Inside a cramped, leaking shack on the outskirts of Ashenhold, a young man tossed fitfully on a straw mattress.

  Sweat dripped down his forehead, his face twisted like he was caught in a nightmare. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he shot upright, gasping for air.

  Korrin Slate blinked hard, confusion hitting him like a brick. The familiar stink of rot and garbage stung his nose, but the shack's sagging walls looked wrong—too new, too alive.

  He grabbed his head, trying to sort the mess in his mind.

  "I died. I know I died," he muttered, voice shaking. "How the hell am I here?"

  The memory burned clear as day. Ten years ago—no, ten years from now—he'd been 26, a broken man in the slums. His summoning, that cursed day when he was 16, had called up a dung beetle.

  Not a scarab, not some mythic bug—just a tiny, stinking thing that rolled shit. The crowd at the Taming Circle had roared with laughter.

  "Shit-Roller," they'd called him, the name sticking like mud. His family's last scraps had bought that crystal, and he'd given them a joke.

  The shame never faded. For years, he'd scraped by, mocked and beaten, until a noble's wyvern-riding tamer caught him scavenging too close to their trash.

  The guy didn't even blink—just sicced the beast on him. Korrin remembered the claws, the fire, and the last thing he saw: that damn beetle crawling away as he bled out in the dust.

  So why was he alive? A soft knock on the shack's rickety door snapped him out of it.

  "Come in," he croaked, startled by the young, sharp voice that came out—nothing like the raspy growl he'd known at 26.

  The door creaked open, and a girl stepped in, her patched dress swaying as she dipped her head. "Kor, it's almost time for the summoning. Your parents sent me to get you," she said, urgent but soft.

  Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Korrin froze, staring at her. "Vira?" His voice cracked, heart slamming against his ribs.

  Vira Ashen—his wiry, freckled friend from the slums—blushed at the name, her cheeks going pink. She opened her mouth to argue, but stopped when she saw him stumble toward her, eyes wide with shock and something deeper.

  "You're alive," he choked out, pulling her into a tight hug. She was warm, real—not the cold body he'd found a year after his summoning, beaten to death by noble guards over some scrap she'd nicked.

  "K-Kor?" Vira squirmed, flustered. "Why're you crying? Did you hit your head or something?"

  He laughed through the tears, ruffling her tangled hair. "Just missed you, that's all." He'd spent nights cursing himself by her unmarked grave, swearing he'd make it right. Now she was here, and he was too.

  "Stop being weird," she mumbled, ducking her head. "And don't call me Vira in front of people—it's embarrassing!"

  "Alright, alright," he grinned, wiping his face. "No Vira in public."

  She huffed, crossing her arms. "You're teasing again."

  He pinched her cheek, earning a glare, then caught his reflection in a cracked mirror leaning against the wall.

  A young face stared back—16, lean, with ragged black hair and hazel eyes full of fire. Not the hollowed-out wreck he'd been at 26.

  "Vira, what's the date?" he asked, voice tight.

  "Fifth of Harvestmoon, Year 472," she said, tilting her head.

  "Year 472?" His stomach dropped. Ten years back. He'd died in 482, and now he was here—before the beetle, before the shame. "Where're my parents?"

  "At the Taming Circle, waiting. You're late, Kor!" Vira said, eyes wide.

  He bolted out the door in his patched nightshirt, ignoring her shout to wait. Slum folks stared as he ran, but he didn't care—his heart pounded with a mix of dread and hope.

  The Taming Circle loomed ahead, its cracked stone ring packed with a jeering crowd. Korrin spotted them—Torin Slate, his scarred, broad-shouldered dad, and Lira, his graying mom with kind eyes. They'd sold everything for his crystal back then. Seeing them alive nearly broke him again.

  "Move it, boy!" Torin shouted. "Into the circle!"

  Korrin swallowed hard and stepped forward, the crowd's noise swelling. Lira frowned. "Why're you in your nightshirt?"

  "Overslept," he mumbled, scratching his neck.

  "Rest up next time," she said softly. "It's your big day."

  He nodded, forcing a smile, then waved Vira over from the crowd. "Come watch with us!"

  She hesitated, but Torin grunted, "Let her," and a guard dragged her up. She sat beside Korrin, fidgeting.

  "Relax," he said, patting her head. "It's just a summoning."

  Lira swatted his hand. "Stop embarrassing her."

  "I'm fine," Vira muttered, red-faced.

  The crowd hushed as the summoning began. Korrin gripped the crystal his mom handed him, the same one from his past life. He knew what was coming—the dung beetle, the laughter, the ruin.