Chapter One: A Stranger in Foreign skin

  The first thing I knew was pain.

  Dull, throbbing, and all-encompassing, it pulsed through every inch of my body, dragging me back to consciousness like an anchor sinking into the deep. One moment I was walking. Then I took a seat on a bench and decided to nap, closing my eyes. They often say at the end of your life, you’ll see the light at the end of the tunnel.

  After a while, my limbs were stiff, my mouth dry as sandpaper, and my face felt as though it had been smashed against a wall and left to heal incorrectly.

  Had I been in a fight? The st thing I remembered was falling asleep somewhere — and now my body felt strange, like something had gone wrong while I slept.

  My eyes cracked open, and for a moment, all I could see was blinding white—sunlight pouring in through an open window, sheer curtains billowing with the wind. My head ached as though it had been split in two, like a thousand needles dipped in acid were prickling at my brain. But it wasn’t just the pain that unsettled me.

  Something was wrong.

  Terribly wrong.

  My fingers twitched. My hands—too small. This body—too light. I could feel the soft press of silk against my skin, the distinct coolness of linen sheets, but none of it felt… familiar.

  Where was I?

  Then, as my vision cleared, I hoped my hearing would follow—and it did. Whispers reached my ears.

  “Is he dead?” one asked in a tremulous voice.

  “Idiot, if he was dead, we’d all be hanging from the estate gates by now,” came another, equally anxious.

  “Then why hasn’t he woken up? The physician said the fever broke st night… If he doesn’t recover, the emperor will—”

  A sharp shhh! cut the speaker off.

  None of these voices were familiar.

  I tried to swallow, but my throat burned. Who were these people? My tongue felt thick and useless in my mouth. I turned my head slightly, wincing at the pain that fred in my neck. Beneath the throbbing, something else nagged at me—something more chilling.

  These memories.

  Who were they?

  Who was I?

  A sharp jolt of panic seized me, my heart pounding wildly in my chest. I could recall concepts—words, knowledge, instincts—but nothing about myself. Nothing concrete. My mind had become a bnk ste where a lifetime of memories should have been. As foreign memories cshed with the fragments I believed were mine, I screamed inwardly, clutching my head in desperation. I begged—silently, desperately—for it all to stop, pleading for this nightmare to end, convinced that all I needed to do was wake up.

  My fingers clenched the sheets. My breaths came faster as I heard a voice that was not mine.

  How could this be?

  I needed to think.

  But first—I needed privacy.

  With great effort, I forced this body to move. My hands gripped the mattress as I pushed myself up. The movement was slow, agonizing, but the voices in the room immediately ceased.

  “My Lord?” a cautious, fearful voice spoke.

  The words struck me oddly. My Lord?

  “Leave.” My voice was hoarse, dry, but firm.

  A beat of silence.

  “B-But, my Lord—”

  “Leave,” I repeated, the instinct stronger this time, though my throat burned with the effort.

  A sharp intake of breath followed, then the frantic shuffle of feet. Curtains rustled, fabric whispered, and the sound of hurried footsteps receded into the distance. A heavy door creaked open, then shut.

  Silence.

  For the first time since waking, I was alone.

  I took in a shuddering breath, my body sagging against the plush pillows behind me. My muscles ached, and the bandages wrapped around my torso and arms felt far too tight. Had I been injured?

  I lifted a hand—small fingers, pale skin, a wrist that looked delicate enough to snap. My nails were short and clean, my knuckles smooth and unblemished… ignoring the fact that I’d probably been dragged through the streets with salt poured into my wounds.

  This wasn’t my body.

  The realization sent a fresh wave of unease through me. I needed to find a mirror. I needed to see.

  With great effort, I turned my head, scanning the room.

  It was grand.

  Ridiculously so.

  Even in my dazed state, I could tell this wasn’t a commoner’s room. The bed I y upon was massive, draped in heavy silk and embroidered bnkets. The walls were pale stone, the windows framed by dark, carved wood. A rge firepce dominated one side of the chamber, though it had long since burned out. Gold accents glimmered on the furniture, and a thick, richly woven carpet covered the floor.

  This was wealth.

  Old, entrenched, unmistakable.

  Something twisted in my gut.

  I hadn’t been born into this life. I knew I hadn’t. Even if I couldn’t recall my past, everything about this pce felt wrong. Like I’d been dropped into a world that wasn’t mine.

