The fire crackled between them, filling the silence with the occasional pop of burning wood. The slumlord—she had not yet given her name—watched him with unreadable eyes. Around them, her people lurked in the shadows, barely visible beyond the dim light of the fire.

Kieran massaged his wrists, where the iron shackles had left deep bruises. Even now, the phantom weight of them lingered, as did the knowledge that he had barely escaped with his life.

The woman leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “The city is in danger,” she repeated, voice laced with skepticism.

“It is.”

“From what?”

Kieran weighed his next words carefully. He could not afford to sound like a madman, nor could he reveal too much when he still lacked the full picture himself. His fragmented memories were unreliable at best, outright deceptive at worst. But he did know one thing: something about this world was wrong.

He glanced past the slumlord, toward the rooftops where the city’s great spires loomed. In the distance, the bells of the noble quarter rang, their chimes rippling through the night air. It was a stark contrast to the silence of the slums, where the people had learned long ago that noise could get you killed.

Kieran chose his words carefully. “There are things happening in this city that shouldn’t be.”

The slumlord’s expression did not change, but the way she leaned back slightly, as if considering, told him he had her attention.

“I don’t deal in riddles, bastard prince,” she said. “If you want me to keep you alive, I need something real.”

Bastard prince.

The words struck something deep in him. He had been called that before. Not in this life. But in another.

The pressure behind his eyes pulsed. A flicker of memory—faces in the dark, a meeting in secret halls, whispers of treason. A noble house conspiring against the crown. Blood spilled before an altar.

A sudden headache lanced through his skull. The firelight flickered. The slumlord’s voice cut through the haze.

“You all right, dead man?”

Kieran inhaled sharply, forcing the memory away. “I need to know something.”

The slumlord exhaled through her nose. “That depends.”

“Why was I sentenced to die?”

That, at least, made her pause.

“You don’t know?”

“I have my suspicions.”

Her lips curved into something like amusement. “You expect me to believe you don’t remember?”

Kieran met her gaze evenly. “I need to hear it from someone who wasn’t sitting on the execution stage.”

The slumlord studied him for a long moment before she spoke. “You were accused of conspiring against the Council of Lords,” she said. “A noble bastard scheming to overthrow the kingdom. You were caught in a safe house with three men tied to the underground rebellion.”

Kieran felt something cold settle in his stomach. He did not remember this—not clearly.

“Were they executed?” he asked.

The slumlord’s eyes flickered. “No.”

Kieran frowned. “Then—”

“They vanished. Same night you were arrested.”

That set off every alarm in his mind. The world of politics was cutthroat, but if these supposed conspirators had disappeared after his arrest, it meant one thing: someone had used him as a scapegoat.

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. “That’s convenient.”

The slumlord smirked. “Isn’t it?”

Kieran leaned back, his thoughts racing. The other Kieran, the noble bastard whose body he now inhabited, had been executed to cover up something. And whoever had orchestrated it had done so flawlessly—right up until the moment Kieran had returned from the dead.

He flexed his hands, staring down at his palms. The skin was smooth, uncalloused. His body was weaker than it had been in his past life, but his mind… his mind was still sharp.

The slumlord was still watching him.

He exhaled. “Do you know who set me up?”

A chuckle. “Everyone has theories. The Council wanted you dead. Your father didn’t bother stopping it. House Valtheris was better off without its bastard.”

Kieran’s fingers twitched. So the lord of House Valtheris—his father—had abandoned him to die.

Not surprising.

“Do I have any allies left?”

The slumlord shrugged. “Depends. The ones who knew you are either dead, imprisoned, or hiding. As for new allies?” Her smirk deepened. “That depends on what you can offer.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Kieran met her gaze. “I’m not dead.”

“That much is obvious.”

“And I don’t intend to die.”

“Smart.”

“I need a place to stay.”

The slumlord let out a low hum. “That’s a steep ask.”

“I can pay.”

“You just admitted you don’t have coin.”

“I will.”

The slumlord leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm. “You’re an interesting one. Most men who come to me are desperate. They beg, they grovel, they make promises they can’t keep. But you… you don’t beg. You don’t even flinch. That’s rare.”

Kieran said nothing.

The slumlord studied him for a moment longer before nodding toward one of her men. The figure—a wiry man with sharp eyes and a dagger at his belt—stepped forward.

“Take him to the back room,” she said. “Let’s see if he lasts the night.”

