It came again. Not from any direction. His vision smeared. The edges of people and stone bent and broke apart. Images forced their way in—faces he didn't recognize, places filled with harsh light—gone before he could grasp them. His head felt split open.

Then—nothing.

Silence.

When his sight cleared, he was holding the dagger in one hand and his name tag in the other. His fingers were already wrapped around the hilt. He didn't remember moving.

The air was dead still.

Everyone was staring at him. No one spoke. Some looked pale. Some looked Afraid.

Something warm slipped from the corner of his eye. He reached up without thinking and touched it. His fingers came back red.

The world lurched. The edges of his vision darkened, color bleeding away until everything sank into a dull, beating red that filled everything. His head rang. His legs didn't listen anymore.

The ground rushed up.

Darkness.

****************

Chapter 10: Whispers of the Past

The air was thick with smoke, hot and biting in Liam's lungs.
"Move! Liam—get down!"

The voice came from somewhere ahead, half-swallowed by the roar of collapsing stone.

He turned the corner and froze.

What had once been a street was barely recognizable. Buildings had folded in on themselves, flames clawing at their shattered frames. The sky—once blue—had become a churning sea of ash.

Then, in the distance… a blinding flash.

The world lurched. The shockwave hit like a silent punch, followed by the scream of tearing metal and exploding glass. Dust surged up, devouring everything.

"Liam! Don't stop!"

Boots slammed against broken pavement, but the chaos swallowed the voice whole.

Another blast—closer.

His ears rang. The world swam. For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was still running or simply falling. A shadow swept overhead as an attack aircraft roared past, blotting out what little light remained.

Then—
blackness.

******

Leo's eyes snapped open.

The training ground was gone.

Instead, there was the faint scent of antiseptic herbs and the cool touch of linen beneath him. The distant clanging of weapons had faded into muffled footsteps and the soft rustle of cloth.

Leo moved, but the world stayed black.

His hand twitched toward his face, only to brush against a strip of rough fabric wrapped over his eyes. 

"You're awake," a voice said from somewhere near his head—calm.

He swallowed, throat dry. "Where... am I?"

"Infirmary," the voice replied. "You collapsed during the final trial. You've been out for hours."

His breathing was sharp, his shirt clung to him even in stillness. Sweat trickled down his temple, though the air was cool here.

It was just a memory. But in that memory... the air had felt the same.

Somewhere, beneath the quiet hum of the infirmary, the weight of that dagger's presence lingered in his mind—the crushing force, the whisper that had called his name, the red haze before everything went black.

And behind it all, the ghost of a world that was no longer his.

....

The door creaked open. Heavy steps entered—familiar ones.

"You look like hell," Jack muttered.

Leo turned his head slightly under the bandages.

"You scared half the candidates," Ralph said from the foot of the bed. "The other half just looked... afraid."

Jack gave a grim snort. "They'll get over it. The instructors, though... kept murmuring after they carried you off."

Leo stayed silent, feeling their words settle in his chest. He could imagine those murmurs—speculation, suspicion.

Jack's boots scuffed the floor. "The exam's over. Results are out tomorrow."

Leo sat up slowly, ignoring the faint pull of pain behind his eyes. "Tomorrow," he repeated.

The sun was already sinking when they left the infirmary, its orange light spilling across the emptying training grounds. Most candidates had scattered—some limping, others speaking in hushed voices that died away when Leo passed. Near the central arena, two instructors compared sealed envelopes, glancing quickly up and back down.

By the time the dormitory lamps dimmed, the sky outside was getting dark. Leo sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, the faint scent of sand and steel still clinging to him. His mind replayed those final moments again and again.

"Don't say a word to my sister about this," he said quietly. 

Jack raised a brow. "We wouldn't."

Ralph nodded. "Not a word."

Leo followed Jack's gaze toward the open doorway. At the far edge of the grounds, just beyond the wrought-iron gates, a lone figure stood. The fading light framed her in gold, and even at this distance, he could sense the stillness in her stance—not calm, but deliberate.

Mira.

She didn't move toward them. She was simply… waiting.

And somehow, that was worse.

Ralph let out a low whistle. "You think she's been standing there long?"

Jack shrugged. "Long enough."

