The breathless smile was still on his face as he stared at the glowing golden tabs of the menu—and then his chest collapsed inward.
A sudden, clawing panic seized his chest, knocking the wind straight out of him as if he’d been kicked by a horse.
He fell forward off the edge of the bed, dropping to his hands and knees on the dirty wooden floor planks.
He couldn’t breathe.
His lungs locked up, refusing air, while a wave of heat roared through his veins, hotter than any fever.
The memories didn’t feel like tales from a game or a book anymore.
They sat heavy in his mind, refusing to be pushed back down.
He saw a bright, sunny afternoon in the high pastures above Skalitz.
He was six years old, laughing, his bare feet covered in mud as he sprinted through the wildflowers.
His mother ran after him, breathless and laughing, holding a wooden spoon and warning him that wild boars would carry him off if he didn’t eat his porridge.
He saw the blinding glow of the forge fire.
The deafening clang of the anvil.
Martin, towering over him, smelling of coal dust and leather, gently placing his massive, calloused hand over little Henry’s small fingers on the shaft of a hammer.
“Patience, boy,” his father’s deep voice echoed in his ears.
“Steel doesn’t yield to temper.
It yields to rhythm.”
He felt his mother tucking a rough woolen blanket around his shoulders during a cold winter storm, kissing his forehead while his father mended boots by the hearth fire…
“Aaggh…
haaah…”
Henry dug his fingernails into the wooden floorboards, tears spilling down his cheeks against his will.
The grief was suffocating.
It ripped through his throat, threatening to drag him down into total madness.
Why?
his mind screamed against the agony.
Why does it hurt like this?!
I don’t know these people!
I only watched them on a screen!
Why is my heart tearing apart?!
And then, in the suffocating dark behind his closed eyes, he felt it.
It wasn’t his own heart raging.
It was a lingering, shattered remnant of the real Henry.
The blacksmith’s son wasn’t completely gone.
A dying, furious ember of his soul was still trapped in the flesh, screaming in agony at losing his parents, raging in helpless fury against the foreign mind that had stolen his body in his weakest moment.
The original soul was fighting back, trying to claw its way back to the surface, refusing to be displaced.
He’s angry…
the protagonist realized, his chest heaving as he fought for every ragged breath.
He thinks I’m an invader.
His parents just died, and now his own body is being taken.
“Listen to me!” he rasped out loud, his voice cracking as he slammed his palm flat against his own sternum, right over his pounding heart.
“Listen…
please!”
He squeezed his eyes shut, pouring all his focus directly into the dark, raging storm inside his chest.
“You can’t hold on!” he begged in a fierce, strained whisper.
“Your mind is broken, Henry!
If you try to take this body back right now, you’ll die!
We’ll both die here in the dark!”
The pressure in his chest didn’t loosen—it flared hot, heavy with a bitter, blinding fury that wasn’t his own.
“I know who killed Martin!
I know who cut down your mother!” he gritted out, his teeth bared against the crushing pain in his ribs.
“Give me this body, and I swear…
I will get revenge!
I’ll make Markvart von Aulitz pay for every drop of blood!”
He waited for the grip on his heart to loosen, but instead, the agony doubled.
The phantom hand in his chest twisted with violent disgust.
A surge of raw rejection flared through his veins.
The original Henry didn’t care about armies, noble feuds, or grand schemes of vengeance right now.
The thought of bloodshed made the soul scream in revulsion.
No…
that’s not it!
he realized, his mind racing through the agony as sweat stung his eyes.
Vengeance isn’t what he’s crying out for!
What does a boy who watched his family die actually care about?
What is tearing him apart from the inside?
Then it hit him .
Their bodies.
They were lying out in the rain, dumped in the mud of the Skalitz lower castle yard.
Abandoned to the mud, the crows, and the wild dogs.
In 15th-century Bohemia, dying without a proper Christian burial was the ultimate terror—a fast track to damnation.
“Skalitz…” he rasped, his voice softening, pouring every ounce of genuine sincerity into his thoughts.
“Your parents…
they’re still lying in the dirt, aren’t they?”
The suffocating grip on his chest shuddered, faltering for a split second.
“Listen to me, Henry,” he whispered, pressing his hand gently over his heart.
“I promise you…
I won’t leave them like that.
I will go back to Skalitz.
No matter how dangerous it is, no matter who tries to stop me, I will dig the graves myself.
I will give your mother and father a proper Christian burial .”
He took a slow, deep breath, feeling the faint tremor running through the flesh.
“I give you my solemn word.
They will rest in consecrated ground.
Now…
let me take the mantle.
Let me carry out this final wish for you.”
For a moment, silence hung heavy in the dark room.
Then, slowly, the violent, burning anger melted away.
What remained was a quiet, sorrowful acceptance—a final wave of grief, a silent plea of thank you, and then the lingering soul receded entirely into the quiet depths of the mind.
