Frost webbed the high, lead-lined windows of the upper gallery, scratching crystalline teeth against the glass. It was quiet up there, far above the extinguished courtyard torches, save for the wind whistling through the masonry like a dry throat trying to clear itself.
In the deepest alcove, the shadows didn't just pool; they seemed to curdle, thickening into an ink-dark shape that drank the pale light of the twin moons. Beneath its heavy cowl, a sliver of white teeth bared in a silent, crescent grin.
"Oh, come on," Kairo mumbled, sitting cross-legged on a down mattress that swallowed him up to his shins. "No way that's a normal apple."
He was nine years old now, apparently. Nine years old with the hands of a kid who had never held anything heavier than a plastic controller, yet here he was, staring at a piece of purple fruit the size of a human skull. It smelled like dark honey and wet dirt. He gripped the bruised skin with both hands, his small fingers barely meeting on the other side.
If I eat this and gain a temporary stat boost, Kairo thought, I am absolutely calling plagiarism on my entire life.
He took a bite. The crunch cracked through the silent bedchamber.
Dense, sugary nectar flooded his mouth, so thick it felt like swallowing warm syrup. A sudden, sharp heat blossomed in his stomach, shooting straight down to his knees and out to his fingertips until his skin tingled. His eyes watered. Back home, an entire bag of supermarket honeycrisps didn't have this much concentrated flavor.
He set the half-eaten monster down on the cedar side table, wiping sticky purple juice from his chin with the sleeve of his night tunic.
Everything in this place was tuned to a ridiculous frequency. During his quiet, supervised walks through the lower courtyards, his newly photographic memory had cataloged the details with terrifying clarity. The air felt richer, almost sweet with oxygen, making his chest ache if he took a deep breath too quickly. Even the slate shingles on the commoners' roofs were perfectly uniform, cut from green river rock that looked strong enough to stop a siege engine.
It was exactly like those fantasy anime he used to binge on Friday nights while eating cold pizza. Castles, towers, the whole nine yards. Except the scale was entirely wrong. It was too real. The bugs were probably going to be the size of small dogs.
I swear, if a spider walks in here with a health bar, I'm jumping out the window.
His gaze drifted down to his right arm.
The linen sleeve had slipped back, exposing smooth skin under the moonlight. But as he watched, the blue veins beneath his wrist began to shimmer, turning a strange, metallic silver.
The bedroom vanished.
The smell of wet iron and crushed pine needles hit him first. Then came the high, whistling shriek of invisible wind blades tearing through the brush. In his mind, his right arm didn't end in fingers—it ended at the elbow, a jagged, raw stump spraying dark fluid onto pale moss. The phantom pain struck him like a bolt of freezing electricity, drilling straight through the marrow of his bone.
Kairo let out a sharp, choked gasp, tumbling off the bed onto the floorboards. He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand, squeezing so hard his nails bit deep into his flesh.
"Stop, stop, stop," he whispered, his forehead pressed against the cold wood as sweat soaked his collar. "It's there. Look at it. It's whole. This is just a stupid flashback loop. Skip intro. Skip intro."
He focused on the rough texture of the floorboards against his cheek, the smell of cedar wood, and the steady, quiet drip of water from the courtyard fountain outside. Slowly, the vision of the blood-drenched forest receded, leaving only a dull, throbbing ache behind his breastbone.
He opened his eyes and uncurled his fingers. His hand was intact. Small, slightly pale, but completely whole.
That shadow contract was doing something weird to his head. It was repairing his body, but it was also forcing him to relive the mutilation, over and over, hardening his mind like tempered metal. The old Kairo—the kid who used to cry when he stubbed his toe on the coffee table—would have been a screaming mess on the floor. This new nine-year-old body just shivered, took a ragged breath, and climbed back onto the bed.
He lay back against the pillows, staring up at the dark timber beams of the ceiling. Without some kind of cheat-code magic, he was just a kid with zero talent, zero training, and a very creepy roommate living inside his chest.
Beneath his ribs, the cold ember of the shadow's power pulsed once—a slow, patient thump. Outside, the alien stars burned silently in the black sky, totally indifferent to his existence.
The door flew open with a soft, dramatic click, and Kairo nearly bit his tongue off.
"Is the kitchen to your liking, Kairo?"
The Queen sat across the walnut table, her dark hair pinned back with a slender silver needle. She hadn't touched her spiced mint tea. Instead, her pale fingers were laced under her chin, her violet-shadowed eyes tracking every single movement of his hands.
Kairo slowly lowered the golden pastry he'd been chewing. The dining hall smelled of roasted rosemary and crisp pork belly, but his stomach had suddenly shrunk to the size of a walnut. He had spent the last ten minutes trying to sit perfectly straight, his boots making loud, embarrassing squeaks against the flagstones every time he shifted.
"Yes, Mother," Kairo mumbled, swallowing the buttery crust. "It's really good. Everything tastes... fresher than what I'm used to."
"Really?" The Queen tilted her head, a cool, faint smile playing on her lips. "The grain in your old world lacked that substance?"
Kairo's heart did a violent flip-flop. The pastry slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft splat on the silver plate. He stared at her, his eyes wide, his brain scrambling to find a save state.
Wait. She knows? Is this the part where they call the priests to exorcise the demon child?
"H-How long?" Kairo squeaked, his voice cracking.
"Since the second night," she said, her tone as calm as if they were discussing the weather. She reached out, tapping the rim of her porcelain cup with a ringed finger. "A nine-year-old boy who has lost his memory does not stare at a common iron fork as if it were a magical artifact. Nor does he flinch when the guards mention the southern ports. You look at everything as if you are translating it from a very distant tongue, Kairo. You are a terrible actor."
