The last thing Kaelen remembered was the burning sensation in his gut and the cold, wet pavement of a London alleyway. It was a mugging gone wrong. A simple, pathetic end to a mediocre life.
He expected nothingness. He expected the void.
He felt silk, instead.
Gasping, Kaelen snapped open his eyes. He sat up violently, his hands grasping at his chest, searching for the stab wound. There was no blood. There was no hole in his jacket. In fact, he wasn't wearing a jacket.
He was wearing a nightgown made of material smoother than anything he had ever touched.
"Calm," he whispered to himself, the word coming out instinctively.
He froze. The voice wasn't his. It was deeper, smoother, possessing a melodic quality that his old, gravelly voice lacked.
Kaelen looked around. He was in a room that could only be described as opulent. The ceiling was thirty feet high, painted with moving frescoes of knights battling dragons, literally moving, the paint shifting slowly like a fluid loop.
The windows were tall arches looking out over a city of spiraling white towers and floating islands suspended in the sky of violet and gold.
"This isn't the hospital," Kaelen muttered, looking at his hands. They were pale, slender, yet calloused along the fingers. The hands of a musician, or a swordsman.
"Transmigration?."
He had read some novels before. He knew the happenings.
He walked to a tall mirror bordered in silver.
Reflected back was a stranger. A young man, perhaps eighteen. High cheekbones, hair like spun moonlight falling to his shoulders, and eyes of piercing icy blue. He was undeniably handsome, possessing a cold regal beauty.
Suddenly, a sharp headache assaulted him. Memories that weren't his flooded his mind.
Prince Kealen Sol Varys. Fourth Prince of Aethelgard. Known as the "Silent Prince" because of his refusal to engage in court politics. A prodigy in theory, but physically frail. Despised by his stepmother, the Queen.
"I died."
"And I've been reborn as a Prince," Kaelen realized, clutching the vanity table.
He took a deep breath, forcing his heart rate to slow. In his previous life, he had been a crisis manager. Panic was death. Assessment was survival.
He looked at the object resting on the table next to the mirror.
It was sword, but unlike any steel he knew. The metal seemed to vibrate. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hilt.
Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
A sound resonated in his mind. Not in his ears, but in his very soul. He could feel the sword's frequency. It was a low, mournful C-sharp.
"Resonance," the memory supplied.
The power of this world
Kaelen picked up the blade. It was heavy, but as he focused on that low hum, matching his breathing to the rhythm of the metal, the sword became weightless in his hands.
"Intriguing."
"A world where physics is music," he said, a small, cold smile touching his lips.
Creeeaaak
The heavy oak door to his chamber opened slowly.
Kaelen didn't turn around. He watched the reflection in the mirror. A figure cloaked in shadow slipped in, holding a jagged dagger that emitted no sound, a weapon of a Dissonant.
"The Queen sends her regards, little Prince," the assassin whispered, lunging forward.
Kaelen didn't panic. He didn't scream. He simply analyzed the trajectory. In his old life, he would have died.
But here? He could hear the assassin's heartbeat. It was chaotic, rushing drum.
He tapped the sword against the vanity table.
Ding
He channeled his will into the sound, amplifying it through the strange energy inside his new body.
The vibration travelled through the air, hitting the assassin's wrist with the force of a hammer.
Crack
The assassin dropped the dagger, howling in pain.
Kaelen turned slowly, leveling the sword at the intruder's throat. His face was a mask of absolute indifference.
"You're out of tune,"
"Let's fix that," Kaelen said softly.