  My fingers clenched.

  One thing at a time.

  I forced myself to move again, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The moment my bare feet touched the cool floor, a wave of dizziness hit me, and I had to brace myself against the mattress. My breath came sharp and shallow—my body far weaker than I’d expected.

  How long had I been lying here?

  My gaze darted around the room, nding on a tall, polished mirror near the wardrobe. The walk to it might as well have been a mile, but I grit my teeth and pushed myself up.

  My knees nearly buckled.

  Cursing under my breath, I steadied myself, one hand gripping a nearby chair for support. The room swayed before settling.

  Slowly, I made my way forward.

  Each step was an ordeal, my muscles protesting, but I kept going. My breath came heavy. By the time I reached the mirror, my chest was heaving as if I’d just run a marathon.

  Bracing myself, I looked up.

  A boy stared back at me.

  Golden-haired, pale-skinned, with a delicate, almost ethereal face. His features were refined, aristocratic—though there was a haughtiness to them, a petunt sharpness in the curve of his lips.

  His eyes.

  Bright amber, almost molten gold, wide with an unfamiliarity that sent a shiver down my spine.

  This wasn’t me.

  But it was me.

  Somehow.

  I reached up, fingers brushing against the bandages wrapped around my forehead. The reflection mirrored my actions, and for a moment, nausea coiled in my gut.

  “What the hell…” I whispered.

  My voice was young.

  Too young.

  How old am I?

  I forced myself to breathe, gripping the sides of the mirror like it could ground me. My mind spun, questions flooding in like a relentless tide.

  Who had I been?

  Who was this boy?

  Why was I here?

  Memories stirred at the edges of my consciousness—not mine, but something else. Something foreign. Flickers of half-remembered moments, of sneering ughter, of cruel words spoken in a careless drawl.

  The Eleventh Prince.

  The Menace of the Court.

  The Brat who Shamed the Empire.

  The knowledge came unbidden, and with it, a horrifying realization.

  This boy—this body—belonged to a prince.

  A prince so reviled, so unwanted, that he had been banished… and a woman had sobbed as he left.

  Who was she?

  My stomach twisted.

  It made sense. The wealth. The terrified servants. The strange, stilted way they had spoken, as if afraid of setting me off.

  Whoever I was now… I hadn’t been a good person.

  I exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to my face.

  “Okay,” I muttered. “Okay. This is fine.”

  It wasn’t fine.

  But I had no choice.

  I needed a pn.

  First—I needed to figure out how much damage had already been done. I needed to know my pce, my history, my standing.

  But most of all—I needed to survive.

  Because if what I suspected was true… if I was truly the Eleventh Prince, the st in line, the useless brat of a mistress long forgotten—

  I let out a shaky breath.

  “Amnesia,” I murmured, testing the word on my tongue.

  Yes.

  That would work.

  It was the perfect excuse.

  My grip on the mirror tightened.

  If I was going to live in this body, I needed to be smart.

  I turned away from the mirror, chest heaving.

  This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be real.

  The ornate room, the golden hair, the delicate features staring back at me—it all felt like an eborate, mocking hallucination. My fists clenched at my sides as panic cwed its way up my throat. My skin didn’t feel like mine. My face didn’t feel like mine.

  I needed to wake up.

  My heart pounded violently in my chest as I paced once, twice, before stopping dead. A twisted idea bloomed.

  If this was a dream—no, a nightmare—then maybe pain could snap me out of it.

  Without hesitating, I pivoted and smmed my forehead against the cold stone wall.

  The impact jolted through my skull, pain radiating in a blinding fsh across my vision. I staggered back, breath ragged, but the world remained stubbornly intact. No glitch. No fade to bck. Just pain.

  Fine.

  I turned again—this time to the mirror.

  Its surface, too perfect, too pristine, too unreal. I hated the face staring at me. Hated the soft eyes, the golden hair, the aristocratic pout. It wasn’t mine.

  I took a breath.

  Then I drove my head forward.

  The crack was sickening—a wet crunch as my forehead shattered the gss, shards exploding outward. Pain bloomed instantly, white-hot and unforgiving. Splinters of gss bit into my skin, thin trails of warmth tracing down my face. I stood there, trembling, blood dripping into the porcein basin below, breath hitched and teeth gritted.

  But I was still here.

  Still me.

  Still trapped in this alien body.

