A sharp, metallic scent filled the air.
Eliard Veyne gasped awake, his body convulsing as if he had been drowning moments before. His fingers dug into the damp, cold ground beneath him, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. His vision blurred, swirling with colors unfamiliar yet strangely vivid. His ears rang, muffling the distant hum of machinery and the indistinct murmur of voices.
Where was he?
The moment he tried to move, pain lanced through his skull, sending white-hot flashes across his mind. He clenched his teeth, forcing himself upright. The world around him was dimly lit, a shadowed alleyway bordered by tall, soot-covered buildings. A dull, flickering gas lamp cast uneven light over the cobblestone street, illuminating the thick mist that coiled along the ground.
His hands trembled as he looked down at them. These weren't his hands. His fingers were slimmer, his skin marred by small scars and faded bruises. A dull ache settled in his chest, and with it, a growing sense of unease. He wasn't in his own body.
Memories swirled—disjointed fragments of another life. Eliard Veyne. That was his name… but it wasn't.
"Oi, you alive or not?"
The voice snapped him back to reality. A cloaked figure stood at the alley's entrance, his face obscured by the shadows. Eliard stiffened, instincts screaming danger. The stranger stepped forward, and the dim light revealed the gleam of a dagger in his hand.
"No sudden moves," the figure warned. "You look like you just crawled out of the grave, but that don't mean you get to play dumb."
Eliard forced himself to stay still, his mind working through the fog. He had no idea where he was or why someone was already threatening him. But one thing was certain—this world was not the one he knew.
"I don't want trouble," he managed, his voice hoarse.
The figure scoffed. "Then you shouldn't be lying in a pool of blood in Dead Man's Alley."
Blood?
Eliard glanced down, and for the first time, he noticed the dark, viscous stain soaking his coat. His heart pounded. Was it his? He felt no wounds, no unbearable pain aside from the splitting headache.
The stranger took another step closer. "Tell me your name."
A dozen of possibilities ran through his mind, but one truth remained. He was Eliard Veyne now. Whoever that was.
"…Eliard," he said carefully.
The stranger was silent for a moment before chuckling. "Eliard, huh? Strange, that's the name of the dead man they just dragged out of the river."
Eliard's blood ran cold.
The air grew heavier, and for the first time, he noticed something else—something unnatural. A low, guttural whisper drifted through the alleyway, curling around him like unseen tendrils.
You don't belong here…
The voice wasn't human.
Before he could react, the shadows around him twisted, and the world was swallowed in darkness.