Lior's eyes snapped open. Or rather, opened into a world that wasn't his own. The familiar ceiling of his room—the one he'd slept under every night in his old life—was gone. In its place hung a slightly ornate canopy, faintly golden in the edges, as if the very air shimmered with a careful, deliberate artistry. A chandelier swayed gently above him, catching the morning sunlight and scattering tiny prisms of light across the walls.
Lior blinked. He attempted to move, but something felt… different. His body, though his own in the broadest sense, didn't respond quite the way he remembered. His arms felt lighter, more delicate than they should, his fingers more nimble, yet curiously weaker.
He sat up sharply—and immediately felt his chest tighten. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
This was not his room. This was not his bed. And this was certainly not his body.
A faint, almost imperceptible tingling ran through his senses. The air felt… off. Not polluted or dangerous, but slightly distorted, as if reality itself had been painted wrong and then left to dry. Colors seemed too sharp in some corners, the wood grain of the floor too perfect in others. He could hear a faint hum in the walls, soft as if the world itself was… holding its breath.
Lior scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. He stumbled over something soft and warm: a blanket, the edge of his robes, something that smelled faintly of lavender and soap. The fabric was new, unfamiliar, yet made his skin itch with recognition the kind of recognition you get when you've read a story a thousand times but never touched it.
"What… what the hell?" he whispered.
His voice his own voice? sounded thinner, younger, less commanding than he remembered. Panic clawed at him. His mind raced back to the last memory of his previous life: sleeping, mundane, safe. And now? Now he was… somewhere else entirely. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere wrong.
Lior staggered toward the window. Outside, the city stretched into the distance, glittering in the morning sun. Tall spires rose like fingers, twisting impossibly toward the sky. Horses trotted along cobblestone streets, their riders clad in cloaks embroidered with sigils. And above all, the sky—oh, the sky—was painted a sharper blue than any natural eye should see, and yet it was beautiful, breathtaking, almost cruel in its perfection.
Something deep in Lior's chest twisted. He had seen this before. He had read about this before.
"Oh no… no, no, no."
He staggered backward, catching himself on the ornate wooden railing of the bed. Memories flooded back, images like flashes of lightning in his mind: his sister's novel.
Yes, of course. That made sense. It had to be her novel. He had stayed up reading it for days, obsessing over every plot twist, every romance, every ridiculous trope. He had laughed at the ridiculous side characters, rolled his eyes at the hero's inflated sense of destiny. And now… he was in it.
He was the side character.
The side character. The one who didn't matter. The one who was supposed to die early.
A cold sweat ran down Lior's spine. He sank to his knees on the floor. The bed was massive, the room luxurious. He'd always imagined the side characters lived in cramped quarters, suffered the whims of nobles, and never mattered. But here he was. His heart pounded with dread.
And then the first pang of humor or absurdity hit him.
"Wait. Wait. Hold on. I… I'm in my sister's book? Like, literally inside it? And she never bothered to make me a main character? Great. Fantastic."
Lior collapsed backward onto the floor, staring at the ceiling. His limbs felt awkward, like he was wearing clothes made for someone else—or perhaps his body had simply forgotten him. This is fine. Totally fine. Nothing dangerous about being a powerless side character in a story I already know. He laughed bitterly, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears.
He tried to recall his surroundings. The room was elegantly decorated with a few simple pieces of furniture: a wooden desk neatly stacked with parchment, an ornate chair, a small bookshelf containing what looked like primer-level magic texts, and—most concerning a small chest that seemed to hum faintly.
Something tickled at the back of Lior's mind. He shook his head. "No. Not now. Focus. Survive. That's all."
Yes. Survival. That was the word. Side characters, in his sister's stories, did not survive. They were stepping stones for the heroine's growth, fodder for villainous plots, or… worst of all, cannon fodder for the hero's dramatic moments.
Lior swallowed. He had to figure out a plan. First: figure out who he was now. Second: figure out what the rules of this world were. Third: stay alive.
Step one came quickly. He stood in front of a mirror and gasped.
The reflection staring back at him was almost familiar. Slightly smaller than his old self, with delicate features, bright green eyes, and hair that fell just past his shoulders, slightly ruffled from sleep. And yet… the face was undeniably his own. With a twist. A twist he didn't like.
"This is… me?" he muttered.
He poked his reflection experimentally. The skin responded. The hair moved. The eyes blinked. That confirmed it: he was inside this body. There was no mistaking it.
Lior felt a surge of panic, quickly followed by a twinge of curiosity. He had read the story. He knew the world, the people, the dangers. And yet, somehow, he had ended up here—not as the protagonist, not as the hero, but as the expendable side character who… probably wouldn't last a week in the original plot.
He groaned and collapsed back onto the bed.
If this was real… if this was actually happening… then he had one goal. One single goal: don't die.
A sound at the door startled him: the soft knock of someone approaching. Lior froze. Family. Yes, in the novel, he had family here a father, a mother, and an older sister who was… well, the older sister. Probably the one who loved the protagonist more than him. Probably the one who would remind him daily that he was weak, useless, and ultimately doomed.
Lior scrambled off the bed, trying to look… composed. Not panic-stricken. Not faintly flailing and ridiculous, like the side character he was supposed to be. He opened the door slowly.
Standing there was a young woman with long, silver hair cascading over her shoulders, a serene smile, and eyes that carried both warmth and authority. Lior froze. Not because she was intimidating though she was but because the smile seemed vaguely familiar.
"Good morning, Lior," she said softly. "You slept well?"
Lior blinked. "Uh… yes. Very well. Thank you…" His voice wavered slightly. Smooth, Lior. Real smooth.
The woman's smile didn't waver. She stepped aside, gesturing toward the hall. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Your father wishes to speak with you after you've eaten."
"Ah, yes. Of course," Lior said, his mind racing. Father. Of course. The first death trap is probably… verbal abuse. A plot event to remind the side character how useless he is.
He stepped into the hallway carefully. The room smelled of polished wood and faint lavender. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting patterns that danced like miniature constellations on the floor.
Lior's stomach churned. He had to think. He had to survive. He had to
"Oh gods, I can't believe this. I'm… actually inside a fantasy novel. I am literally living the side character's miserable life. And my sister wrote this story. This is personal."
He pressed a hand to his face, groaning. And then he noticed it: subtle distortions in the walls, a slight shimmer in the air near the hallway corners. Not dangerous, exactly… just wrong. The world, for all its beauty, was off-kilter.
Lior frowned. "Well, that's… new."
That was his first real thought as a resident of the story. Not panic. Not acceptance. Not despair. Just… curiosity mixed with the terror of impending doom.
And that was the beginning of his very long, very ridiculous journey as the side character who refused to die.