  My reflection was broken—splintered and disjointed—but so was I.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  It never had been.

  And I couldn’t wake up.

  The morning air was crisp when I finally returned to the bed, my muscles aching from the short but exhausting journey to the mirror. I sat on the edge of the plush mattress, fingers flexing, mind whirring.

  My body was weak. My vision swam every time I moved too quickly. And I was still getting used to the fact that my own hands—small, pale, and delicate—weren’t my own.

  This wasn’t my life.

  It wasn’t my blood running down my brow. Not my face, now cracked and slicked with crimson. Not my eyes, wide and hollow in the splinters of gss scattered across the marble floor. The sting of the cuts, the throb beneath the skin, the way one droplet trickled into my eye—it was all real. Real enough to kill any st hope that this was a nightmare.

  I gripped the sheets to ground myself. Silk. Expensive. Drenched in a life I never lived.

  The old prince’s life.

  Not mine.

  A muffled sob cwed its way up my throat before I crushed it down with a shaky breath. I didn’t even know what I was mourning—my old self, or the fact that I now wore the skin of someone so hated that the mere sound of his voice sent servants into a panic.

  Was this the universe's idea of a joke?

  I looked down at my bloodied hands again. Trembling. Fragile.

  Weak.

  That word echoed in my skull like a curse.

  No. I couldn’t afford that. Not here.

  I wiped the blood off on the sheets, smearing it like war paint, and forced myself upright again.

  This wasn’t my life.

  Yet… it was now.

  And it seemed like I had inherited the role of a terror.

  The memories—the faint, nauseating echoes of what this body had once been—were scattered and fragmented, but a few things were clear. The boy I had repced was a tyrant in miniature, a spoiled, cruel little noble with no real power except that which he wielded over terrified servants.

  This exile—because that was what it was—had been a mercy. A way to remove a problem without officially disowning it.

  I ran a hand over my face, exhaling sharply.

  Fine. I could work with this.

  First things first.

  “Breakfast,” I said, voice hoarse but firm.

  I heard a sharp inhale from the far side of the room—a reminder that the servants were still there, though so silent they might as well have been ghosts. I turned my head slightly, catching the faintest movement in the dim light.

  No one responded.

  My patience was already thin, and my hunger wasn’t helping. I cleared my throat and snapped, “Did I stutter?”

  There was a sudden scramble of movement—soft, hurried steps as someone rushed to obey, nearly tripping over themselves in the process. I didn’t miss the way the others stiffened, as if expecting the worst.

  Interesting.

  It seemed that the old prince would have beaten them—or worse—just for the dey.

  By comparison, my irritation was practically saintly.

  I sighed, shaking my head, and leaned back against the pillows, willing away the growing headache pounding at my skull.

  “Something simple,” I added, closing my eyes for a moment. “Bread. Eggs. And water.”

  There was another pause.

  My fingers twitched.

  I lifted my head and fixed them with a sharp look.

  “Must I repeat myself again?” I said, voice sharp as a bde.

  A sharp rustle of fabric, another frantic nod, and then—finally—my orders were obeyed.

  I was left in silence once more, only the faintest rustling of curtains breaking the stillness. I could feel the way the remaining servants lingered, awaiting the next demand, too afraid to move or speak without permission.

  Pathetic.

  But useful.

  If I was going to govern this pce, I needed information. I needed to understand what I had been given to rule over—this forgotten, far-flung frontier meant more as a prison than a province.

  So I turned my head and spoke again.

  “Bring me reports on the region.”

  Silence.

  A longer silence.

  My eyes narrowed. “Now.”

  The reaction was immediate.

  Chairs scraped against the floor as someone practically fell in their rush to obey, the very air in the room charged with something that felt suspiciously like confusion.

  I wasn’t calling for heads. I wasn’t demanding floggings. I wasn’t throwing things at them.

  I was asking for information.

  It was as if I had sprouted a second head.

  The hesitation grated on my nerves.

  “Are you deaf?” I snapped, barely keeping my exhaustion from my voice. “Or are you all as useless as I suspect?”

  More scrambling. Someone practically fled from the room.

  Better.

  At least they listened.

  And so, I waited.

  The food came first.

  A simple meal, as requested—warm bread, eggs, a bit of cheese, and a small gss of water.

  It was pin, but after hours of emptiness gnawing at my stomach, it might as well have been a feast. I wasted no time, eating with an efficiency that must have looked unsettling to those still lingering in the room. The old prince had eaten like a king, demanding eborate spreads and exotic meats.