The crushing agony vanished from his chest, leaving behind a clear, deep resolve.
Before he could pull himself back up onto the straw bed, heavy iron-soled boots clanked sharply against the stone floor outside.
The door latch rattled, and Captain Robard stepped into the room.
Captain Robard stepped through the doorway, his eyes sweeping over Henry.
“It’s good you’re awake, Henry.”
“Why?
What’s wrong?
What happened?” Henry asked, his voice still shaken from the agonizing confrontation in his own mind.
Robard didn’t notice the sweat on Henry’s forehead or his trembling hands.
“You’re on your feet—good,” the captain grunted, turning toward the door.
“Our scouts spotted a heavy column moving up the valley from Skalitz.
Get up to the battlements.”
Without waiting for a response, the captain turned on his heel and disappeared back into the hallway, his heavy iron-shod boots clattering loudly against the stone floor.
Henry’s heart pounded against his ribs, every trace of exhaustion instantly replaced by pure adrenaline.
Skalitz?
Then it clicked—Sir Radzig!
It’s Sir Radzig’s survivors escaping the castle!
He forced himself up from the bed, his muscles aching.
He grabbed his longsword, buckling the belt tightly around his waist, and snatched a resin-soaked pine torch off the small wooden table.
Leaning it into the dying oil lamp in the corner, the tip caught fire with a soft whoosh.
Holding the sputtering flame high, Henry rushed out the door in the direction Robard had taken, heading toward the main castle walls.
Talmberg was compact, but navigating its dark passages in a storm was treacherous.
Passing through a narrow stone archway, he spotted the tight stairwell leading up to the ramparts.
Beside the stairs, his eyes caught a heavy wooden door.
That’s the guardroom, Henry noted mentally, his game knowledge kicking in.
That’s where the armor is stored.
That’s what I’ll need to steal if I want to escape Talmberg later.
At the base of the stairs, a guard spotted him and frantically waved him forward.
“Hurry!
The lords are up ahead!”
Henry pushed up the slippery stone steps, enduring the stinging, ice-cold rain that lashed against his face.
As he rounded a small slope on the wooden catwalk, Lord Divish’s voice rang out, cutting cleanly through the drumming downpour.
“All of you, pay attention!” Divish commanded, his hands resting on the battlements.
“If it’s Sigismund’s men, prepare to fight to the death!
Don’t let their numbers scare you.
Remember, Talmberg has stood for centuries because of its strategic position.
Follow my command, and victory will be ours!”
Henry hurried along the wall until he reached Robard’s side.
“Sir Robard, I’m here.
What’s happening?”
Robard didn’t turn around.
His hands gripped the wet stone merlon, his eyes locked on the valley below.
Down in the pitch-black darkness, a dense, flickering cluster of light moved slowly through the storm like a swarm of fireflies.
“The situation is unclear,” Robard growled, his eyes fixed on the dark valley below.
“Makes no sense…
why march on Talmberg in the middle of a torrential downpour?” “Abnormal…
deeply abnormal.
Sigismund’s army just raided Skalitz.
The advantage of surprise is gone.”
Robard finally turned his head to look at Henry.
“I need your eyes, Henry.
See if you can recognize them.”
The curtain of pitch-black rain was as thick as ink, blurring everything beyond the moat.
Henry squinted into the storm, his mind racing as he recalled the scene from the game.
“My lord,” Henry said, keeping his voice steady and low, “the rain is too heavy to see their faces.
But look at them—they are marching with open torches lit on a night this dark.
They are making their target completely obvious.”
He met Robard’s gaze.
“If Sigismund’s men wanted to launch a surprise attack on Talmberg, they would never expose themselves so brazenly and alert the garrison.
That isn’t an attacking unit.”
Robard turned his head fully, the flickering torchlight catching the surprise on his weathered face.
“Very insightful, lad,” Robard grunted softly.
“It looks like this war has taken something from you, but gave you a sharp pair of eyes in return.”
Before anyone could say more, a guard perched on the wooden hoarding leaned over the outer wall and shouted down into the darkness.
“Halt!
Who comes below?
State your name!”
From the dark road near the drawbridge, a loud, raspy voice boomed back up through the drumming rain.
“Lucifer and his devils!
Who else?
Robard, you night owl!”
By the glow of the rampart torches, Robard finally recognized the powerful, battle-tested face looking up from horseback.
A mixture of utter surprise and relief washed across the captain’s expression.
“Lord Radzig!
Thank God you’re alive!”
Sir Radzig Kobyla wiped the streaming rain from his eyes, glancing up toward the battlements.
“Is that old fellow Divish next to you?”
“What are you doing up at this hour, Divish?” Sir Radzig called up, a tired smirk cutting through the mud streaked across his face.
“At your age, you should have been asleep long ago.”
Lord Divish let out a weary chuckle.
“Look who’s talking!
