Maxine Rosevonte would be executed today.
And yet, the first thing he noticed was that this body… wasn't his.
White walls surrounded him. Too clean. Too perfect. No windows. No cracks. No visible seams. The cold air pressed against his bare skin, creeping into his bones like fingers of ice.
The ceiling loomed above him, smooth and endlessly pale.
Where… am I?
A sudden agony tore through his skull.
Pain exploded—blinding, stabbing, crushing. He collapsed from the narrow bed, crashing hard onto the marble floor. His hands flew to his head as memories that weren't his drowned his thoughts.
Faces.
Words.
Chains.
Screaming!
Fire!
Running!
He screamed.
The sound echoed, raw and animal, swallowed by the sterile walls. It didn't even sound like his own voice.
The pain only grew worse, a thousand needles driving through every corner of his mind, until his vision blurred and darkness crept in at the edges. Images overlapped—his own life, and another's. Two existences colliding, folding, devouring each other.
Then… slowly… the agony faded.
Silence returned.
He lay on the floor, gasping, his body shaking violently, soaked in cold sweat. Every breath burned. Every muscle trembled as if he'd been submerged in ice for hours.
After several long minutes, he forced himself to sit up.
"What… is this…?"
His voice sounded younger. Softer. Wrong.
He lifted his hands.
They were pale. Too pale. Slender fingers. Delicate wrists. A stranger's hands.
A creeping dread moved through him as he pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, unused to this body's proportions. Each step was unfamiliar, unbalanced, as if he were controlling a puppet instead of himself.
Across the room stood a tall, ornate mirror framed in gold.
He hesitated.
Then, heart hammering, he began to walk.
Every step toward the mirror felt like stepping closer to an execution block. His pulse thundered with each echo on the polished floor.
"Who… is Maxine?" he muttered under his breath. "Why do I have his memories…?"
He stopped just inches from the glass.
And froze.
A pale boy stared back at him.
Golden hair that shimmered faintly even in the cold light. Sharp, delicate features. Glassy, sea-blue eyes rimmed faintly red from pain or exhaustion. His cheekbones were fine, almost fragile. Beautiful… in a tragic, porcelain way.
He raised a trembling hand.
The boy in the mirror followed.
His fingers pressed against his cheek. The skin beneath was cool. Soft. Too perfect. Too thin.
Not his own.
This wasn't him.
Terror crawled up his spine.
Then it hit him.
Maxine's memories surged into focus—no longer chaotic fragments but coherent, horrifying truth.
A voice echoed in his mind, cold and formal:
"Maxine Rosevonte, you will be executed on the 5th day of this month. Wear this special robe to sleep the night before that day."
Today… is the 5th.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
"No. No, no, no"
He staggered back from the mirror. A cold, sick realization wrapped around his throat, squeezing tighter with every breath.
This wasn't a prison.
This was preparation.
Preparation for death.
He scanned the room frantically now, eyes darting to every corner for anything that could help him escape.
But there were no windows. No furniture besides the narrow bed and a small side table. No weapons. No objects to break the locks.
Only a single door.
From the stolen memories, he knew what waited outside.
Two guards.
Always two.
His instincts screamed at him: Stay still. Do not be suspicious. Do not act like a different person.
The sound of footsteps approached.
Metal against stone.
Then—
The door handle turned.
Panic flooded his veins like fire.
The door opened.
A woman stepped in.
Golden hair fell in a sleek cascade down her back. Golden eyes caught the light like sharpened sunlight. Her presence was suffocating—thick, heavy, dominant, like standing too close to a storm.
She was beautiful in a way that was almost inhuman.
And she looked extremely similar to him.
Older. Taller. Stronger. Like a perfected, hardened version of the boy in the mirror.
Familiar features, twisted into cold authority.
"I'm here to escort you, Maxine."
His breath nearly failed him.
Marianna Rosevonte.
His older sister.
One of the most powerful beings in the empire.
And… according to his memories, the only member of his family who had never once defended him.
He forced his spine straight. Forced the panic into a locked box in his chest. Forced his shaking hands to still.
He turned slowly. Calm. Controlled. Empty-faced.
"Yes. Good evening, Miss Marianna."
Her gaze sharpened, her attention locking onto him fully now.
"…You seem calmer today," she noted quietly.
Calmer?
Inside, he was screaming.
"I've accepted my fate," he replied evenly.
The air between them shifted. Her heavy aura softened… just slightly.
"I see," she said after a pause. "Then follow me."
She turned, already expecting obedience.
