When he awoke, the first thing he saw was a ceiling gilded with gold filigree, its carved vines catching the faint flicker of candlelight. It looked like something from a palace.
He blinked several times, expecting the vision to waver, but it stayed.
Velvet curtains hung from tall windows, their embroidered threads shimmering like starlight. A fire crackled quietly in the hearth, filling the air with the faint scent of roses and burning cedar.
He pushed himself upright, dazed and disoriented. This wasn’t a hospital. It wasn’t even remotely familiar.
The bed beneath him was soft, silk sheets, heavy blankets, a plush mattress that seemed to swallow him whole. The furniture was rich, hand-carved, polished to perfection. Even the rug beneath the bed looked like it could buy an apartment back home.
This place… it’s straight out of a highborn’s chamber, he thought.
The observation came instinctively, born from years spent writing about worlds like this. The architecture, the detailing, it all screamed late medieval, early renaissance, the kind of wealth reserved for highborn noblemen.
His breath caught as he muttered under his breath, “What the hell…”
The voice that came out was unfamiliar, it was softer, younger, more uncertain.
He swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet touching the cool marble floor. The surface gleamed like a mirror, reflecting the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement.
A reflection.
A tall mirror stood by the far wall, framed in dark wood and gold trim. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, his pulse quickening.
He didn’t want to look, but something deep inside compelled him forward.
Step by step, he approached.
The face that looked back at him wasn’t his own.
A boy, perhaps thirteen or fifteen at most, stared back from the glass. Tall and plump, sharp but delicate features. Fair skin, untouched by sun or hardship, hair of soft silver-grey that caught the candlelight like metal threads.
And his eyes, bright gold. Not hazel, nor amber, but true molten gold, gleaming like fire trapped behind glass.
He lifted a trembling hand. The boy did the same. When his fingers brushed his reflection, he felt the wrongness in every breath, every heartbeat.
That was when the truth sank in.
This wasn’t a dream.
He stumbled backward, his heel catching the edge of the rug. The sudden motion sent him crashing to the floor with a loud thud.
“Damn it!” he groaned, wincing as pain shot up his body.
The sound of the fall echoed across the room, just loud enough to alert the guards stationed outside.
Within seconds, the heavy wooden doors burst open, the metallic clatter of armor breaking the silence.
A woman stepped in first, her presence commanding even among the armored men behind her. Her silver-plated armor caught the firelight, and her crimson hair spilled freely over her shoulders like a banner of blood and flame.
Then another, an older man, tall, broad-shouldered, and neatly dressed in the familiar style of a classic butler: black waistcoat, white gloves, gray hair combed back. There was a refined air to him, not the kind born from arrogance, but from quiet diligence and careful restraint.
“Lord Edric!” called out the female knight while crossing the room in swift strides.
He froze. Lord… Edric?
Before he could react, the woman knelt beside him, her gauntleted hands steady but gentle as she helped him up. “You shouldn’t be moving yet,” she said, her voice low but laced with concern. “You’re still recovering from the poison.”
Poison?
His thoughts tangled into a blur, poison, Lord Edric, recovering, none of it making sense.
“I—” His words faltered. He wanted to ask who she was, where he was, why she was calling him that name. But her expression stopped him cold, the way her eyes softened when she looked at him, as though genuinely relieved that he was awake.
The older man stepped forward, "Perhaps we should call for the physician?"
He swallowed hard. “I… I’m fine,” he lied.
The woman studied him, her brown eyes narrowing faintly in skepticism before she gave a short nod. “If you say so, my lord. But the physician will not be pleased to hear you’ve been walking about.”
She helped him back onto the bed, still steadying him as though afraid he might collapse.
As he sat there, trying to gather his thoughts, one thing clawed at him.
Edric, he'd heard of that name before, or at least it's familiar.
But whoever that man had been, the world now believed he was him.
He sat still for a long while, staring down at the floor. The silence was broken only by the soft crackle of firelight. Finally, he lifted his gaze to the woman standing near the bed.
“…What happened to me?” he asked, voice hoarse.
The knight turned toward him, her jaw tightened, eyes burning with restrained fury.
“You were poisoned, my lord,” she said. “During last night’s supper.”
He blinked. “Poisoned?”
Her hand clenched into a fist at her side. “A maid, one of the servants from the house, slipped some kind of poison into your wine.”
He stared at her, trying to make sense of the words. “A maid? Are you sure?”
The older man interjected. "Indeed, my lord. A newly hired young girl from a nearby village."
“I saw it myself,” the knight said sharply, as if the memory itself disgusted her. “You took a single sip, and moments later you collapsed. She stood there trembling, holding the tray like she hadn’t just tried to murder her lord.”
Her tone dripped with contempt, and beneath it, something deeper.
Fear.
“I won’t forget the look in her eyes,” she continued, her voice hardening. “Pathetic. Crying. Begging for mercy. She claimed she didn’t know the wine was poisoned, but when questioned where she got it, she just said from the cellar. Lies, all of it.”
He shifted slightly, the weight of her anger pressing against the room. “And what happened to her?”
The knight and the older man looked at each other.
“We have her confined in the dungeons,” she replied curtly. “We're still trying to find out if she has any other accomplice.”
He swallowed. “Accomplice.. in my assassination?"
She nodded. “You are the head of house Artos, my lord, and we have a lot of enemies. We need to learn who we're fighting against.”
