—could only stare blankly.
Unfazed by his silence, Elara continued her report with the same steady tone.
"Your schedule for today, Your Highness: breakfast shall be prepared shortly. Following that, your postponed sword training session is set for the ninth bell." She paused. "And... Duke Morcant has requested an unscheduled council meeting before midday."
The names struck him like blows. Duke Morcant. Threat.
"There is also an urgent request," Elara added, her tone weighed by significance. "Commander Gregor Vance seeks an immediate audience. He claims it concerns border security."
Responsibilities. Meetings. Sword drills. Crisis.
This world would not even grant him a moment to comprehend his new reality before hurling duties upon him like stones on a fragile back. Every word was another weight pressing him down. Inside, Eldrin wanted to scream—to demand a pause, to be left alone. That was all he wished.
Yet the body, conditioned by a lifetime of fear, moved on its own. What came out was not protest, but the ingrained response of the original prince: a barely perceptible nod.
Elara bowed once more, her expression as serene as ever, then turned and departed, closing the door gently behind her. Leaving Eldrin alone in the silence of the castle, burdened by a name that was not his.
---
Prince Vaelmont's study was both grand and cold. The massive fireplace along one wall lay dormant, while a tapestry bearing the lion of Vaelmont hung faded and dusty.
Commander Gregor Vance stood tall before the great oak desk. He embodied the weathered knight: armor scarred by countless battles, a face carved by years of duty, and eyes weighed with the exhaustion of bearing a dying kingdom upon his shoulders.
"Your Highness," Gregor's voice was rough, urgent, "reports from the western border grow worse. These are no longer mere bands of brigands."
Eldrin said nothing, his fists clenched beneath the desk as he stared blankly at the map of Vaelmont spread before him. Panic froze his mind.
"They move in military formations," Gregor pressed, his frustration mounting at the prince's passivity. "Their equipment is far superior to our local militias. They've been targeting supply caravans. Last night, they even attempted to seize the Echo Bridge. We repelled them, but six men were lost. I need orders, Your Highness. Orders to deploy the Royal Guard."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Eldrin did not move. He had no idea what to say. Military strategy? Command decisions? He was Alfin Leontarde. He made spreadsheets, not counterattacks.
Same as always, Gregor thought bitterly. Silence. Fear. He was on the edge of despair. He had come seeking a leader—at least a flicker of the legendary King Alaric—and found only cold ash.
But then, as he studied the prince's face more closely, something was... different. This silence was not the same. Normally, Eldrin's eyes would dart away, evasive, trembling. Now, those gray-blue eyes were fixed on the map—empty, but strangely steady.
Inside Eldrin's mind, panic birthed one clear thought—not strategy, but memory. A fragment of the game. The Echo Bridge... there were two. One to the south, the main route. And another—an old, forgotten wooden bridge to the north, spanning a deep ravine. In the game, it had been the smugglers' hidden path. Their supply line.
Driven only by desperate need to end this meeting and rid himself of the intimidating knight, Eldrin raised a trembling hand. His finger pointed northward on the map.
"Do not attack them," he murmured, his voice flat, hollowed by panic. "Burn the northern Echo Bridge. Cut their supply route."
The words drained him. His hand dropped, his gaze returning to Gregor with the same vacant emptiness.
"You may leave."
Gregor froze. His eyes flicked to the map, then back to the prince. The order was unorthodox. Ruthless. But... tactically sound. It would cripple the enemy's logistics without risking a single Guard in direct battle. A maneuver cold, calculating, and entirely unexpected.
For the first time in years, Gregor did not see a frightened child before him. He did not know what he saw.
He bowed deeply, genuine respect now mingled with bewilderment. "As you command, Your Highness."
Turning, he left the chamber, his footsteps heavier than before, his thoughts racing.
What change is this? That calmness... that order... Was it dormant genius, finally awakened? Or had I just witnessed something else entirely?