Outside the doorway, two lightly armored guards waited. They bowed in unison—not in respect, but in ritual.
"Young Lord Maxine."
A cold shiver crawled down his back.
Young Lord?
So he had once been someone important.
Once.
He stepped out into the hallway.
It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with immaculate white tiles that reflected the pale glow of chandeliers high above. The ceiling arched so far upward it disappeared into mist. The architecture was more like a divine temple than a castle.
Majestic.
And utterly, horrifyingly cold.
Marianna walked ahead. The guards moved to either side of him.
As they proceeded, he noticed the details he hadn't before—her long blue dress woven with silver threads. Matching gloves. Diamonds gleaming at her ears and throat.
And at her waist…
A wand.
A memory flickered:
Marianna Rosevonte. Stage 5: Witch.
Feared.
Respected.
His executioner in everything but name.
Their past wasn't kind.
Her words echoed from his memory:
"You shame our bloodline, Maxine. You stain the Rosevonte name."
Did she suspect anything?
They stepped onto an enormous balcony overlooking a vast space below.
He stopped for half a breath without meaning to.
The ballroom was colossal. A cathedral of white and gold large enough to house an entire city inside. Pillars soared hundreds of meters high, carved with divine symbols and ancient spells. The floor far below gleamed like liquid glass.
Power… wealth… cold perfection.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
"…Still afraid of heights?" Marianna asked without turning.
With a jolt, he quickly gathered his thoughts to reply. His voice barely cracked.
"No. I'm admiring the view," he answered, forcing his body to move again.
"…You've changed," she added quietly, golden eyes narrowing just slightly.
Ice shot through his veins.
"The thought of execution changes anyone," he replied, his tone smooth as still water.
She paused.
"…Perhaps."
Then she continued walking.
They descended the stairs together.
Each step echoed, a measured drumbeat counting down his remaining time. With every footfall, the noose tightened around his thoughts.
Marianna never once looked back.
Cold. Untouchable. In control.
Halfway down, another memory struck him with brutal clarity:
Chains around his wrists. Cold stone beneath his knees.
A circle of cloaked elders staring down at him in disgust.
"We cannot keep you hidden any longer! As the shame of Rosevonte, your greatest contribution would be to die for our honor!"
His foot slipped.
A guard reached out instantly.
"Young Lord, are you—"
"I'm fine," Maxine said sharply, calming his voice before the guard could finish. He raised a hand.
The guard nodded and stepped back.
At the bottom of the staircase stood massive black doors carved with twisting golden sigils.
Beyond them waited the outside world.
The execution platform.
The end.
Marianna stopped several steps ahead of him.
"Maxine."
He straightened slightly.
Her voice was different now. Not entirely cold.
"Before we proceed… tell me something."
"…Yes?"
She turned at last, golden eyes piercing straight through him. As if trying to see what had crawled into her brother's skin.
"You haven't spoken like this in years," she said quietly. "What happened?"
His mind raced a thousand directions.
Truth—death.
Lie—death.
Silence—death.
Think.
Think!
He lowered his gaze a fraction, choosing careful honesty.
"…You haven't seen me in years."
Her expression flickered, almost imperceptibly.
"Through everything, I had no one but myself. You wouldn't know anything about that."
He paused, then added, "You aren't allowed on that platform… no one is. I'm glad none will witness my end. I'll leave this world alone. As is fitting."
A faint, cold breeze stirred the ends of her hair.
Her aura shifted, subtly, dangerously.
"…A final curse upon our family name?" she murmured.
"Perhaps. But that doesn't matter," Maxine replied steadily. "The result is the same."
Silence pressed in around them.
The guards stiffened.
Time seemed to hold its breath.
Marianna stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
Then a third.
Stopping mere inches from him.
Her gloved hand lifted, brushing his cheek.
Cold.
Soft.
Foreign.
"…You really do seem different," she whispered.
A hundred alarms screamed inside his chest.
Was he found out?
Her hand slowly dropped.
Then her expression returned to smooth indifference.
"Let's go."
She turned back to the doors.
The guards followed her immediately.
Maxine hesitated for a single heartbeat.
That hadn't been suspicion.
That had been… curiosity?
He stepped forward again.
And then—
A whisper slid across his ear like icy smoke.
"Found you…"
His blood turned to ice.
He twisted around.
Nothing.
No one was there.
Marianna didn't react. The guards didn't hear it.
Only him.
Again the voice whispered, closer now. Ancient. Patient.
"You have finally awakened…"
"After centuries of waiting…"
Maxine's breath caught.
What…?
What the hell was that?…