Before I woke in a world of swords and blood, I died.
And no one — not even me — remembers how.
I was 19 when I died.
No, wait. Maybe 20.
I think I had a birthday last week. Or maybe it was last year.
Doesn't matter now.
Because the only thing I remember clearly is the sound:
A single note, like a piano key pressed too softly to be heard —
but still strong enough to shatter the whole goddamn world.
Then silence.
No car crash.
No last words.
No sobbing family.
Just... nothing.
And then—
light.
No, not light.
Gold.
Bleeding through darkness like memory bleeding through time.
And with it, a whisper:
"Codex confirmed. Host match: Caius Val'Rendall.
Fragment transfer… complete."
When I woke up, I was on fire.
My lungs screamed. My skin ached.
But it wasn't heat.
It was soulburn — something deeper.
I blinked.
Stone ceiling.
Gold-leaf wallpaper.
Chains on the wall.
Perfumed air that smelled like rot and roses.
A bed far too soft, with a silk canopy above me, lined in violet and silver.
A noble's room.
Cold. Lavish. Empty.
And me?
I was in a body I didn't recognize.
Pale skin. Long, obsidian hair. Thin wrists.
Too elegant. Too weak.
I sat up—
and that's when it hit me.
This isn't my world.
This was Aetherion.
The fractured fantasy hellscape of a dark fantasy novel I half-read and half-hated.
A place of gods with broken thrones.
Magic that kills your soul.
And noble families whose smiles were more dangerous than daggers.
I knew it all because I'd read it.
On a cracked screen at 2 a.m., between exams and ramen and another night of insomnia.
I'd read this story.
And I remembered who I was now.
Caius Val'Rendall.
Third son of Duke Val'Rendall.
The only non-Shardborn heir.
Mocked. Bullied. Powerless.
A villain — not a major one. Just pathetic.
He snapped in Chapter 9.
Started lashing out.
Assaulted his fiancée. Killed a commoner in rage.
Got executed in a public square before the real story began.
A plot device.
A stepping stone for the hero to shine.
Now I was him.
And the fire in my chest wasn't fear.
It was rage.
"If I'm going to die again… I'm taking the script with me."
Footsteps outside.
A voice — sickly sweet:
"Has the little failure woken up yet?"
I knew that voice.
Arelian. My brother.
The golden boy.
He'd be the first to try and break me.
And I would let him try.
Because I know how this story ends.
And for the first time in either life—
I'm going to rewrite it.