  I, on the other hand, simply ate.

  I caught the way the servants gnced at each other in brief, uncertain looks.

  My patience was too thin to deal with them.

  “What?” I muttered through a mouthful of bread.

  They jolted. One of them—an older man with graying hair—cleared his throat but didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  “My Lord… you… ah, you are—” He hesitated, choosing his words as if his life depended on it. “You are different this morning.”

  I stopped chewing.

  For a moment, the only sound was the faint crackling of the firepce.

  Different.

  The word sat between us like a dagger waiting to be drawn.

  I swallowed my food and set down the gss of water with a soft clink.

  “Are you insulting me?” I said, voice smooth but carrying an edge.

  The man’s face paled.

  “N-No, my Lord,” he stammered. “Only… I meant no offense.”

  “Hmph.” I picked at the st bit of my meal, watching them carefully. “Then stop wasting my time.”

  The man bowed so quickly it was almost comical.

  I rolled my eyes and gestured zily. “Now, be useful and fetch more ink and parchment. I assume I have a study?”

  The man hesitated before nodding. “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Good,” I muttered, running a hand through my messy, golden hair.

  I still needed to figure out how I was going to make use of this exile. But before I could make pns, I needed knowledge.

  It wasn’t long before the reports arrived.

  A servant returned—red-faced and still flustered—with a heavy stack of parchment, bound loosely together with twine. He pced them carefully on the side table before stepping back, hands csped tightly together.

  I leaned forward, fingers brushing over the rough texture of the pages.

  At first gnce, the script was neat. Organized. There were numbers, symbols, and what looked like official seals stamped into the corner of each page.

  Good.

  I grabbed the first sheet, scanning the top.

  And then—

  Nothing.

  My mind hit a wall.

  The words—if they even were words—looked like an eborate mess of loops, sshes, and curling strokes. My brow furrowed as I squinted at the writing, my mind grasping at something, but—

  I can’t read this.

  I stared.

  The room felt suffocatingly quiet.

  It wasn’t just that the handwriting was difficult to decipher—it was that my mind didn’t even recognize the letters.

  Shit.

  I carefully set the page down, keeping my expression neutral.

  The servants were watching me. I could feel their wary, nervous gnces, as if waiting for a storm to break.

  I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers against the armrest.

  No one spoke.

  Good.

  Because right now, I needed time to think.

  I couldn't read.

  Which meant Either i went back in time or this could be what i think it is…

  My mind twisted uncomfortably around the realization.

  I had never learned properly, a memory fshed in my mind of someone throwing a tantrum and stabbing a tutor.

  Which meant—if I wanted to rule this pce, if I wanted to make something of this exile—I was going to have to learn.

  Fast.

  But first, I had to maintain the illusion.

  My fingers tapped against the parchment once, then twice, before I exhaled sharply and pushed it aside.

  “This handwriting is atrocious,” I muttered. “Rewrite it. Make it legible. Then bring it back.”

  The servants hesitated for only a moment before bowing and hurrying away.

  And as the door closed behind them, I allowed myself to finally sag back against the chair, rubbing at my temple.

  This was going to be a problem—but I had bought myself some time to think about what the hell was going on. I had to rationalize my surroundings first.

  I thought about everything, and then the realization hit me like a sledgehammer: I never got to say goodbye to my family.

  Now I’m stuck in this nightmare, inside a child’s body—one that somehow manages to scare full-grown adults.

  I get that I’m nobility; that much is clear, based on the way they addressed me.

  Now the question is… they mentioned an emperor. So what am I? A son? A bastard? Or the unwanted stepchild of the family?

  I collected my thoughts as I paced the room.

  Then, after a while, there was a knock.

  Servants began to trickle in, each carrying stacks of paper in their hands. They pced them down—respectfully, or perhaps fearfully—as if expecting to be struck.

  I took my seat in silence.

  The reports sat in front of me like a taunt.

  The parchment was thick, rough against my fingertips. The ink was dark and well-pressed, each letter neatly arranged in what should have been an easy-to-read document. And yet, the moment I tried to decipher the contents, my mind hit a solid wall of incomprehensible symbols.

  My fingers curled into a fist.

  I exhaled slowly.

  This was a problem. A significant one.