Leo's chest tensed—not from the memory of the dagger, but from the weight of what that silence meant. Mira's eyes met his across the distance. No wave. No smile. Just the steady, unreadable stare of someone who had counted every breath he'd taken since the moment he fell.

The sun lowered, shadows stretching like long, reaching fingers.

Leo let out a breath. "I guess we should go."

"All three of you—follow me. You won't find your way through the mansion at night, and you don't even know the capital yet."

Her gaze lingered on Leo for a moment longer than the others.
"Don't argue. Just move."

Jack and Ralph exchanged a look and fell into step beside her without hesitation.

The four of them walked across the courtyard, twilight gathering in the hedgerows, carrying the clean, damp scent of watered gravel and the faint sweetness of jasmine climbing the garden walls. Two Draxler guards by the outer arch exchanged a brief look as they passed—curiosity quickly hidden under stoic professionalism. One guard's knuckles were raw, hastily bandaged, as if the day had required more than standing watch.

The mansion rose ahead. The nearest windows glowed with lamplight—warm, but watchful. The wind shifted, and the ironwork of the front gate answered with a slow, metallic sigh.

As they mounted the steps, Leo's eyes flicked to the upper balcony. For a heartbeat, a curtain moved. A figure? The fabric fell still.

The air smelled faintly of cedar chests and spent candle wax. The entrance hall was all polished wood and pale marble, the vast chandelier scattering tired flecks of light over the floor. A hearth yawned, long and low, laid with fresh logs but unlit—as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Mira paused, hands lightly resting at her sides. The gold thread at the seam of her cloak winked once and went still. Leo followed, the unease in his gut coiling like living rope.

"After dinner, we'll talk," she said gently. "Or not. But you'll eat."

He nodded.

The mansion's hush swallowed them whole. Their footsteps sounded too loud, and the spaces between them felt louder still. Leo became acutely aware of his own body—the ache behind his eyes, the lingering heat of danger, the steady thud of his heartbeat echoing through the marble corridors.

They passed the corridor. A door at the far end stood barely ajar, a ribbon of lamplight spilling onto the floor. Voices murmured inside—too soft to catch words, only cadence. Leo's gaze lingered, sensing the mind behind each step, each hesitation.

Mira noticed the look he gave it and said nothing.

At the base of the staircase, she stopped and turned to him. Her eyes searched his face with the worry of a sister reading what her brother refused to say.

"You scared me," she said softly.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be sorry. Be careful."

He nodded, the weight of the day settling into his chest like stones.

A draft slid along the corridor, brushing the edge of a carpet. Somewhere above, a balcony door creaked open and shut. Leo paused, sensing a presence he couldn't see. A shadow, perhaps—but it lingered too long in the corner of his mind.

Mira glanced at him, reading the unease. "Don't worry."

But Leo's gaze stayed on the faint movement above, the faint trace of something watching—an uninvited observer waiting for them in the quiet.

...

The evening had settled like a heavy blanket over the Draxler Mansion. The four of them—Leo, Mira, Jack, and Ralph—walked the corridors in near silence, the soft click of their boots against polished stone mingling with the distant hum of the mansion's subtle life: the whisper of servants moving unseen, the faint rustle of curtains in a breeze that wandered through the open windows.

Jack leaned closer to Ralph, lowering his voice. "Never thought I'd see Leo dragged into something like that. He looked like he'd been through hell."

Ralph gave a quiet chuckle. "Yeah… still, you can't say he panicked. He just kept going. Even bleeding like that, he looked… focused. Almost too calm."

Leo's ears twitched at their words, though he kept his gaze forward. "Thanks for the concern, guys," he muttered dryly, eliciting a grin from Jack and a slight smirk from Ralph.

Mira glanced over her shoulder, her expression softening at the rare moment of levity.

"We'll get you some rest," she said gently. "But first—eat. You need it."

They arrived at the dining hall, the long wooden table lined with plates and warm, steaming dishes. Candles flickered in sconces along the walls, their glow reflecting off the polished floor and throwing soft shadows that danced along the carved wainscoting. Mira gestured for them to sit, and Jack and Ralph practically fell into place beside Leo.

As they ate, conversation flowed lightly—mostly Jack and Ralph teasing each other, Mira interjecting with quiet corrections or gentle reminders to pace themselves. But Leo felt only a dull, simmering tension beneath it all, the memory of the dagger's presence and the day's chaos refusing to fade. Each bite of bread and sip of soup was mechanical, his mind wandering, circling like a hawk around some unseen prey.

