Marcus' POV
The dagger pressed cold against my throat.
"Last chance," Isadora whispered. "Who are you really?"
I didn't move. In Chicago, I'd been threatened with guns, knives, baseball bats. I learned early—panic gets you killed. Calm gets you answers.
"If I was working with them," I said slowly, "why would I threaten the Council in front of everyone?"
Her grey eyes narrowed. "Maybe you're stupid."
"I survived fifty years in a world where one mistake means death. Stupid doesn't last that long."
"Fifty years?" She pressed harder. A drop of blood ran down my neck. "You look eighteen."
"It's complicated."
"Uncomplicate it. Now."
I made a choice. The same choice Aurelius made when he wrote that journal. Trust the right person or die alone.
"My name is Marcus DeLuca. I died three days ago in Chicago. Got shot by someone I trusted. Then I woke up here, in this body, in this world I don't understand." I met her eyes. "But I found Aurelius's journal. I know about the Covenant. I know they killed him. And I know you were the one person he trusted to make things right."
The pressure on my throat eased slightly.
"Prove it," she said. "Tell me something only Aurelius would know."
I thought fast, pulling up fragments of memories that weren't mine. "You two met in the library. Late nights. You'd read poetry while he pretended to understand it. He... he had feelings for you. Strong ones. But he never told you because he thought he wasn't good enough."
Her hand shook. "How do you—"
"His memories. They bleed through sometimes. I see what he saw. Feel what he felt." The words tumbled out. "Look, I don't understand this either. But whoever did that ritual in his journal, it worked. They pulled me into his body to finish what he started."
She stepped back, lowering the dagger. Her face showed a war between belief and doubt.
"Chicago," she said finally. "That's... that's not anywhere in our world."
"I figured."
"And you were... what? A criminal?"
"I prefer the term 'businessman.' But yeah, I ran organized crime. Protection, gambling, that kind of thing." I touched my neck where she'd cut me. "Nothing I haven't done to others."
She laughed. Sharp and bitter. "Aurelius summoned a criminal to save the kingdom. That's..." She shook her head. "That's actually perfect. He was always too kind for this world."
"Was he your friend?"
"He was..." She looked away. "It doesn't matter now. He's gone."
But I caught something in her voice. Pain. Real pain.
"The journal said to save you," I said. "That you deserved better. Why?"
"Because the Covenant destroyed my family six years ago." Her voice went hard. "My father refused to join them. Refused to bow to their control. So they framed him for treason and executed him in the town square. My mother died of grief three months later. I was left with nothing but a ruined name and enemies everywhere."
"But you're at court. On the Council."
"I clawed my way back. Inch by bloody inch." She met my eyes. "I've spent six years investigating them. Learning their secrets. Waiting for the right moment to strike. Aurelius was helping me. Then he 'fell' from a balcony."
"They pushed him."
"I know. I just couldn't prove it." She sat on the edge of my bed, suddenly looking exhausted. "And now he's really gone. Replaced by a dead gangster from another world."
The way she said it stung. "I didn't ask for this."
"Neither did he." She stood abruptly. "But here we are. You threatened the Council. Made yourself a target. They'll kill you within a week."
"Let them try."
"You don't understand. They have assassins. Poison. Magic we don't understand." She grabbed my arm. "You're not in your Chicago anymore. You can't shoot your way out of problems here."
"I never just shot my way out. That's amateur hour." I pulled free. "I built power through information, loyalty, and knowing my enemies better than they know themselves. Those tools work anywhere."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're serious."
"Dead serious. Pun intended."
Another bitter laugh. "You even joke like a criminal." She moved toward the window. "Fine. You want to take down the Covenant? I'll help. But we do this smart. Carefully."
"Agreed."
"First rule—trust no one. The Covenant has eyes everywhere. Servants, guards, even family members could be theirs."
"Noted."
"Second rule—" She paused, listening.
Footsteps in the hall. Multiple people. Moving fast.
Isadora's hand went to her dagger. "Hide the journal. Now."
I shoved it back into the wall panel just as the door burst open.
Four guards rushed in. Behind them, Lord Greymont smiled that cold smile.
"Prince Aurelius," he said smoothly. "So sorry to intrude. But we have grave concerns about your mental state after your recent... episode... in the Council chamber."
"I'm fine."
"Are you?" He gestured to the guards. "Threatening Council members. Speaking of conspiracies. And now we find you alone with Lady Thorne, who has a known history of making wild accusations against respected nobles."
Isadora stepped forward. "I'm here as a concerned friend—"
"You're here uninvited in the Prince's private chambers. Quite inappropriate." Greymont's eyes glinted. "But we'll overlook it. For now."
Two guards moved toward me.
"What are you doing?" I demanded.
"For your own safety, we're moving you to the East Tower. Somewhere... quieter. Where you can recover from your delusions without causing further embarrassment to the crown."
Prison. He meant prison.
"You can't—"
"The King has already approved it. He's quite concerned about his son's strange behavior." Greymont pulled out a sealed letter. Royal seal. "It's all properly documented."
I looked at Isadora. Her face showed helpless rage.
The guards grabbed my arms.
"Don't fight," Isadora said quietly. "Not yet."
They dragged me toward the door. Greymont followed, still smiling.
"The East Tower is very secure," he said conversationally. "Thick walls. No visitors. Guards who understand the importance of discretion." He leaned close. "Aurelius died from a fall. Tragic accidents happen so easily in high towers."
They were going to kill me. Make it look like suicide.
I had maybe a day. Two if I was lucky.
As they pulled me through the door, Isadora caught my eye. She mouthed two words: "Trust me."
Then I was in the hallway, being marched toward my execution.
But as we turned a corner, I noticed something. One of the guards holding me had callused hands. Worker's hands. Not soldier's hands.
And when the others weren't looking, he squeezed my arm. Three times. Quick.
A signal.
I glanced at his face. Young. Determined. And wearing an expression I recognized from my mob days.
Loyalty.
Somehow, impossibly, I already had an ally among the guards.
The question was—how did I get one when I'd only been in this body for three hours?