Aarav's eyes snapped open.
Not to darkness, but to crimson world.
He wasn't in bed.
He was standing. Boots sinking into something wet and yielding.
The stench hit him like a physical blow thick, metallic blood, the sour tang of ruptured organs, crackle of magic, and beneath it all, something… other.
Divine blood, thick as mercury, coiling smoke where it pooled.
He stood atop a mountain.
Not earth, but flesh. Twisted limbs, shattered armor, gaping maws of beasts larger than houses leaking black ichor.
Human faces frozen in final agony, eyes wide and empty. Demonic shapes, leaking shadow like smoke, limbs bent wrong. And figures… taller, radiating a fading, terrible light even in death.
Gods? Their broken weapons hummed with dying power, scorching the air.
In his hand, weight dragging at his shoulder, a sword. Brutal, not beautiful. Dark metal drank the sickly light. Blood-red runes pulsed along its edge, matching the furnace of wrath burning in his own hollow chest.
His armor, scarred, dented, slick with gore not his own. His breath tore at his throat, tasting of ash and something worse the cold, gnawing emptiness that had settled deep in his bones.
Cold.
Not wind.
The cold of the void.
His eyes swept the endless graveyard beneath a sky choked red.
Not scared.
Just… hollow.
Used up.
But under the cold, under the crushing despair, banked like embers in a dead forge, raged the fire.
Pure, undiluted wrath.
At the shattered sky.
At the treacherous earth.
At existence itself for demanding this endless slaughter.
It vibrated up his arm, making the sword's runes flare brighter, hotter. He threw his head back, throat muscles straining against the weight of the world, and roared. Not triumph. Defiance. A raw, animal scream ripped from the core of his shattered spirit, echoing across the heavens, reeking plain.
"RAAAAAAAGH!"
...........
Aarav jolted upright.
Silk sheets tangled around his legs. Sweat plastered thin hair to his forehead, cold despite the room's warmth. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The phantom reek of blood and decay clung for a terrifying second, the taste of ash thick on his tongue.
He gasped, lungs burning.
"Just… just a dream," he rasped, voice unfamiliar, thin.
'Gods, just a nightmare.'
He pressed the heels of his palms hard against his eyes, trying to crush the images, the mountain of corpses, the crushing weight of the sword, the icy despair that felt more real than this soft bed.
But the details… too sharp.
The cold weight of the runic blade. The utter exhaustion dragging at his limbs.
The fury.
He took another shuddering breath, forcing himself to look. The bed was huge, absurdly soft. Silken sheets. Heavy, embroidered blankets. Not the scratchy cotton of Uncle Silas's lumpy spare bed. The air smelled… faintly floral. Lavender? He blinked, eyes adjusting to dim light filtering through thick curtains.
"Still dreaming?" The thought was desperate.
He looked down. At his hands. Small. Too small. Pale, delicate fingers. No callouses from hauling library books or fixing leaky taps at the corner shop. He flexed them.
Weak. A different kind of panic, cold and sharp, pricked through the fading terror.
"What… what the hell?"
He kicked back the suffocating covers. Linen sleep clothes, fine weave.
His legs… short. Thin.
He scrambled off the massive bed, feet hitting a thick rug. He stumbled towards a large, ornate mirror framed in dark, polished wood.
A stranger stared back.
A boy.
Maybe twelve? Fine-boned face, pale as milk, eyes wide with the same terror Aarav felt. Shockingly black hair, like spilled ink, fell messily around his ears. He looked… breakable. Fragile. Like a fancy doll dressed in clothes straight out of a history book about nobles.
Nothing like the lean college student from City V.
Nothing like the warrior drowning in divine blood.
He raised a trembling hand. The boy mirrored him. Pale fingers touched the cold glass.
"Impossible. Dream. Hyper-realistic… terrifying dream…" He pinched his arm.
Sharp pain bloomed. Slapped his own cheek. Stung.
Too real.
Way too real.
The truck's horn blaring… Silas shouting… the blinding light… the voice… cold water…
Reincarnation.
The word surfaced, cold and clinical, from the pages of a thousand trashy web novels he'd devoured in his old life.
Protagonists waking up in new worlds, memories intact. He'd wished for it sometimes, bored stiff during lectures. A stupid fantasy.
Now… tears pricked hot behind his eyes.
Uncle Silas… gone.
Really gone.
He choked back a sob.
"Stop it, Aarav. Crying won't help. Understand your situation first."
