Footsteps echoed through the corridor long before the door opened. Átila sat at the edge of the straw-filled mattress, the rough blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders as he tried to process the whirlwind of memories that did not belong to this world. He remembered the glare of neon lights, the chaos of a modern city, the blinding crash that ended his life—and now he found himself here, in a medieval chamber smelling of herbs and cold stone.
The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. She moved with graceful authority, her dark hair tied in a tight braid, her burgundy gown trimmed with wool. Her intelligent eyes softened the moment they met his.
"Átila," she breathed, placing a hand over her chest. "Thank the saints… you frightened us all."
So this was Lady Helena Suevo—his stepmother. Her posture, steady and composed, suggested someone who managed a fortress more than a household. Átila rose carefully, unsure of how the original Átila had spoken to her, but determined not to reveal his confusion.
"I'm sorry to have worried you, Lady Helena," he said with a respectful incline of his head.
Her brows lifted slightly, as if surprised by the courtesy. "You collapsed during your morning drills. Your heart has always been delicate, but this time…" Her voice faltered, and she looked away as though the unspoken word—died—was too heavy to say aloud. "We feared the worst."
He tightened his grip on the blanket, hiding the unease running through him. The boy who once owned this body had died. And he had taken his place.
"I feel better now," Átila said softly. "Stronger."
Helena studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and perceptive. She seemed to sense something different in him—some shift in demeanor or presence she couldn't name. But after a moment she simply nodded.
"Your father asked for you. He's been restless ever since you collapsed. Come—I will walk with you."
Átila followed her into the hallway. The corridor was long and cold, lit only by torches that cast trembling shadows across the stone walls. Cracks ran through the masonry, and patches of moss clung to corners where sunlight never reached. The entire fortress felt ancient, worn by time, and barely held together.
As they walked, Átila examined everything with the eyes of an outsider. A tapestry hung loosely, edges frayed. A wooden beam had splintered and been crudely repaired. The wind seeped through the shutters in thin icy drafts. Staff bowed as he passed—servants, guards, stable boys. Some smiled with relief to see him on his feet. Others looked startled, as if they sensed deep down that something was different about him.
"The castle was built during your great-grandfather's time," Helena said as they walked. "And though your father has kept it standing, age comes for stone as surely as it does for men."
Átila brushed his fingers over a crumbling section of the wall. Tiny flakes of stone fell at his touch. "It needs repairs," he murmured.
Helena paused, eyeing him with mild surprise. "Yes. Far more than our treasury can currently manage." Her tone carried frustration—directed not at him, but at the relentless demands of maintaining a frontier stronghold.
They continued past narrow windows that overlooked the courtyard. Soldiers trained below with dented armor and worn boots. Horses in the stables looked thin but well cared for. The drills were disciplined, but everything bore the unmistakable signs of strain—too few resources, too little manpower, and too many threats pressing from the frontier.
This was the world Átila had inherited. A fortress as weary as the man who led it.
By the time they turned into the main hall, the torches became more numerous, the stone cleaner, the tapestries less faded. The sigil of House Suevo—a silver wolf—appeared on shields mounted along the walls. Helena stopped in front of a large oak door reinforced with iron bands. Two guards straightened instantly upon seeing them.
"This is as far as I go," she said. Her voice softened. "Your father is resting, but he would not be denied the moment he heard you were awake."
Átila hesitated, feeling the weight of inherited memories tighten in his chest. The old Átila had loved and feared disappointing this man. The new Átila carried none of those emotions—but he did carry the responsibility now.
Helena rested a gentle hand on his arm. "Go to him. He's waiting."
He took a slow breath, stepped forward, and placed his hand on the heavy iron handle of the baron's door.
And pushed.