The light above stabbed at his eyes, too bright to look at, but he did not care. He pulled against the restraints, muscles straining until the rails rattled under him. The leather bit into his wrists, cutting off what little movement he had.
A faint hum filled the room, the uneven buzz of a dying fluorescent tube. The sound grated in his skull, steady and familiar in a way that made his stomach turn.
Someone said, "He's awake."
He tried to speak, but the strap at his jaw let out nothing more than a choked rasp.
"You really thought you could hide from me, John?" Jeremiah, the loan boss said as he leaned close enough. "If you can't pay in cash, you pay in parts. Simple math."
The doctor didn't look at him. He picked up the syringe. The liquid inside was clear. John fought the instinct to flinch, but the strap bit deeper when he tried.
The needle slid in. It burned up his arm. His heart stuttered hard enough that he could hear it. His chest tightened. He couldn't fill his lungs.
Not yet.
If he blacked out, that was it. He forced his eyes open, focused on the dirty ceiling tile with the brown water stain.
His throat felt dry. He tried to speak, but the sound barely came out.
"S…"
It slipped out broken, half a breath instead of a word. His vision blurred, the ceiling light smearing into white. He tried to pull again, but his arms felt heavier with every heartbeat.
The hum grew louder, filling his ears until it drowned everything else.
Then it all went dark.
The hum grew louder, filling his ears until it drowned everything else.
Then it all went dark.
"STOOOOP," he said. The word tore out of him. "No, stop."
He was sitting upright before he understood he had moved. His arms swung out as if to break free from something that was no longer there. The cot shook under him. His breath came too fast, each pull sharp and empty.
The noise of his voice echoed in the small space. It took him a moment to hear that the room around him was not the same. The light was softer. The air carried smoke and cold instead of metal and bleach.
He froze, chest heaving. His hands were shaking. Sweat slid down his neck. The panic that had dragged him out of sleep began to fade, slow and uneven.
He pressed his palm against his chest. His heart thudded there, heavy and real. He was breathing. The air hurt going in but it was there.
He looked around. The blanket had slipped to his waist. The fabric felt rough against his skin. It clung where it caught the sweat and peeled away where he moved. His clothes were gone. What covered him looked like a long shirt made of coarse cloth that reached his knees.
He stared at it for a long time, waiting for the light to change or the world to twist back into what it had been. Nothing moved. Nothing flickered.
He had died. He knew he had.
His hand pressed harder against his chest, feeling the thud beneath his palm. Each beat landed heavy, too real to mistake.
But he was breathing. His heart was still moving.
I'm alive, he thought, the words sharp and hollow all at once.
He pushed to his feet and rushed to the tent's entrance.
Outside hit like a slap.
His mouth felt dry. For a long moment he just stood there, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
Smoke, tents, armor, horses. Every blink brought the same image back, sharp and unmoving. Nothing shifted the way dreams did. Nothing faded. The air bit at his skin, the ground was cold under his feet, and every sound came from somewhere real.
He let out a slow breath. "Is this real," he muttered, "or did I finally lose it?"
The words hung there, swallowed by the wind. He rubbed at his arms, half expecting to wake up, but the chill stayed. His hands were shaking now, not from fear but from the sheer confusion of it.
It felt real. Too real.
A hollow laugh slipped out of him, rough and short. "Great," he said under his breath. "Dead, dreaming, or stuck in whatever this is."
He looked around again, searching for anything familiar, but there was nothing. Only the clang of metal somewhere in the distance and voices he could not understand.
A shout broke through the noise of the camp.
"Your Highness."
The sound made several soldiers turn at once. Heads snapped toward him, eyes wide.
John blinked. For a second he thought he misheard it. Then he saw the man pushing through the line of tents, moving fast. The same golden-haired soldier from before, now without armor, only a dark shirt and a cloak thrown over his shoulders.
He reached John in a few strides, breath sharp but eyes bright with relief. "Thank God you are awake," the man said, stopping just short of grabbing him.
Around them, others had started to gather, watching with the same mix of surprise and relief. His gaze shifted as they took in what John was wearing.
"You should not be out here in your tunic, Your Highness."
Before John could respond, the man took his arm and led him back inside. The air in the tent was warmer, thick with smoke and the faint scent of herbs. A stool stood near the cot, and the man motioned for him to sit.
John sank down, the blanket brushing against his legs. The golden-haired man stayed standing for a moment, watching him as if to make sure he would not fall over again.
"You have been unconscious for two days," the man said finally. His tone carried a mix of relief and worry. "The healers said that the wound"—he stopped himself, jaw tightening—"it was close."
"Two days?" John repeated. The words scraped out of his throat.
"Yes, Your Highness."
He touched his shoulder before he thought about it. Smooth skin. No scar, no pain.
John swallowed. He was already busy digging through the fragments in his head—the monsters, the skeleton, the cards and the fact that he nearly died again.
He muttered, "Right."
"Are you feeling well, your highness?"
John nodded, pretending to agree while trying to figure out what exactly "Your Highness" meant here. King? Prince? Or is that just his name now.?
"Okay," John said slowly, trying to sound steady. "You... were there the whole time, weren't you? When I was hit?"
Gerard nodded. "From the moment you fell, my lord. I did not leave your side."
John glanced at him, weighing the risk. "I should probably be thanking you by name, shouldn't I?"
Gerard's brows drew together. "You are jesting," he said, almost incredulous. "You cannot have forgotten me."
John gave a weak smile. "Humor me."
Gerard hesitated, his concern deepening. "Gerard Lovantin," he said at last. "Your captain. Your friend. Since before you could even hold a sword."
John's thoughts tangled fast. He knows this body. He knows everything about him.
Gerard's concern only deepened. "Are you all right, Your Highness?"