  If I couldn't read, I couldn’t rule. Not properly. Not without relying on someone else.

  My first instinct was frustration. But I smothered it down quickly, repcing it with cold, logical calcution.

  I can't afford to appear weak. I can't afford to let them know I'm ignorant.

  But… I could act as if I preferred things this way.

  My fingers tapped against the table as I considered my options.

  Then, in a sharp, commanding voice, I called out.

  "Servants."

  They were there instantly. Like shadows that had been waiting in terrified silence, standing just beyond the doors.

  The moment I spoke, they scrambled inside, bowing so deeply it was a wonder their heads didn’t touch the floor.

  A pause.

  Then one of them—perhaps the bravest of the lot—lifted his head ever so slightly. "My Lord?"

  I tapped the reports with a zy flick of my fingers.

  "I don't have the patience to read this drivel," I announced, keeping my tone ft and unimpressed. "Someone read it to me."

  There was a horrible silence.

  A tense, fearful sort of hesitation.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  The servants gnced at each other, their faces going pale. It was clear that no one wanted to be the one to read. Whether it was out of fear of making a mistake or simply fear of me, I wasn’t sure.

  But eventually, one man was “volunteered.”

  It wasn’t spoken aloud, but the other servants subtly shifted away, their eyes darting toward an elderly figure standing stiffly in the back. The way they stepped aside made it clear—this was the sacrificial mb.

  The old man hesitated, then sighed, stepping forward with the slow resignation of someone accepting his death.

  "My Lord," the elder murmured, bowing deeply. "I… I shall read to you."

  His voice was steady. Thin but practiced.

  His face was lined with age, his hair white and thinning, but his sharp eyes betrayed the quick mind behind them.

  "Eldric," one of the other servants mumbled under his breath, as if to crify his name before retreating to the far wall.

  I leaned back in my chair and gestured vaguely with one hand.

  "Then begin, Eldric."

  The scribe hesitated only for a moment before picking up the first parchment, clearing his throat.

  And so, the reports began.

  It was not good news.

  Not at all.

  "This nd was conquered fifty years ago," Eldric read, voice even and clear. "Before then, it was an independent territory, ruled by nomadic cns who resisted imperial control for generations."

  A pause. Then, cautiously, the old man gnced up.

  "You may recall, my Lord, that your great-grandfather led the first campaigns into this region. It took nearly two decades to establish imperial rule."

  I did not recall.

  But I hummed noncommittally, motioning for him to continue.

  Eldric's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he returned to the parchment.

  "The nd is harsh. The westernmost border reaches the great desert, and much of the terrain is rocky, difficult for rge-scale farming. The soil, while not barren, is far from the fertile nds of the inner empire. However…" He adjusted the parchment slightly. "There are resources. Iron. Salt. And a coastline , which gives access to a small but significant trade hub."

  A coastline.

  Now that was interesting.

  I took a slow sip of water, processing the information.

  "What of the town?" I asked, my voice smooth, casual.

  Eldric, clearly still bracing for some unseen fury, hesitated only a moment before answering.

  "It is… small. Nearly ten thousand people gesturing to the city on the map beyond the estate, my Lord. Primarily fishermen and merchants. It was founded as a supply outpost but has grown into a modest port town over the st few decades."

  Barely ten thousand.

  Not much. But more than nothing.

  "And the nd itself?"

  Eldric shifted uncomfortably.

  “A handful of vilges are scattered throughout the province. However, the popution remains low compared to the heart of the empire. The noble families assigned here have all but fled, given the difficulty of the terrain and the ck of imperial investment."

  So, a neglected frontier.

  A harsh nd with few people. No real agricultural value. But a port. A trade route. And iron.

  My mind whirred.

  "And the military presence?"

  Eldric hesitated again.

  "Minimal," he admitted. "This territory is rgely seen as a punishment posting. The soldiers here are either young, untested recruits or older men too injured or disgraced for further service in the capital. There are perhaps three hundred stationed throughout the province."

  Three hundred. Ten thousand people in the town. A handful of vilges. A nonexistent noble css.

  I had been banished here.

  But what they had handed me was potential.

  My fingers tapped against the table, a slow, rhythmic sound as I processed everything.

  Then, abruptly, I motioned for Eldric to stop.

  "Enough."

  The old scribe immediately closed his mouth, lowering the parchment with careful, practiced precision.

  The silence that followed was thick.