As if triggered by the thought, the dam burst.
Not a trickle.
A tsunami.
A thousand shards of another life ,Astrael Ravenastra, slammed into his mind. A jumble of faces, names, lessons, fears… whispers of an "accident" that took his parents. The suffocating weight of being the last heir. Then… cold water closing over his head? Darkness. Panic. Then… nothing. Warmth. Lavender… and something sharp, bitter. Medicine?
Aarav… no… Astrael opened his eyes.
Blinked.
Same stupidly opulent room.
Same too-soft bed.
But sunlight now streamed through a gap in the curtains, painting a bright stripe on the wall. His head throbbed, a deep, bruised ache, but the chaotic storm of memories had settled into a strange, unsettling order.
The Ravenastra family.
The Heir's Burden.
His own… death.
Grief twisted, sharp and sudden, for Silas.
For the life ripped away.
Breathe. Adapt. Survive.
He clenched the silk sheets in his small, weak fists.
I'm Astrael Ravenastra now. But… I'm also… me. Aarav.
Both.
The thought was dizzying.
A soft click shattered the silence. The heavy door creaked open.
A young maid peeked in. Black dress, stiff white apron, lace cap perched on dark hair. Violet eyes, wide as saucers, scanned the room. They landed on him , awake, eyes open, and froze.
One heartbeat. Two.
Joy exploded across her face, erasing the worry.
"Young Master!" The gasp was half-sob. Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled instantly, spilling over.
"Young Master! You're awake! Truly awake!" She stumbled fully into the room, beaming, her voice trembling with disbelief.
"The healers… they… they feared the worst after the fever broke and you just… wouldn't stir…"
She whirled, a blur of black and white, darting back into the corridor. Her voice, high with frantic joy, echoed like a bell down the stone halls.
"MY LORD! VIKTOR! HE'S AWAKE! THE YOUNG MASTER IS TRULY WITH US!"
Boots. Heavy, urgent, pounding on stone. Fast. Coming closer.
Lord Silas Ravenastra filled the doorway first. Tall, broad-shouldered, his usual aura of stern command was fractured. Silver hair, normally precise, was dishevelled. Deep shadows bruised the skin beneath his piercing silver eyes , eyes now wide, fixed on Astrael, blazing with a desperate, fragile hope that looked painful.
He wore a deep blue dressing robe hastily thrown over what might have been sleep clothes.
He looked… old. And scared.
Beside him, moving with unnerving silence and precision, came Viktor. The family butler. Impeccable black tailcoat, face like carved granite, betraying nothing. Sharp eyes behind thin spectacles scanned Astrael with swift, analytical intensity. He held a small silver tray bearing a single steaming cup. The sharp, bitter scent of strong medicinal tea cut through the lavender.
The maid, Elara, bounced on her toes just inside the room, tears still streaming freely, a radiant smile splitting her face.
"See, my Lord? His eyes! He sees us! He's back!"
Lord Silas crossed the vast room in three long, swift strides. He stopped abruptly at the bedside, his imposing frame suddenly seeming less like a pillar of authority and more like a weary, frightened grandfather.
His hand , large, strong, rough with the marks of power and responsibility , reached out.
It trembled, just slightly, as it didn't grasp or command, but gently, hesitantly, touched Astrael's forehead.
His voice, usually a whip-crack of command, was thick, rasping, choked with relief and something raw and vulnerable:
"Astrael?" A breath, barely audible. "Boy… can you hear me? Do… do you know me?" The question hung heavy, laced with fear.
Viktor stood a silent, watchful sentinel at his Lord's shoulder. His gaze remained analytical, assessing the boy's pallor, the clarity in his eyes, but the habitual sternness around his mouth had softened, almost imperceptibly.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Even the sunlight streaming in felt still, waiting.
Astrael looked up.
Truly looked.
The instinct to respond, to ease that worry, was strong.
Too strong.
The ghost of Aarav screamed a warning
They can't know.
Not yet.
This is insane.
Play safe.
He met Silas's intense silver gaze. Took a shallow, shaky breath. His voice scraped out, raw from disuse and the lingering echo of a scream, but deliberately blank.
Confused.
He let his eyes dart around the opulent room, feigning disorientation.
"I…" He started, then stopped, frowning. He pulled his shoulder back slightly from the comforting grip, a gesture of instinctive withdrawal that felt horribly cruel but necessary. He looked directly at Silas, his young face a mask of bewildered fear.
"Who… who are you?"