The next morning came too quickly.
The light that filtered through the infirmary window felt… off. Too bright. Too artificial. Like it was trying too hard to pretend the world hadn't shifted beneath his feet.
Lysander sat up slowly, ignoring the ache crawling through his bones. Mira had gone to fetch breakfast. His brothers were likely asleep in the next room.
But he couldn't rest.
Not after that dream.
He brought a hand to his chest.
His heart still pounded like war drums. That voice. That touch. He could feel it even now—gentle fingers brushing his cheek, firm but tender. Like the promise of something ancient.
"You're mine."
He shivered.
Why did those words make his stomach flutter?
He wasn't supposed to think like that.
He was supposed to be pure, untouched. The fragile prince with feathered wings and a fading life.
But…
That man…
Darkness in his eyes.
Flames in his soul.
And that strange ache inside Lysander's chest—like he'd lost something long ago and had only just remembered.
"Who… was that?" Lysander whispered.
His voice cracked.
No answer came.
He closed his eyes, reaching into the fog that clung to the edges of his thoughts. And there—buried beneath layers of numbness and pain—something flickered.
A memory.
No… two.
A boy with golden eyes, laughing as he chased him through endless fields.
A girl with white fire in her hair, cradling his head in her lap as he bled stars.
He gasped.
The pain came sharp and fast—splitting through his skull like lightning.
"Ngh…!"
He clutched the sides of his head, eyes wide. Who were they?
Why did he feel like he knew them?
The boy… so warm. So wild. His laughter like wildfire dancing across his skin.
The girl… soft and fierce all at once. Her tears burned like rain on embers.
Were they family? Friends? Lovers?
He didn't understand.
He couldn't.
His memories were a shattered mirror—cracks running through everything, pieces missing.
He hugged his knees to his chest, wings trembling behind him.
"I don't know who I am anymore…" he whispered.
Not truly.
He was Lysander Caelum.
Youngest prince of the Angelic Realm.
The fragile one.
The unwanted one.
But lately… that name felt like a costume. A paper mask worn too long.
There was more. Something deeper.
Something ancient.
He looked down at his hands.
So small. So delicate.
But he remembered—
A hand reaching into darkness. Holding power. Bleeding golden light.
His breath caught.
"No," he whispered. "That can't be me. I've never been strong. Never been brave. I'm… I'm always sick. Always falling."
Always afraid.
And yet…
The dreams kept coming.
The man in flames.
The boy and the girl.
And himself, in shadowed wings and golden fire.
"Who am I…?" he asked again.
No one answered.
Just the wind against the window, whispering secrets he wasn't ready to hear.
He buried his face in his arms.
"I feel like I'm breaking," he whispered into the silence. "I feel like I'm someone else and I'm just… borrowing this body."
The truth haunted him.
Because deep down…
He believed it.
This life, this identity—it didn't feel whole. There were gaps in his soul. Wounds that didn't match his years. Grief for people he'd never met.
And that man in the dream—
Why did he make Lysander feel so safe?
So wanted?
So… his?
He tried to summon the image again. The eyes. The heat. The voice.
But it was all smoke now. Slipping through his fingers like dust.
Still, the ache remained.
Longing. Need. Fear.
And the strange whisper of something far more dangerous—
Fate.