Wake Up

Something is… wrong.

My body feels heavy, numb… As if even the blood flowing through my veins doesn't belong to me.

My eyelids are leaden, my breathing uneven.

Poison?

It's the first thought that comes to mind. Was I poisoned?

Why can't I move?

My mind is foggy, my connection to my body severed. I try to move my fingertips, but… strange. It feels like my bones are misplaced.

What's happening?

Finally, my eyelids crack open.

A dim, silent room.

I stare at the ceiling—a chandelier I don't recognize. Crystal, but modest.

Luxurious, yet not extravagant. Simple, elegant.

Where… am I?

I try to furrow my brows, but a thin layer of sweat gathers on my forehead.

One question echoes in my mind:

Was I kidnapped?

Slowly, I turn my head.

Thick but pale-colored curtains… A faint light filtering through the window. I can't tell what time it is. My sense of time is hazy.

The furniture is dark. Heavy wood, finely crafted but not ostentatious.

Expensive… but not excessive.

Why am I here?

A dull ringing fills my head.

I want to stand up.

My body resists. My muscles strain as if the flesh and bones I inhabit aren't mine. But at last, I manage to sit up.

My legs tremble.

Taking a deep breath, I move toward the mirror standing in the center of the room.

And there—

A stranger stares back at me.

My first instinct is to drop into a fighting stance.

I bend my knees slightly, clenching my fists.

"Who are you?"

My voice… Hoarse. High-pitched. Foreign.

But the reflection mirrors my every move.

I frown. It frowns back.

I raise my hands. It does the same.

My breath turns ragged. Slowly, cautiously, I step closer.

The reflection sharpens.

A body around 1.80 meters tall. Neither overly muscular nor thin. Sharp, delicate features. Blood-red eyes and long hair of the same color.

Without breaking eye contact, I lift a trembling hand. My fingers trace my chin, my cheekbones.

My skin… feels wrong. Unfamiliar.

"This… isn't mine."

I whisper. My voice cracks.

"This… isn't me."

I look down at my hands. My own hands. Foreign.

They do not belong to me.

Suddenly, a sharp pain explodes in my skull.

"Agh…!"

I collapse to my knees, clutching my head.

"My head…! It's splitting apart!"

And then—

Memories that are not mine.

---

A small child… Five, maybe six years old. Standing in the corner like a shadow. Motionless, barely breathing.

In the middle of the room—his mother.

A frail, exhausted woman. Her face is pale, dark circles under her eyes. She looks at her son, but she cannot reach him.

Because in front of her stands a man—one of the Pendragon family.

A strong, ruthless man. He grabs the woman's arm, dragging her toward the bed. She no longer struggles. She doesn't scream. She simply endures.

The child watches.

He does not speak. He does not cry. He does not blink.

As if everything inside him has already died.

And this does not happen just once.

It happens for years.

By the time he turns twelve, he learns to read and write. His mother teaches him, though it is a struggle. But every day, she withers a little more. Her shoulders shrink, her hands tremble. Sometimes, her eyes stare into nothingness.

There is an old servant who takes care of them.

A man dressed in plain clothes, face devoid of expression. Always there. He neither speaks too much nor too little.

But sometimes, the boy catches something in his eyes—tired mercy.

And then—his mother dies.

The boy remains silent, simply watching.

As if he had been expecting it all along.

But with her death, another truth is revealed—he is a bastard child of the Pendragon family.

The whispers begin.

Some do not want the truth to reach the Patriarch. The boy's existence must be erased.

The old servant takes him away.

They travel for weeks, months.

Finally, they arrive at a remote, impoverished village. There stands a small stone fortress. Crumbling, yet still standing.

This is their home now.

But the boy has no name.

Not even his mother gave him one.

Because if she named him, he would have an identity. A surname to carry.

She wanted him to have no ties to that family.

And now that she is dead, she has left him knowing that he belongs to no one.

The boy does not speak.

He never really did.

But now, he sinks into complete silence.

By the time he turns fifteen, he locks himself in a room and never comes out.

Days, months, years pass.

No one knocks. No one calls for him.

And he does not want them to.

And now—he is twenty years old.

The memories fade.