  I exhaled through my nose, tilting my head slightly.

  "You," I said, staring at Eldric now. "You are a scribe. You know this nd well."

  Eldric hesitated before bowing slightly. “I have served the Empire for many years, but I was assigned here when you were sent by your father, the Emperor, my Lord.”

  "Then you will serve me directly. You will teach me to read this drivel. Understood?"

  Another pause. Then, cautiously, Eldric spoke. "As… as you wish, my Lord."

  I nodded slowly.

  It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

  And as I reached for the st piece of bread on my pte, I knew one thing for certain—

  The world or what ever cruel entity sent me here.

  To rot in this faraway pce, ruling over nothing, commanding an army of nobodies, meant to spend the rest of my life as an exile with a crown.

  But they had made a mistake.

  Because it had given me nd.

  A coastline.

  A port.

  Resources.

  And people.

  I could work with that.

  The walls of the estate were unimpressive.

  That was my first thought as I stepped out of my chambers and into the long, bnd hallway that stretched before me.

  For a prince’s home—an imperial estate, no less—it was ughably rudimentary. The stone walls were pin, cking the grand carvings and intricate decorations I suspected the royal pace must have had. The floors were sturdy but bore the signs of wear, the wooden beams overhead darkened with time and exposure. There were no eborate chandeliers, no golden embellishments.

  It was a home fit for an exiled noble.

  And yet, I found that I didn’t mind.

  It suits me well enough.

  It was quiet as I walked.

  My footsteps echoed against the walls, softened only by the occasional rug id across the stone floors. The hallways were not empty—servants bustled through the estate, heads bowed, moving with swift efficiency—but the moment they saw me, they shrank away.

  They didn’t flee outright.

  They simply… removed themselves.

  Like ghosts fading into the walls, they avoided my path without hesitation, stepping aside with deeply respectful, deeply fearful bows.

  It wasn’t just deference. It was the careful, measured fear of people who had suffered under me before.

  Or rather—under the boy I had repced.

  I kept my face carefully neutral as I continued walking.

  I still didn’t know this body’s name.

  And the thought unsettled me.

  A name was a foundation, an anchor. It told a man where he belonged in the world, what burdens he carried, what legacy followed in his wake.

  But I had woken up nameless.

  Without a past. Without an identity. Without even the smallest fragment of myself to cling to.

  So I listened.

  As I walked, I let my ears pick apart the hushed murmurs of the servants I passed.

  “…his mood seems different today…”

  “…but still, it’s a relief. I thought we’d have another incident this morning.”

  “…do you think he remembers anything? The fever was high, and now he…”

  I narrowed my eyes slightly.

  So they had noticed the change.

  That was a problem. A small one, but a problem nonetheless. I needed them to believe that I was still the same person. That I was still their prince, their master—just perhaps, one who had taken his near-death as a lesson in restraint.

  Then, at st, I heard it.

  “…Lord Mikhail seems calmer today…”

  Mikhail.

  The name settled into my mind like a weight clicking into pce.

  Mikhail.

  So that was who I was now.

  I rolled the name around in my thoughts, feeling how it settled on my tongue. It was a strong name, regal but not ostentatious, cking the overindulgent length that some royal heirs were saddled with. It would do and it sounded russian. So maybe I am in an alternate timeline?

  I let out a quiet breath as I reached the end of the hall.

  Then, without a word, I stepped outside.

  The air was sharp and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of the estate’s interior.

  A courtyard stretched before me, simple in design but well-maintained. Stone pathways crisscrossed the area, leading to different parts of the estate. A garden lined one side, though it was clear that the soil here struggled to yield anything particurly lush.

  Beyond the estate walls, the nd stretched into a vast, rugged horizon.

  My estate—my prison—stood on a slightly elevated pteau, overlooking the nds below. In the distance, I could see the sparse vilges, the dry fields, and further still, the faint glimmer of the sea.

  The coastline.

  My coastline.

  I could smell the salt on the wind, mingling with the dry earth, a reminder that even in exile, there was opportunity.

  I inhaled deeply.

  At least the air is clean.

  I stepped further into the courtyard, my boots crunching against the gravel.

  The guards stationed outside stiffened at my presence.

  They were not the polished, elite warriors of the imperial capital. These were men assigned to a forgotten corner of the empire—a mix of veterans too broken to return to proper service and younger recruits sent here as punishment or training.

