Chapter 1

The first thing Athena noticed was the sound—a faint rustling, like the whisper of leaves caught in a breeze. Then came the smell, earthy and damp, tinged with something bitter and medicinal. Her eyelids felt heavy, but as she forced them open, the world swam into focus.

The roof above her was patched with straw and old wood, the sunlight filtering through in jagged streams that danced across the uneven floor. The walls were no better, rough-hewn and warped, with moss creeping along the cracks.

She was lying on a thin mattress that did little to cushion her aching body, the coarse fabric of the blanket scratching against her skin.

Her limbs felt like lead, and when she tried to move, pain flared in her chest, sharp and unrelenting. A groan escaped her lips, raspy and weak, startling even to her own ears.

Where am I? The thought echoed in her mind, but no answer came.

She turned her head slightly, scanning the room. A rickety table stood in the corner, cluttered with bowls, jars, and what looked like dried herbs.

A faint breeze drifted through a small, square window, the edges of the frame blackened as though scorched. The world outside was eerily quiet, save for the occasional chirp of birds.

This isn't right. None of this is right.

Her fingers twitched as she tried to push herself upright, but the effort sent a spike of pain through her skull. She gasped, clutching her head as memories surged forward like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.

It began with the face of a man—his kind smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. She didn't recognize him, but something in her chest twisted painfully. Father.

Then came the image of a woman, pale and lifeless, her hands folded neatly over her chest as she lay surrounded by flowers. Mother.

The memories shifted, faster now. She saw herself—no, Eira—standing at the edge of the village, a pack slung over her shoulder. The air was thick with tension as she turned her back on the boy standing in the doorway. He had called out to her, his voice cracking with desperation. Kael.

But she hadn't turned around. She had walked away.

The flood of memories broke, leaving her gasping for breath. Her vision blurred, tears streaming down her face as she tried to reconcile the life she remembered with the body she now inhabited.

I'm not Eira.

But as she looked down at her hands, pale and trembling, she couldn't deny the truth. The memories were too vivid, too real. Somehow, she had been pulled into this body, this life. Athena, the strategist and scholar, was gone. She was Eira now.

The door creaked open, and Athena's breath hitched. A boy stepped inside, his silhouette framed by the harsh midday light. He hesitated for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

"You're awake," he said, his tone neutral, almost detached.

Athena's gaze locked onto him, her mind racing. His face was familiar—the same storm-gray eyes, the same stubborn tilt of his chin. He looked older than she remembered in Eira's fragmented memories, his features sharper, his expression colder.

Kael.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her throat felt raw, and when she tried again, a violent cough racked her body. She doubled over, clutching her chest as a metallic taste filled her mouth. When she pulled her hand away, her palm was streaked with blood.

"You shouldn't be moving around," Kael said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was no warmth in it. He placed a cup of water on the table beside her, his movements deliberate and precise. "Drink this."

Athena stared at him, her heart aching at the distance in his eyes. In Eira's memories, Kael had been full of life and warmth, his laughter a constant presence in her childhood. But this Kael was different—hardened by time, his gaze clouded with anger and betrayal.

"Kael," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

He flinched at the sound of his name but quickly masked it with a cold expression. "Rest. You're still sick."

Before she could respond, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a quiet finality.

For the first few days, Athena could barely leave the cot. Her fever ebbed and flowed, leaving her drenched in sweat one moment and shivering the next. Her body felt foreign, fragile, and weak—a stark contrast to the sharp mind she had relied on all her life.

Kael came and went, bringing bowls of thin broth and herbal teas that smelled as bitter as they tasted. He rarely spoke, his words clipped and matter-of-fact. "Eat." "Rest." "Don't push yourself."

But Athena noticed the small gestures—the way he adjusted her blanket when he thought she was asleep, the careful way he propped her up so she could drink without spilling. Despite his cold demeanor, there was care in his actions, though he never let it show in his eyes.

She wanted to speak to him, to explain that she wasn't the Eira who had left him behind. But how could she even begin to explain something so absurd?

On the fourth day, Athena managed to sit up without the room spinning around her. The light streaming through the window was softer now, the golden hues of evening casting long shadows across the room. She took a moment to study her surroundings more closely.

The small thatched house was simple—just one room, sparsely furnished with a cot, a table, and a few wooden stools. A shelf near the wall held an assortment of jars, bundles of dried herbs, and a few crude tools. The air was thick with the scent of earth and woodsmoke, a constant reminder of how far removed this place was from the world she once knew.

When she finally managed to stand, her legs wobbled beneath her, and she had to grip the edge of the table to keep from collapsing. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she made her way to the window.

Outside, the village stretched out before her, a cluster of thatched huts surrounded by fields of barren, cracked earth. In the distance, she could see the faint outline of a forest, its trees gnarled and twisted as if shaped by some ancient force.

The villagers moved about their tasks with quiet efficiency, their faces etched with weariness. She noticed how thin they looked, their clothes patched and worn. A group of children played near the edge of the fields, their laughter muted, as if even joy was scarce here.

This is no thriving kingdom, Athena thought. This is survival, nothing more.

That evening, Kael returned with a bowl of stew, its aroma faint but comforting. He placed it on the table and sat down on one of the stools, his back to her.

"You're getting stronger," he said without turning around.

Athena hesitated before responding. "I am. Thank you… for taking care of me."

Kael didn't reply immediately. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. "I didn't do it for you."

The words stung, even though she knew they weren't meant for her, not really. They were for Eira, the sister who had left him behind.

"I'm sorry," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Kael turned then, his gray eyes piercing. "Sorry?" He let out a bitter laugh. "You're sorry? After everything you've done, that's all you have to say?"

Athena's throat tightened. She wanted to explain, to tell him that she wasn't the person he thought she was. But how could she? Would he even believe her?

"You left," Kael continued, his voice rising. "You abandoned me. You left me to bury Mother on my own. You didn't even come back for that."

His words hung in the air, heavy with accusation and pain. Athena felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she held them back. She couldn't afford to break now.

"I know I hurt you," she said softly. "And I know I can't take that back. But I'm here now, Kael. I'm here, and I want to make things right."

Kael shook his head, his jaw tightening. "You can't fix this, Eira. Some things… some things can't be undone."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. Without another word, he walked out, leaving Athena alone in the dim light of the hut.