John swallowed, forcing a nod. "Everything's fine," he said, though his voice came out rough.
Gerard did not look convinced. He studied John's face for a long moment, then sighed. "If you are not, I do not know what to do. This timing could not be worse."
John frowned. "What timing?"
Gerard hesitated, his eyes flicking toward the tent flap before returning to him. "The second prince forced Crown Prince Emerson to send you here. Everyone knows it was not a choice freely made. He wants to keep the crown prince's influence from spreading. If anything seems wrong with you, he will use it as proof that Prince Emerson cannot manage his own family."
He forced out a thin laugh that did not sound right. "Right. And I'm the what in all this?"
Gerard's expression shifted, worry flashing across his face. "You are the third prince, Your Highness."
John stared at him. "A prince," he muttered under his breath. The words felt strange coming out. "Damn."
Gerard's concern deepened. "Are you certain you are well?"
"Yeah," John said quickly. "Just… taking it in." He looked down at his hands, at the smooth skin, and the rough fabric against his skin. If this is my new life, he thought, I could do worse.
No…
There were far stranger things to think about. The monsters, the cards, the way he had died and somehow ended up here. Compared to all that, being a prince almost felt ordinary.
"Then what were those monsters out there? The ones that attacked?"
Gerard blinked. "The beasts, you mean?"
John nodded.
"It was your first time seeing one, then," Gerard said, his voice gentler now. "I told you that staying cooped up in the palace was not good for you. The wall may be harsh, but at least it will show you what the kingdom truly faces."
John looked at him, unsure how to answer. The wall. He still had no idea what that meant, but the way Gerard said it made it sound like being sent here was a punishment.
He leaned back slightly, the thought pressing harder. Whatever this body's life had been, it was tangled deep in something dangerous.
Gerard's words lingered, the fire crackling softly between them.
Before John could respond, the tent flap opened. A young soldier stepped inside, boots caked with mud, breath still uneven.
"Your Highness. Captain Gerard," the soldier said quickly. "Commander Hale just returned from patrol. He is on his way to greet His Highness."
Gerard straightened. "Very well. Tell the commander we are ready."
"Yes, sir." The soldier bowed his head and stepped out again.
John watched him leave, then looked at Gerard. "He is coming here. To greet me."
Gerard gave a simple nod, his expression calm, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. "Of course. It is proper courtesy. Commander Hale is a loyal man. He will want to see you awake."
John tried to match the same ease but failed. "Right. Proper courtesy."
Gerard's eyes moved to the cot. "You should prepare yourself, Your Highness."
John followed his gaze and noticed a folded set of clothes at the foot of the bed. The cloth was darker than what he wore, heavy and smooth where the tunic was rough. He reached for it and lifted one piece. It looked like short pants, fitted and reinforced at the knees, with a row of buttons along the waist. The fabric was thick enough to hold shape.
He held it up awkwardly. "What are these."
Gerard blinked once. "Your breeches, Your Highness."
"Right," John said. "Breeches." The word felt strange in his mouth. He could not remember the last time he had worn anything that needed to be tied instead of zipped.
He looked around, uncertain what came next. "Do I just put them on."
Gerard seemed momentarily unsure how to answer. "If you wish, I can call someone to assist."
John shook his head too quickly. "No. I can manage."
He turned his back to him, trying to act as though he knew what he was doing. The fabric was stiff, the folds unfamiliar. It took him longer than it should have to figure out where each button went. The cord at the waist confused him most. He pulled it tight until it hurt, then loosened it again, pretending it was intentional.
When he turned back around, Gerard had politely fixed his gaze on the far wall.
"Done," John said.
Gerard nodded once. "Good."
John sat again and tugged at the fabric, feeling it bunch behind his knees. "These are tight."
"They are meant to fit close," Gerard said. "Loose cloth catches on armor."
"Right," John said again, still pulling at the seams. "Armor. Of course."
Gerard picked up the cloak from the stool and offered it to him. John took it and draped it over his shoulders. The weight surprised him. The fabric smelled faintly of smoke and iron.
He straightened the collar, hoping it looked natural. "How do I look."
Gerard's mouth twitched, the closest he had come to a smile since morning. "Like a prince who has been asleep for two days."
"I will take that as a compliment."
Gerard inclined his head. "It was meant as one."
Before John could answer, footsteps approached again from outside. Voices carried low between the tents. The sound of armor moved closer.
Gerard looked toward the entrance. "That will be him."
John's throat tightened. He brushed the front of the cloak, unsure what gesture was expected. He stood straighter, trying to look less like a man who had just learned how to put on pants.
The tent flap stirred in the wind.
John was still trying to steady his breath when Gerard spoke again, his tone quiet but urgent. "Your Highness."
John turned his head. "What is it."
"When the commander arrives, let him speak first. Answer only what he asks. Do not mention what happened before you lost consciousness."
John frowned. "You mean the beasts."
Gerard looked at him fully now. "I mean what came after. The thing that stood between you and them. If anyone hears that you summoned such a thing, they will not ask questions. They will call it dark magic. They will call it treason. They will take your head before the day ends."
John blinked. "Beheaded."
Gerard's voice did not change. "Yes, Your Highness."
John stared at him. His mind ran through the words but took a moment to catch their meaning. Then it hit.
The image slammed back into his head. The skeleton. The crown. The sword that burned blue. The way the flames followed its steps like a trail of ice.
The cards.
He exhaled through his teeth. "Oh, shit."
He looked down fast, his heart kicking up again.
No cards.
Was he dreaming? Hallucinating?
He looked at Gerard beside him but he is already looking forward to the opening of the tent.
Cold air pushed through the opening. The sound of armor followed.
And commander Hale had stepped inside.