After dinner, they made their way to the room.

Mira led them down the hall, stopping only to point to the respective doors where Jack and Ralph would rest. The two of them waved and disappeared into their rooms, the soft click of door latches marking their departure.

Leo lingered a moment, the hallway emptying, a silence settling in that was heavier than the soft candlelight suggested. Mira's gaze followed him, then softened. "Rest a little while."

He nodded, but once she left, he found sleep would not come. The bed beneath him felt too firm, too small, too ordinary. His thoughts churned: the dagger, the blast, the whisper, Mira's knowing eyes... He needed to clear his mind, to step into a place where thought could move freely.

The library.

It had always been a sanctuary for him, a place where whispers of knowledge mingled with the smell of old parchment and wood polish. 

Perhaps, Eliza was also there. Not for the familiarity of friendship, but to gauge what she knew about this world past.

He slipped into his room and took the book she had given him, then turned toward the library. The corridors were dark, lit only by the occasional gas lamp and faint moonlight spilling through tall windows. Each step echoed softly, the sound trailing along walls lined with ancestral portraits that seemed to watch him as he passed.

At the library door, Leo paused. His hand hovered over the brass handle, his breath catching as he listened to the silence beyond. Then, slowly, he pushed the door open.

A familiar figure rose from the shadows, her outline sharp against the lanternlight on the tables.

Eliza.

She looked up, their gazes meeting almost at once—her eyes bright and piercing, yet "Why don't you rest tonight?" she asked softly, her voice carrying through the library's hush. "I saw you bleeding."

Leo let out a small chuckle—more to steady himself than from any real amusement. "It was nothing," he said lightly.

Her eyes softened, and she exhaled, a quiet sigh slipping past her lips.
"And what are you looking for tonight?" she asked, curiosity and caution woven together.

He walked toward her, the distance between them closing slowly.
"Do you know anything about the ruins?" he asked. "That place—its origin? Who it belong to?"

His voice had dropped, quieter now. Almost confessional.

"I've heard of it," she said. "From my father. But I don't know much beyond that."

Eliza tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.
"Why are you asking?" she said. "Are you planning to go there?"

There was suspicion in her tone, but also something deeper—a quiet probing that made him uneasy.

A shiver ran down his spine under the intensity of her gaze. It felt as though her eyes could see past the words he chose, past the emotions he tried to control, down to the smallest flicker of hesitation.

Then—almost slightly—her eyes began to glow. The light was bright, yet contained something pale and ethereal.

Leo's heart skipped. The longer he held her gaze, the more exposed he felt, as if every lie and half-truth were being peeled away. His breath caught, a tightness forming in his chest.

A small sound escaped her—a quiet chuckle.

"Sorry… I didn't mean to do that," she said, a little apologetic. "My eyes are… unusual. They notice lies. And small shifts in emotion."

Leo stood frozen for a moment, the weight of her gaze pressing in on him. "D... do you read mine as well?" he asked cautiously.

A playful glance met his. "I think it's best to keep that with me," she said lightly, almost teasing, though the warmth in her tone tempered the tension in the room.

He felt both embraced by the moment and wary at the same time. His mind raced, imagining all the thoughts and secrets she might have uncovered. A chill ran down his spine at the thought of her discovering the truth: that he was a transmigrator, a man out of his own time and world.

Eliza's voice broke through his spiraling thoughts. "Don't worry. I didn't see anything. That's why I keep looking at you... It was like something blocks it, prevents me from seeing certain things."

Relief washed through him. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. That thing… it felt like a gift, a thin safeguard against being seen too clearly.

She leaned back slightly, her eyes dimming to their normal brilliance but still holding that piercing quality. "But..." she said, with a faint smile, "you fascinate me. I like to watch. To understand."

Leo allowed himself a small, wry smile. "I suppose that's fair. You've always been... sharp."

Her eyes sparkled briefly, amused, then settled back into their careful measurement. "And you," she said quietly, "always carry more than you let on. It suits you, strangely."

A quiet warmth stirred at her words, a brief sense of connection cutting through the tension of the night. Yet even as it settled, the weight of his secrets remained. And beneath that comfort, he sensed it—Eliza's curiosity, relentless and patient.

Piercing.

**************

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