After the soul of his counterpart dispersed completely, Jarkan felt a strange new strength flowing into his limbs. He got the strength to get up, which he didn't feel before. It startled him, but he didn't linger on it.
With considerable effort, he pushed himself up from the pallet and stood on unsteady legs. The body he now inhabited felt similar to his own, yet subtly different—younger, more limber, but with an unfamiliar distribution of muscle and weight.
He could tell that it was really weak, even by normal standards. He stood there for a second, feeling his feet on the wooden floor. He curled up his toes, moving them up and down, looking at them.
He sighed heavily, feeling too unreal. Still felt like it was a dream to him.
He made his way carefully down the narrow staircase from the attic, one hand trailing along the rough stone wall for balance. The stairway opened into a corridor which seemed unfamiliar, though fragments of understanding flickered through his consciousness—echoes of Drenaeus' memories struggling to surface.
He got down, he couldn't see anybody in the hallways.
It was a big country house, spiralled far from the populace.
The country house was expansive, built of dark wood and stone, with high ceilings and windows that allowed light to flood the interior. Unlike his minimalist modern penthouse on Earth, this place had a lived-in quality—books stacked on side tables, a half-finished chess game abandoned in one corner, cushions dented from recent use. This had been Drenaeus' retreat, his sanctuary away from the politics of the family home.
As he entered what appeared to be the main hall, two figures looked up from their tasks with expressions of surprise and relief. A man and woman, both in their forties, dressed in simple but well-made clothing that marked them as household staff of some importance.
"Master Jarkan!" the woman exclaimed, rushing toward him with concern etched on her features. "You shouldn't be up yet! You should rest more-"
"I'm fine," Jarkan said automatically, then paused, unsure how to address these people who clearly knew Jarkan well.
The man approached more cautiously. "My lord, are you all right? You have locked yourselves in the attic for a week in there."
Jarkan nodded, choosing his words carefully. "Like I said, I'm fine. I just needed the rest, it seems. I would... appreciate some time to clear my head. I'm going for a walk."
The couple exchanged worried glances. "At least take some nourishment first," the woman insisted, gesturing to a side table where breads, fruits, and a pitcher of amber liquid waited.
To avoid further conversation, Jarkan accepted a piece of fruit that resembled an apple but had flesh the colour of sunset. The taste was both familiar and strange—sweeter than he expected, with hints of spice that no Earth fruit possessed. He nodded his thanks and made his way to what he assumed was the main entrance, aware of other servants watching him curiously as he passed.
Stepping outside, Jarkan was struck by the vastness of the countryside spreading before him. The estate sat on a gentle slope overlooking fields of crops he couldn't identify, their silver-green leaves rippling in the breeze. Beyond them stretched meadows and forests, and in the far distance, purple-hued mountains pierced the sky.
He walked steadily away from the house, following a winding path that led uphill through tall grasses. The air smelled different from Earth—cleaner, with undertones of unfamiliar blossoms and a faint metallic tang that he somehow knew was associated with ambient magical energies.
Reaching a high meadow, Jarkan stopped to survey his surroundings. The landscape was both alien and familiar—recognizable as countryside, yet subtly wrong in ways his Earth-trained senses struggled to articulate. The colors too vivid, the shadows too deep, the clouds above moving in patterns that seemed to follow some intelligence beyond mere weather.
Without warning, a searing pain lanced through his skull, dropping him to his knees with a cry of anguish. Memories cascaded through his consciousness like a broken dam—not his memories, but young Jarkan's. A childhood spent in this very meadow, practising simple cantrips under his father's watchful eye. Adolescence in the hallowed halls of the Academy, struggling with incantations while other students mocked his inability to master destructive magic. His mother's gentle encouragement as she taught him arcane theory, a branch of magic that others considered too theoretical to be useful.
Most striking was the similarity of faces across worlds—his father's stern countenance identical to that of the CEO of their Industries; his mother's warm smile the same as the woman who had supported Jarkan's early ventures into sustainable energy; and most painfully, his brother's features, handsome and cruel in both realities. Malrith—called Mal by family—with the same dark eyes and sharp cheekbones as Darius, the same talent for finding weaknesses and exploiting them mercilessly.
Jarkan collapsed onto the grass, overwhelmed by the dual set of memories now competing for space in his mind. He stared up at the sky, watching as what appeared to be an aeroplane soared overhead, though something told him it was powered by a combination of mechanics and levitation spells rather than jet fuel.
"Just like my world," he whispered, finding comfort in the similarities even as the differences threatened to overwhelm him.
For hours, he lay there, trying to make sense of his new reality. The information was too much to process at once—magical theory, political alliances among the Wizard Houses, Jarkan's status as a final-year student at the Academy, the most prestigious academy of magical arts in Aldrakaryn. Like himself, Jarkan had been something of a prodigy, advancing through the ranks faster than his peers, earning both admiration and resentment.
As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, tingeing the sky with colors no Earth sunset had ever produced, Jarkan made a silent promise to himself. This second chance—this impossible, miraculous opportunity—would not be wasted. He would master the magic that now flowed through his veins. He would learn to navigate the politics of this new world. And he would ensure that Malrith paid for his treachery, just as he wished Darius could have paid for his.
"That annoying brat of a brother had to be present here too," he muttered to himself. "But no worries. This time I will be ready."
"And I will be coming for you, too, Darius."