Kairo slumped in his chair, all the royal posture draining out of him. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face burning hot. "You... you knew the whole time? And you let Dad believe the whole 'prophecy' thing?"
"My husband believes what the kingdom needs him to believe," she replied, her voice dropping to a quiet, firm register that made the air in the room feel suddenly thin. "The valley is drying up, Kairo. The lower wells are turning to lime. If our people need a boy from the stars to believe the crops will grow, then you are a star-child. But I am the one who has to manage the grain stores when the snow falls."
She leaned forward, her emerald rings catching the sharp morning light. "After your training today, you will tell me about the place you left. The truth. No more pretending to be a simpleton. In exchange, I will tell you which of our lords are already writing letters to the southern courts."
Kairo kept his eyes on his plate, watching a smear of yellow butter melt into the silver. "I won't lie to you again."
"Good," she said, rising from the table with a soft whisper of silk. "See that you don't."
The Queen vanished through the side gallery, leaving Kairo alone with his cold tea and a half-eaten pastry. Before he could even draw a clean breath, a man stepped out from the shadow of the pantry door.
He was tall, thin as a willow branch, and dressed in a high-collared suit of black wool. His silver hair was combed back so perfectly it looked painted on, and his posture was so stiff Kairo wondered if he had an iron rod zipped up his spine.
The man stopped exactly three paces away and bent forward in a flawless, ninety-degree bow.
"Young Master," the man said, his voice like dry paper sliding over flagstones. "I am Malakai. By order of the seneschal, I have been assigned as your personal butler. Your daily requirements, your linen, and your schedule are my sole concern."
Kairo blinked, his mouth slightly open.
Wait... I actually have a butler? No freaking way.
"Uh," Kairo cleared his throat, trying to sound like a prince and failing miserably. "Cool. I mean, excellent. Show me the training grounds, Malakai. I don't want to keep my father waiting."
"Of course, Young Master," Malakai said, rising from his bow with a faint, polite curve of his lips. "Follow me."
"Before you learn magic, Kairo, you must first master the sword."
The King's voice rumbled across the training grounds like a low rockslide. He stood in the center of the vast grid of white dust, stripped down to a sweat-stained linen tunic, his enormous forearms crossed over his chest. A massive practice sword of black iron was planted beside him, its tip buried deep in the grit.
Kairo dragged his feet, his hands gripping a wooden ash blade. The hilt was slick with sweat from the soldiers who had used it before him, and the balance was so front-heavy it felt like waving a shovel around. All around them, hundreds of soldiers in boiled leather jackets were running drills, their wooden shields colliding with a monotonous, rhythmic thud-thud-thud. The air smelled of hot dust, horse sweat, and grease.
"But Father," Kairo said, squinting up through the blinding sun. "Wouldn't magic be faster? If I can just throw fireballs, why do I need to swing a stick?"
The King laughed—a short, barking sound that made Kairo's ears ring—and shook his head. "Magic can fail, boy. Spells can be broken. Your mana can run dry when you're cornered in a ditch. But your body? Your spirit? Those don't run out. When everything else is gone, cold steel and your own two feet are all you have left."
He knelt down, his scarred face coming level with Kairo's. The scent of sour ale and leather rolled off him. "Listen to me. You have kindness, Kairo. I see it. But kindness without strength is just a fancy way of getting yourself killed. You must become a wall for this kingdom."
A wall, Kairo thought, his stomach twisting. I'm nine. I was playing video games two weeks ago.
The King reached down and picked up two rings of dark, unrefined iron from the dirt. With two quick clicks, he locked them around Kairo's ankles.
The weight dragged Kairo down instantly. His knees buckled, and he almost face-planted into the grit. Each cuff was fifteen kilograms of solid metal, pulling at his calves until his lower back screamed.
"Move," the King commanded, stepping back.
Kairo gritted his teeth, his thighs shaking like jelly. He looked at his feet, then out toward the mountain trail that climbed up through the jagged shale toward the cloud line.
That mountain... There's no way that's legal.
"Four times to the crest," the King said, pointing toward the peak. "Clear the hill, and we talk about magic."
Kairo didn't say anything. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the small, cold spark behind his ribs flare up. He didn't care about their throne, but he remembered the Queen's sharp eyes, and he remembered the bleeding stump in the dark forest. He wanted to survive.
He opened his eyes, braced his core, and wrenched his right foot upward. The iron scraped loudly against the gravel. He slammed the boot down, taking a clumsy, shuddering step forward. Then he dragged the left.
"I'll do it," Kairo muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the wind. Then, louder: "I'll do it, Father!"
The King's grin split wide, his eyes gleaming like hot coals. "That's the spirit! Go!"
Kairo shuffled past him, the iron weights dragging through the dust like anchors. The soldiers in the background had stopped their drills, their wooden shields held low as they watched the strange, small boy head toward the mountain path.
Each step was a physical argument. Within thirty yards, the stone dust gave way to sharp, grey shale that shifted under his soles. His chest felt like it was on fire, his throat dry as paper, and his shins throbbed where the iron pressed against his leather boots. Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging the lids.
But he didn't stop. He kept his eyes on the first bend in the trail, focusing on one ugly rock at a time. Beneath the burning in his muscles, the cold ember of the shadow's power stayed steady, keeping his knees from buckling.
Behind him, the high walls of the palace began to shrink into the valley mist, the shouting of the soldiers fading into the empty, cold howl of the mountain wind. He took another step, his foot slamming into the dirt with a heavy, metallic crunch.
He was definitely going to need a very long nap after this.