JON

Hot!

It’s so hot!

All over my body, it hurts!

Engulfed in darkness, Jon could barely make out the inaudible screams of people around him. His eyes, tightly closed, refused to open no matter how much he tried, as if out of its own free will, shutting Jon out of the world forever. The smell of smoke and burnt flesh filled his nose, his own flesh, one of many. 

Damn it! 

I tried, didn’t I? I tried. 

So why? Why?!

How did it come to this?

His tears dried as quickly as they rolled down his cheeks, courtesy of the scorching heat, leaving not a single trace of moisture behind. He kept falling deeper and deeper into the darkness, his breath flickering out like a dying ember, along with the voices echoing around him. 

Why did I jump in? 

Why the hell did I jump in?

I tried to be a hero again, and now I’m… 

Jon tried to stop the word from coursing through his mind; he didn’t want to accept it—but he knew. The darkness his body swayed in, the torrid pain he felt, the sizzling smell of his own flesh. He knew that it was all over, he knew that he was—

I don’t want to die!

No! No! No!

I don’t want to…

The gloomy murk Jon swayed in suddenly shattered, and his body reeked no more of burnt flesh or death. His vision first blurred before it was greeted by the thick foam surrounding his mouth. His throat, dry and scratchy like the wastelands, and a metallic taste filled his tongue.

Jon jumped to his feet, peeling his head free from where it had laid; a small rectangular table made of sturdy wood. A small metallic bowl was flipped over, Jon suspected that was where the water which had spilled all over the table came from. To the right of the table was an inkwell made of glass, ink spilling out of it as its quill lay idly beside it. 

What’s going on? 

Is this the afterlife…?

Just then, Jon noticed something tightly shut in his left hand, but at the same time he took notice of the attire shrouding his body. A golden velvet coat, reaching down to his knees, and a black leather belt fastened to his waist. His legs were covered by black leather boots embellished with golden threads, with pointed toes and high heels. 

Jon immediately removed his eyes from his attire and swept it across the room, travelling from one end to the other, taking in the scene before him. The walls of the room were made of stones, and polished beautifully with marbles that glittered. The table and chair he had stood up from, stood to the right beside a hearth made of the same materials as the walls. A golden banner designed with the sigil of a raven standing atop a diagonal sword, hung just above the hearth. 

To the left of the room from where Jon stood, was a large bed lavishly draped with curtains, and its bedding made of fine silver silk. Beside the bed, the only window in the room, set in the wall, its shutters adorned with white and blue stained glasses, casting colourful patterns of light across the room. 

The floor, covered with a large grey woven rug designed with the same crest as the banner.      

Is this really the afterlife…? Jon, taken aback, thought to himself as he surveyed the room. The things established before him were alien to him. 

Feeling the sudden urge to look at his face, he picked up the glass inkwell that was laid on the table and used it as a mirror due to the absence of an actual one in the room. He studied his face earnestly, it differed from what he usually wore. Sharp jawline narrowing down to his chin, and tiny pale silver eyes, his hair, as blue as the clear sky on a summer’s day. It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen—for a man of course.

I don’t think it is. My face has changed, and there’s been no sign of anything like a grim reaper…yet. 

Or could it be? 

I’ve read about things like this…

Could it be that I have transmigrated? 

Jon’s mind clocked back to his tightly shut hand. Unlocking it, he found a piece of crumpled paper. 

Poisoned… the paper bore this singular word as he unfolded it. There was no context, but Jon understood. This body he inhabited had been murdered; the paper, proof and cause of his death, the person leaving it behind for whosoever found his body first. 

“My lord,” a voice called out suddenly from behind the large wooden door of the room, startling Jon, almost sending him down to his buttocks.  

My lord?

“Who’s there?!” Jon voiced in return.

“Apologies, my lord. It is I, Flynn Claymore,” the voice replied, calming Jon, as the thought of it being the grim reaper quickly faded away from his mind. 

Awaiting a reply and receiving none, Flynn, once again, spoke, “may I come in?” 

Jon’s eyes, at once, stumbled back to the paper in his hand and its substance. 

“Poisoned…” he muttered. 

Would it do me good to let him in? What if he’s the killer? Jon’s eyes glanced at the door as he sunk deep in his thoughts. 

“Is everything alright, my lord?” Flynn questioned, regathering Jon’s seemingly lost attention to him.

“W-What do you want?” Jon’s voice quivered slightly, almost unnoticeable, as he asked. 

“I have come to gather you for the enthronement, my lord. The members of the court are gathered in the royal hall and await you,” Flynn replied. 

Enthronement? Royal hall?

What the hell is all this? What’s happening?

The information Jon was being fed overloaded his mind and made him anxious. He searched his brain for anything, anything at all, but there was not a single answer to his questions registered in there. No matter how much he searched, he knew nothing about this world prior to his awakening. 

Calm down, Jon. Calm down…

It might be a risk, but there’s only one way to get answers… 

“Come in,” Jon said as he crumpled the paper he held tightly in his hands, concealing its existence. 

The large door of the room flew open, allowing Flynn passage into it. The young man walked in gracefully, wearing a flame coloured brocade coat, with a raven wing pin on his left chest. His auburn hair, tied into a ponytail, gleamed like marigold petals in the sun. 

“My lord,” Flynn said, clenching his right fist and placing it on his left chest as he bowed, the door closing behind him. 

“Ravens! What happened here?” Flynn exclaimed as his eyes fell upon the table. 

Ravens? Do I have to imitate this way of speaking as well?

“Nothing that is of your concern,” Jon said as he elegantly sat on the bed, trying his best not to draw suspicions to himself as he knew nothing of this world, and what might happen to him if anyone found out he was not from it. “I seem to have a bit of a headache. Enlighten me on yourself once again, and what you mean by enthronement,” he added. 

Flynn’s eyes shifted from the table and fell upon Jon, his gaze seemingly sceptical. 

What’s this? Why’s he looking at me that way? Has he caught on? Jon’s heart raced at the thought, afraid of what could potentially come next. 

Flynn’s eyes closed and a soft smile slowly spread across his cheeks. “Surely you jest, my lord,” he said. “I am Flynn Claymore, son of Reginald Claymore, the former royal advisor to the king and Lord of Mistwood. My father laid down his raven pin, stepping down as royal advisor, and resigning himself to his castle after the death of your father, the previous king…” 

My father? King?

I see, so that’s what’s happening…  

“...I have taken my father’s position and have become the new royal advisor to the king, which you shall become in a matter of moments,” Flynn said. 

So, I have transmigrated into the body of a prince about to become a king.

His death makes so much sense now. It was, and most possibly still is, a battle for the throne. 

What a troublesome era and body to transmigrate into…

“Have you erased me from your mind so quickly, my lord. We used to play all the time in the royal courtyard as kids while our fathers were at court. We would bask our skin beneath the golden sun, listening to the maidens sing beautifully. Not that it matters any longer, I am now but a mere royal advisor in service to you, my lord.” Flynn bowed courteously, his lips curling up eloquently. 

Implying that we’re friends. But there’s no way to prove if that’s true or not. Jon mused. 

He sighed inwardly as he collected his thoughts, trying to make sense of the current situation he was in. So, in a nutshell, I’ve transmigrated into this world. And not only that, I’ve wound up in the middle of a royal feud. I’ve kind of been given a second chance at life with my transmigration, and it’s already being threatened…

He glanced at the auburn-haired man standing before him, quietly inspecting the messy table. I know nothing about transmigration, but I doubt it would be impossible to go back to my world without a body to return to, that’s if there’s even a way to do that… For now, I should just focus on surviving, a second life would be a waste if I just go get myself killed again…