  But even so, they stood straight, their hands gripping their weapons with precise discipline.

  I didn’t acknowledge them.

  Not yet.

  Instead, I continued walking.

  I found myself at the outer wall of the estate, where a small wooden gate led toward the dirt paths beyond. The walls themselves were made of thick stone—not the towering fortifications of a great castle, but solid enough to repel a raiding party.

  A low-ranking officer, likely in charge of security, hesitated near the gate before stepping forward.

  "My Lord," the man greeted cautiously, bowing deeply. "Shall I summon an escort?"

  I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze linger on the man.

  Interesting.

  The guards feared me as well.

  Even though they were trained men, warriors who had likely seen real battle, they were still wary of me.

  Good.

  I shook my head. "No."

  The officer hesitated, clearly debating whether to argue, before bowing again. "As you wish, my Lord."

  I exhaled softly.

  If nothing else, I appreciated obedience.

  Turning away from the gate, I leaned against the stone wall, folding my arms as I gazed out over my domain.

  My territory was small. My resources were limited.

  But I had something.

  A starting point.

  My mind began to turn, ideas forming.

  The military here was weak—but with training, it could become formidable. The nd was harsh—but the presence of iron and salt could be valuable. And the coastline…

  Yes.

  The sea was my key.

  The empire may have sent this “Mikhail” here to rot, but they had inadventadly given me a port. A pce where goods could flow, where ships could dock, where trade could flourish.

  If I pyed my cards right, I wouldn’t just survive.

  I would thrive.

  I allowed myself the barest hint of a smirk.

  For now, though, I needed to learn more.

  Turning away from the view, I made my way back toward the estate.

  There was work to be done.

  The hall was quiet.

  Not the comfortable kind of quiet, nor the stillness of a pce at peace. No, this was the suffocating, choking kind of silence—the kind that stretched on too long, where every breath felt like an intrusion, every movement measured and uncertain.

  The servants stood against the walls, eyes cast down, hands wrung together in nervous anticipation. Across from them, the guards stationed at the doors stood as stiff as statues, faces bnk but backs rigid. No one dared to speak.

  At the far end of the room, I sat.

  Not slouched, not rexed—sat.

  My posture was straight, my fingers drumming idly against the armrest of my chair, my golden eyes locked onto the door in front of me. The expression on my face was unreadable, but the tension in my jaw, the sharp set of my mouth, spoke volumes to those who dared to gnce my way.

  Then, at st, the doors opened.

  A man entered—middle-aged, balding slightly at the temples, sweat forming at his brow despite the cool air. He was dressed well, though not extravagantly, his robes carrying the marks of his station.

  Mayor Edwin.

  The leader of the small coastal town called Velos.

  The moment he stepped inside, he bowed. Deeply.

  "My Lord," he greeted, voice steady, but ced with underlying tension. "You summoned me?"

  I watched him for a long moment.

  Then, with a flick of my hand, I gestured to the chair pced opposite my own.

  "Sit," I commanded.

  He hesitated. Not out of disrespect, but out of fear.

  Still, he obeyed.

  I waited until he had seated himself before I spoke again, my voice slow, deliberate.

  "You are newly appointed."

  "Yes, my Lord," Edwin answered quickly. "It has been… three months since I was installed."

  I tilted my head slightly.

  "And the previous mayor?"

  The hesitation was almost imperceptible, but it was there—a brief pause, a flicker of something in his eyes.

  "He was removed, my Lord," Edwin said carefully. "For… failing to meet the province’s economic expectations."

  I exhaled slowly through my nose.

  That was a very diplomatic way of saying that the old mayor had either fled, been jailed, or been executed.

  I could guess which one was most likely.

  "And yet," I continued, "the economic state of this town is abysmal."

  Edwin flinched, his hands clenching in his p. "That is true, my Lord, but—"

  I raised a hand, silencing him instantly.

  "You will expin why," I said, voice smooth but sharp.

  He swallowed.

  His gaze flicked briefly to the assembled servants and guards, clearly debating whether to speak freely.

  I leaned forward slightly, my golden eyes glinting.

  "Now."

  That single word held the weight of a command—a demand—and the mayor responded exactly as I expected.

  He cracked like brittle gss.

  "My Lord, the previous administration…" he hesitated, then pressed forward, "…made certain policies that have damaged the town’s prosperity."

  My fingers drummed against the chair.

  "Go on."

