I'm at home, that's right, I live alone. Well, I'm tired from this job. I'm Marty, a regular student, and I work part-time at various jobs to avoid being evicted. I need to pay rent and find money for food. I'm going to bed, my eyes are getting heavy.

The bed was cold, the mattress sagged under the weight of my fatigue, my eyes closed too quickly, and the familiar weight of silence settled in my chest. My body sank into a soft void.

***

I woke up.

Wait a minute, the mattress is just as soft as the pillow!

I got up.

So I don't get it, this is not my room! Where am I?

I sit down slowly. My body feels rested, but I don't feel like I've slept. There's a high chair next to the bed. The room is beautiful, like a wealthy aristocrat from the past...

A table by the window. An inkwell, a pen, sheets of paper, and neatly stacked books. Not modern.

With leather bindings. The titles are written on them by hand, which have not been used for a long time.

I walk up to the mirror. It's big. Almost as tall as a human. The frame looks like it's carved from a single piece of wood, and the reflection isn't me! My hair is black, smooth, and falls down to my shoulders. My skin is fair, almost pale. My eyes are black, but they don't belong to the student who falls asleep in his rented apartment with tired thoughts of debt and part-time jobs.

The fingers on my left hand. There are no calluses from heavy boxes. The skin is clean. But there is a mark on my wrist. It's a black symbol, like a shadow that has seeped into my skin. It pulses slightly, as if it were alive. I don't remember having it applied. I don't know what it means...

I turned around, and something slipped off the edge of the table and hit the floor. I bent down and found a small notebook. It had a worn leather cover, the corners were frayed, and the clasp was torn. It had clearly been opened and closed many times. I picked it up. The cover was cold, as if it had been lying there for a long time.

Opening the first page, I saw a large handwriting, dark ink. The lines were uneven, as if written in a hurry or in the last minutes of something important. The hand seemed to be trembling, but each word was clear, like a spell.

“Hi! If you’re reading this, it means the ritual worked. The summoning is complete. My body is now yours.”

I read the words, forcing my eyes to focus on each line, as if there was more to understanding than just reading.

“You’re not dead. And I’m not gone. It’s just… we’re connected now. This body was mine, but now it’s yours. Don’t look for meaning in this now. It will come later. Just remember: you’re not here by chance. This world won’t forgive a mistake. And the Shadow is already watching.”

On the next page, the ink was smudged, as if someone had wiped a wet hand over it, or as if blood had seeped between the lines.

“The ritual was forbidden... I paid the price...”

I froze, feeling my fingers tighten on the thin pages. Something pricked at my chest. Not fear. Something else. It was as if someone else's breath had passed through my bones. I closed the notebook and slowly placed it back on the table. But it didn't want to lie there. It belonged to me, even if I didn't want it to...

I opened the notebook again. The last lines, as if written in desperation, were more faded but still clear.

“If you don’t want to go crazy or be crushed by this world, do what I say. Take that book, yes, the one on the separate shelf under the mirror. Open it, and you’ll find the answers. About who you are now and where you’ve ended up.”

There was indeed a book on the shelf under the mirror. There was no title on the spine. I walked over and ran my fingers over the surface. The dust was fresh, as if someone had touched it just a moment ago...

I opened the book.

***

"Oh, I like it...

"Brother, go eat!

I mechanically closed the book and put it back on the shelf where it had apparently been taken from. The room fell silent, but inside me, everything was in turmoil. Something had shifted, as if a door that had been locked for a long time had finally opened.

I didn't know how to explain it. Images flashed through my mind, blurry, like fragments of a dream...

So I realized that I am Kallen Lionheart, and I have a family: a father, a mother, and two sisters and two brothers. I am a student at the Magic Academy in the country of Graymont. So I don't know how old I look, but I'm probably around 14 or 15.

Outside the door, the girl screamed again.

Well, how many times can I call you!

— I'm on my way."

I opened the door.

In front of me stood Celia, wearing a simple dress, her hair in disarray, her hands on her waist, and her eyebrows furrowed.

— Have you come to your senses at last?"

"she asked, tilting her head slightly."

"Mom's already worried! You didn't talk to us at all this morning."

"I just had a headache," I replied with a slight smile. "I'm fine now."

"Are you sure you're sick?"

"she squinted."

"Who else?"

"Ha, that's our brother."

She turned around and ran down the hall. Just hurry up before Veren eats all the meat!

I stepped out into the corridor.

The walls are decorated with portraits: one of a man with black hair, wearing black armor, his eyes cold. My father, and another of a woman with a lute, her eyes gentle but stern, my mother.

As I understand it, my father's name is Velmut Lionheart, and he is a general in the human army. My mother is his wife, Alesia Lionheart.

I sat down at the long oak table, the tablecloth was ironed flat, the silverware was lined up like a ruler. Everything was too formal. Even the food looked stiff, the meat was cut into uniform pieces, the bread was warm, but it was placed in a wicker basket, as if at a military angle.

My father was sitting at the head of the table. He didn't even look up when I approached, but he said briefly, "Hello, son."

I finally sat down. Well done.

Her mother, on the other hand, looked at her intently. She had delicate features, but a gaze that was difficult to hide from. Her eyes were not filled with anxiety, but with the precise calculation of a woman who had raised five children and knew when someone was lying.

You're acting strange today.

"Kalen," she said, not taking her eyes off me.

— I don't feel like myself this morning. Is your head in order?

— It's all right.

"Just a little tired. Just stayed up late reading a book"

The sisters, Celia and Norea, whispered to each other and burst into laughter.

"So he's reading," Celia muttered. "And then he can barely get out of bed. He might be in love."

"Did you see the way he was staring out the window this evening?"

— I didn't fall in love.

Veren, who was sitting closer to his father, chuckled as he wiped his hands on a napkin.

"If he'd fallen in love, we'd have found three love letters by now. Or a book or a diary. Our brother is too bookish for real feelings."

The sisters laughed again.

Laer didn't say anything. He always ate in silence. His features were rougher, his chin had a hard line, and his hair was cut short. He leaned back in his chair, glancing at me as if he was trying to count something.

My father put down his instruments...