You didn’t exactly pick the finest night for an outing either, Radzig.
In a big hurry?”
Radzig’s smile faded into a quiet, heavy reflection.
“Fate is unpredictable, old friend.
But this damn rain is truly a blessing from God—just as my grandfather used to say.
A blessing in disguise.”
“Wisdom from an old warhorse,” Divish agreed, his tone turning grim.
“Your messenger already reported the fall of Skalitz…”
“The messenger?” Radzig’s voice instantly rose, sharp with urgency and disbelief.
“Is he alive?
Did he make it?”
“He’s right here.” Divish reached out, placing a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder and pulling him toward the edge of the battlements.
The yellow glow of the wall torches illuminated Henry’s pale, rain-drenched face.
Down below, Radzig exhaled a long, audible sigh of relief that carried over the drumming rain.
“Thank God…
a rare ray of light in this dark night.”
“He’s a brave lad,” Divish affirmed, leaning over the merlon.
“But tell me, old friend, what happened at the castle?
How did you break out?”
“Thanks to this downpour,” Radzig explained, shouting over the storm.
“As soon as the storm started, Sigismund’s Cuman jackals retreated to their tents.
The storm forced them to pause the siege, and under the cover of the rain and total chaos, we managed to slip right out of their encirclement.
God save us—we couldn’t have faced their host in the open.”
“Are you taking shelter here for the night?” Divish asked with immediate concern.
“No, Divish.
Absolutely not,” Radzig refused decisively.
“When morning comes and the rain stops, Sigismund will realize the castle is empty.
He will send pursuers.
We are his main prize, and staying here will only bring war straight to your gates.”
“Then where will you go?” Divish called back worriedly.
“We march for Rattay tonight,” Radzig answered, his voice ringing with absolute resolve.
“It’s far enough, the fortifications are strong, and Lord Hanush has the room to shelter my people.
Divish—listen to me.
If Sigismund’s host marches on Talmberg, do not resist.
Surrender temporarily.
Preserve your men.
Sigismund pretends to be a king, so he’ll have to follow feudal law and play the noble.”
Radzig paused, his eyes scanning the ramparts until they locked onto the young man standing beside Lord Divish.
“Henry!
Are you listening?”
Divish nudged Henry forward.
“Speak up, lad.”
“I’m here, Lord Radzig!” Henry shouted down into the dark, cold rain streaming down his cheeks.
“Good lad!
You showed tremendous courage,” Radzig called up, his voice filled with genuine warmth.
“Divish says you were wounded.
Is it serious?”
“Just a scratch, my lord.
It’s nothing,” Henry called back, his throat tightening as he looked at the man who was secretly his birth father.
“I am…
deeply grieved for everything that happened to Skalitz.”
Radzig’s eyes softened.
“Henry, come with us to Rattay.
You will be safe there.”
Henry took a deep breath of the freezing air, his heart hammering in his chest.
He knew what he was about to say sounded like complete madness to everyone listening, but the quiet promise he had made to the soul inside him gave him no choice.
“I would be honored, my lord,” Henry’s voice rang out, remarkably clear through the howling wind.
“But before I go to Rattay…
I must return to Skalitz.”
A stunned silence fell over the ramparts.
“What?” Divish and Radzig shouted almost simultaneously.
“Are you mad?!” Radzig’s voice thundered with sudden fury and fear.
“What could you possibly go back for?
To throw your life away?!”
Henry held his ground, gripping the wet stone of the rampart.
“My parents’ bodies are still lying in the dirt, my lord!
I cannot leave them exposed in the wilderness for scavengers.
Once I have buried them, I will ride to Rattay and report to you.
I swear it!”
Down below, Radzig’s posture went rigid.
Sorrow flickered across his face, but it was quickly replaced by hard, unyielding authority.
“I grieve for Martin and your mother, Henry—I truly do,” Radzig said, his voice dropping low, heavy with painful grief.
“But going back is suicide.
It is sheer foolishness!”
Without giving Henry another chance to argue, Radzig turned his horse and pointed up at Lord Divish.
“Divish!
Keep an eye on the boy until I return!
Do not let him step one foot out of Talmberg until his wounds heal and this storm passes!
Do you hear me?”
Lord Divish nodded firmly from the battlements.
Don’t worry, Radzig.
I will look after him like , Havel Medek of Valdek.
Radzig gave a final, solemn nod from atop his warhorse.
“Thank you for taking care of him, Divish.
We will meet again.”
“Farewell, my friend!” Divish shouted down, raising his hand against the howling storm.
“May the Lord bless you all with a safe journey!
Convey my warmest greetings to Lord Hanush when you reach Rattay!”
Without another word, Radzig turned his mount toward the southern road.
His weary column of men followed close behind, their flickering torches swallowed up by the thick curtain of night and torrential rain until nothing remained but the distant sound of hooves squelching in the mud.