The first thing I felt when I woke up was the weight.Not the crushing exhaustion I'd known after 16-hour shifts as Elias Cross, trauma surgeon. No, this was something else—a heavy, suffocating silence. The kind that fills your lungs and settles in your chest, making it impossible to breathe without hearing the echoes of regret. The kind of silence that makes you feel judged by every step you take.I opened my eyes.Stone ceiling. Cold sheets. The smell of iron and rosemary lingered like a faint trace of mold. This wasn't a hospital. This wasn't my life.And I wasn't Elias Cross anymore.So, this is reincarnation, huh? They really dropped me in the deep end.
I struggled to sit up, and that's when I saw them.The servants flinched at my movement. The older woman at the door wouldn't even meet my eyes. The younger maid dropped the basin when I coughed.It didn't take long to piece things together. They weren't afraid of me. They were afraid of him.Of Caelan Dorne.
The body I now inhabited wasn't mine. I felt every bruise, every scar that hadn't been earned. The world thought Caelan was a brat with anger issues, someone who could crush a maid's wrist with a flick of his hand, but that wasn't even me. I wasn't Caelan Dorne—I was Elias Cross, a doctor who couldn't even save his own life.But now, I was trapped in this broken body, inheriting its faults, its history.Great. Reborn as a noble brat with anger issues. Just my luck.
I limped to the mirror, my body unfamiliar and painful. My legs barely moved—left leg dragging, possibly nerve damage. I wasn't in great shape, but something deeper was wrong. The reflection staring back at me wasn't just weak—it was sick.Thin limbs. Sunken clavicles. Pale skin, almost translucent. A weak body—a body that had been neglected, even intentionally hurt. This wasn't a curse, this wasn't magic—it was neglect, plain and simple.
The boy I'd become was a failure, an afterthought in the family. I could feel the malnutrition, the years of negligence that this body had endured. But I was a surgeon. And this body, no matter how broken, was my new patient. A project.I could fix it. I would fix it.Magic wouldn't do it—not completely. It couldn't heal a lifetime of scars and neglect. But surgery? My hands had done wonders before, and I would use that knowledge to rebuild this broken body. That, at least, I could do.
The family estate was vast, cold, and beautiful in the way an abandoned cathedral is. And the people who trained in the courtyard—well, they were much like a family of their own. They knew I didn't belong. I knew it too.They moved with a rhythm, their swords flashing through the air with grace and precision. Their footwork was like flowing water, a dance that seemed to defy the very concept of time. I couldn't help but watch.
Their technique was House Dorne's pride, passed down for generations. They wielded swords like extensions of themselves—an art form. And me? I could barely stand.But watching them felt like a strange connection. It reminded me of the countless hours I spent in hospitals, watching surgeries, studying the way the body moved, the way each incision was a calculated decision. In a way, swordplay wasn't that different from surgery. Every slash, every step, every movement—they were all calculations. I could see the weak points, the areas that could be struck, just like I did when I was operating.If only I had the strength.I wasn't even sure I could hold a sword without it falling from my hands, but I would make myself strong. I had to.
By day, I was the failure, the firstborn son that House Dorne would rather forget. By night, I studied.I raided the library, diving into books that covered everything I could get my hands on—anatomy, sword forms, magic theory, herbcraft, alchemy, even ritual ethics. The Dorne family's library was massive, older than most buildings in the city. Its walls were filled with volumes of history and forgotten knowledge. I found solace among the dusty shelves, picking apart ancient texts with a surgeon's eye. There was always something to learn, some strategy to master, something I could use to make myself better.
But nothing in the library could help me heal this body completely. The books on swordplay fascinated me, but I couldn't even hold a sword properly yet. Magic? The theory was intriguing, but the magic in this world was primitive, outdated. They didn't even sterilize their blades between treatments.
Still, I took notes—making sure to memorize everything I could. I wouldn't let this world's backward medicine define me.Magic wouldn't help me the way I needed. But my hands? They had saved lives before. They could do it again.
I also studied herbs, learning what the land could offer. It wasn't much compared to modern medicine, but it was a start. Gregor Halden, the old groundskeeper, didn't understand why I spent so much time reading, but he trusted me nonetheless. I'd sent him for herbs—roots, teas, anything that could boost my failing health.
And then, the first time I coughed blood, I didn't panic.I traced it back. Swollen lymph nodes. A persistent fever. Elevated pulse. This wasn't a new symptom—it had been lingering for weeks. The signs were there: early-stage organ damage, possibly autoimmune. It wasn't something that magic could fix—not without surgical precision, and magic was nowhere near that level of expertise.
But I had experience. I was a surgeon.
Magic wouldn't help me the way I needed. But my hands? They had saved lives before. They could do it again.
I wasn't completely alone."Eat this. Slowly. You haven't held anything solid in days," a familiar voice said softly.I turned my head, surprised to see the weathered face of Gregor Halden. He was the Dorne family's old groundskeeper. Technically retired, but he still haunted the estate like a ghost in armor. He used to be more—much more. But for me, he was simply the man who cared."Your stomach's rejecting the bread. You're not absorbing nutrients properly," I said hoarsely, my mind still foggy from the pain. "We need a new meal plan."Gregor didn't argue, didn't question me. He just nodded. "Tell me what you need."And he brought it. Every herb, every root. Soft-broiled meats, slow stews, fresh goat's milk. He didn't understand why, but he trusted me to know what was needed.Gregor didn't understand surgery or magic, but his knowledge of the wild plants and healing teas was something I could use. It was a crude form of medicine, but it would help.
Every night felt like a battle—a battle between the memory of my old life and the broken body I now inhabited.But I was making progress.The old Caelan had let this body rot. But I was Elias Cross, and this body was my patient. This was my redemption. My second chance.For the first time in years, someone believed in me again.