"Then," he hesitated once more, "what's going to happen to her after we find out?"
"That would be for you to decide, my lord." Answered the older man.
The knight looked at him like a hawk waiting for its master’s command, as though she half-expected him to demand the girl’s execution on the spot.
But he said nothing.
He only looked down at his hands — pale, trembling, too small to belong to the man he used to be.
The knight’s voice softened slightly, though the anger beneath it didn’t fade. “You shouldn’t strain yourself. The poison nearly took your life. Rest, my lord. Leave the rest to us.”
He glanced up at her. “...What was she like?”
Her eyes narrowed. “A snake hiding in plain sight. She seemed meek, obedient, but that’s how assassins often are.”
He said nothing, but something about her words didn’t sit right with him. Still, he didn’t know who this woman was. Or who he was, for that matter.
The knight bowed slightly. “I’ll report to the physician that you’re awake. We will see that justice is done.”
"Wait!" He suddenly called out, startling even himself.
The knight turned towards with a confused look. "Yes, my lord?"
Hesitating, he looked down and thought over his next words. What would someone like me would say at a time such as this. He thought.
Feeling resolute, he looked back up at the knight. "Do not torture the girl" he said firmly. "If she does not wish to say anything, let her stay in the dungeon, but don't torture her. I want to see her myself when I'm better."
"As you wish, my lord" She said as she turned toward the door, pausing only once to glance back — her expression a mix of relief and worry.
And as the door closed behind her, he sat there in silence, the flickering light casting long shadows across the lavish room.
Only the butler remained, quietly adjusting the curtains and straightening the table beside the bed.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the old man said at last, voice measured and calm, “but may I say, it is good to see you awake. We feared the worst.”
“My… lord,” he echoed, still uncomfortable with the title. “And you are?”
The butler seemed confused, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Gareth, my lord. I've been the steward of your house for nearly a year now.”
He nodded slowly, trying to play along. “I see. Forgive me, it seemed that your name escaped me."
“No need to apologize to this one, my lord.” Gareth replied, "you are usually busy, so it's not fair to expect you to remember all the names of your subjects.
"Is that so." He said as he looked toward the window, where sunlight shimmered against fields and distant towers.
"Where am I?" He murmured, a question meant for himself.
But the butler heard, he seemed to weigh the question for a moment before nodding. “We are in the northern reaches of the continent Avalon, within the Kingdom of Edoria. Your house has governed these lands for centuries now. But of course, you know that already, my lord?"
"Ahh yes." He answered softly, "Of course.. my head and memories are still hazy. It's all a blur to me right now."
Though the names did echo through his mind — strange, yet familiar. He had heard of them before, though he could not remember.
Seeing his current state, Gareth bowed once more. “Please, rest for now, my lord. Should you need anything, please don't hesitate to call for me.”
With that, the steward left, and the room grew quiet again.
He looked down at his reflection in the polished silver tray beside the bed, the same pale-haired boy with golden eyes stared back at him.
His gaze drifted toward the crest carved above the hearth, two silver serpents coiled around a golden sword.
Then, like a lightning jolt, it struck him.
House Artos.
He knew what it was.
Not from memory… but from something else.
From his own story.
He rose from the bed again, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs, and walked across the room. The closer he looked at the details around him, the pattern on the marble floors, the drapery, even the faint scent of myrrh and parchment, the more impossible it all felt.
“Avalon,” he whispered, remembering the name Gareth had spoken. “Edoria… House Artos…”
He’d written all of it. Years ago, in the story that had been cut short when his publisher dropped him. A world of kingdoms and nobles, knights and heroes, princes and princesses.
And House Artos — yes, he remembered now.
A Marquess household from the north bordering the frontier lands, rich beyond reason, but rotten to the core. They possessed enormous stretches of northern land, rich in timber, grazing fields, and mineral wealth. And yet, their people starved.
Fields were ravaged, pillaged by bandits, livestock were stolen, villages froze through winter.
The Artos family had been, historically, deplorable people. Self-serving, corrupt, depraved, the stereotypical villainous house.
And the young lord who ruled it now, after his parents’ sudden deaths.
Edric Artos.
He froze in place. The name clawed through his chest like a cold hand.
He turned to the mirror.
It really is him, exactly the way he had imagined what Edric would look like. Pale skin, silver-grey hair, and eyes of molten gold that gleamed like coins in the firelight. His features were sharp, patrician, the kind that suggested generations of breeding and arrogance.
“Edric Artos…” he murmured again, the sound hollow in his throat.
He’d written this boy — a spoiled noble, cruel and self-absorbed, who treated people like his playthings. A minor antagonist meant to be overcome by the protagonist, and then ultimately to die.
That was where his draft had ended. From the royal academy in the capital, Edric goes home for the autumn break to prepare for the winter, but was ultimately poisoned at a banquet.
Although he had not quite decided on who poisoned him just yet when the novel was dropped.
Half-finished. Forgotten.
And now he was here, standing where the scene had ended.
He gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white. “This can’t be happening…”
He had been beaten, most likely died, and woken inside a story that was never finished, in the body of a boy who had been written to die.
His eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the frosted glass, the world of Avalon stretched beneath a pale winter sky.
He could almost hear the whispers of his unfinished words, the echoes of the world he’d abandoned.
“House Artos… a house of gold and depravity,” he whispered bitterly. “And now I’m its lord.”
The irony of it all stung.