  He took a slow breath, then spoke carefully.

  "My Lord, the tax policies enacted… they were extreme. The city was taxed at rates that even the wealthiest merchants could not sustain. Local businesses colpsed. Trade routes were abandoned. The merchant guilds who once frequented the port—" He swallowed. "—they fled. Most have refused to return."

  I listened in silence.

  He hesitated again, eyes darting to the floor.

  "My Lord… it was not just taxation," he admitted, voice quieter. "There were… other policies."

  My eyes narrowed.

  He inhaled sharply, as if bracing himself.

  "Merchants were required to forfeit their ships upon arrival to the port—seized as… as tribute to his imperial lordship ."

  My breath stilled.

  "What?"

  Edwin flinched.

  But it didn’t stop the words from tumbling out now that the dam had broken.

  "The previous administration under your direct orders confiscated assets. Warehouses were seized. Caravans were forcibly searched. Even noble merchants, my Lord—even imperial subjects—were not spared. Many ships that arrived in port never left again, their goods taken in the name of… of financial recovery."

  My grip on the chair tightened.

  He continued, rushing now, desperate to expin.

  "My Lord, the effects were immediate. Trade colpsed. The guilds pced an official warning on Velos, urging merchants to avoid this province. The Eastern Kingdoms, whom we once had trade agreements with, now consider us unstable. Smugglers took over what was left of the trade routes, and even they have since abandoned us, fearing further extortion."

  My jaw clenched.

  I could feel the eyes of my servants, my guards, on me—waiting, bracing, terrified of how I might react.

  And for a moment, I wanted to react.

  Wanted to throw something, shatter something, let my rage be known in a way that would make the walls tremble.

  But I didn’t.

  Because anger—pure, uncontrolled anger—was useless.

  Instead, I closed my eyes.

  Breathed.

  Exhaled slowly.

  Then I opened them again.

  "Effective immediately," I said, voice cool, controlled, "all tax collection is to be ceased."

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Edwin blinked. The guards stiffened. The servants looked as though they had just witnessed a ghost rise from the grave.

  "M-My Lord?" Edwin stammered.

  "You heard me," I said ftly. "No further taxation will be collected until a new system is implemented."

  He swallowed hard, but nodded quickly. "Yes, my Lord."

  "Furthermore," I continued, my tone darkening, "all seized assets—ships, cargo, nd—are to be assessed immediately. Any property that can be returned to its rightful owner shall be returned. If the original owner is unavaible, it will go to their next of kin."

  "My Lord, that will take—"

  "Do I look like I care how long it will take?"

  He flinched violently. "N-No, my Lord!"

  I leaned forward slightly.

  "I don’t want excuses," I said coldly. "I want results."

  He bowed his head so quickly that I thought his neck might snap.

  "Yes, my Lord," he whispered.

  I exhaled again, leaning back into my chair, my fingers still curled tightly against the armrest.

  This was a disaster.

  This entire province—my province—had been driven into the ground.

  And I was the one responsible.

  Or rather—the previous me.

  The spoiled, arrogant little tyrant whose body I now inhabited.

  It was sickening.

  I looked over at the mayor once more.

  Then, in a voice that was quieter, but no less commanding, I spoke again.

  "What assets do we still have?"

  He hesitated, then quickly gathered himself.

  "The mines are still operational," he reported. "Iron and salt production continue, though on a much smaller scale. The port itself is intact, but trade is nonexistent. The greatest asset we hold is our position, my Lord."

  My brow furrowed slightly.

  He swallowed. "We are the closest port to the empire with access to the Eastern Kingdoms."

  My fingers stilled.

  That…

  That was something.

  My mind turned over the information rapidly.

  The Great Desert to the east made trade between the empire and the Eastern Kingdoms difficult. Many merchants took the longer, safer routes—but if I could entice them to come here—if Velos became a hub—

  The wealth… the power…

  It was right there.

  All I had to do was take it.

  I stood abruptly.

  Edwin jerked back, almost toppling from his chair in fright.

  I ignored him.

  "This meeting is over," I announced.

  The servants bowed. The guards stiffened. Edwin scrambled to stand.

  "My Lord," he said hastily. "What are your next orders?"

  I turned my head slightly.

  "Summon the merchants," , I said simply and i think to myself i need to get the master of coin now,

  Then, without another word, I strode from the room. For now I need to learn how to read.