The man nodded. “Understood.”

The slumlord turned her gaze back to Kieran. “Welcome to the gutter, bastard prince.”

Kieran allowed himself a small smile. “I’ve lived in worse.”

The slumlord laughed softly. “I doubt that.”

Kieran didn’t correct her.

He followed the slumlord’s man through the crumbling ruins, past the dying fires and watchful gazes. The further they went, the quieter it became.

He was exhausted, his body aching from the events of the day. But his mind was sharper than it had been since his awakening.

He had pieces now. Clues. A crime he didn’t remember committing. A conspiracy that had vanished the same night he was arrested. A noble house that had abandoned him.

He had nothing.

But he also had everything.

Because he was supposed to be dead.

And yet—he was here.

That meant something.

It had to.

Kieran was led through the crumbling ruins, stepping over broken bricks and scattered debris. The slumlord’s man walked ahead of him, his movements swift but deliberate, as if guiding him through a place where a wrong turn meant never being seen again.

The deeper they went, the more the stench of rot and damp wood thickened in the air. Rats skittered between the stones, their eyes glowing in the faint light of torches stuck into the walls. There was something eerie about this part of the slums—as if it had been abandoned, yet never truly empty.

At last, they stopped before a rotting wooden door. The man gestured toward it with a tilt of his head.

“Get some rest,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

Kieran’s gaze flickered over him. A warning.

He had no illusions about what this meant. The slumlord had given him a chance, but only a thin one. He was still an outsider, still an unknown, still someone they didn’t trust.

Kieran reached for the door and pushed it open.

Inside, the room was barely more than a storage closet. Dust coated the air, settling in thick layers over the single cot pushed against the far wall. Crates lined the sides of the room, some cracked open to reveal old dried meat, spare linens, and rusted tools.

He stepped inside, the wood creaking beneath his weight.

The door shut behind him.

Kieran exhaled. Safe. For now.

He sat on the cot, letting his body relax, but his mind remained alert. He traced his fingers over the rough fabric of his stolen tunic. This body still felt strange to him. Weak, malnourished, without the strength he had once possessed.

And then there were the fragments. The half-memories that swirled at the edges of his mind, familiar but distorted. His past self had known things—things that had led to the fall of the world as he remembered it.

But had he been right?

Or had he been wrong?

A slow, steady pressure settled at the base of his skull. Not pain. Not quite. Something else.

A feeling.

Like something watching.

His fingers twitched. His breath slowed.

And then—

The room wasn’t empty anymore.

Kieran knew it before he saw anything. A presence pressed against the edges of his awareness, like a whisper just beyond hearing. He turned his head slowly, gaze sweeping the dim corners of the room.

There was nothing.

And yet—

The shadows in the farthest corner shifted.

Kieran stayed very still.

The air felt colder now, the temperature dropping as something unseen coiled at the edge of the light. His heartbeat slowed.

The presence didn’t move. Didn’t reveal itself.

But it was there.

Watching.

He exhaled through his nose, lowering his gaze. If he reacted now—if he acknowledged it—it would change the balance of power.

Instead, he ignored it.

Whatever was here, whatever had followed him into this body, into this new life—it wanted something.

And he would not give it the satisfaction of knowing he was afraid.

He lay back on the cot, closing his eyes.

Sleep did not come easily.

The dream was familiar.

Dark corridors stretched before him, lined with broken pillars and shattered statues. The air was thick with dust, motes drifting in the stillness.

He walked forward, his footsteps silent against the cold stone.

A whisper echoed in the vast emptiness.

"You should not be here."

Kieran did not stop.

The walls trembled, the statues cracking further, as if the world itself rejected his presence. But he continued, passing through archways that should not exist, descending stairs that led to nowhere.

He had been here before. Hadn’t he?

No.

Not in this life.

Not in the life before.

But somewhere.

The whisper came again, closer this time.

"You were not meant to return."

Kieran did not speak. Did not react.

And then—

The world collapsed.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

His eyes snapped open.

The room was quiet. The air still felt too cold. The presence from before—gone.

Kieran exhaled, rubbing his temple. The dream had felt too real.

Not just a dream.

A memory.

He sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders. He needed answers. And sitting here, waiting for someone else to hand them to him, was not an option.

Pushing himself to his feet, he crossed the small room and reached for the door. If the slumlord wanted him to prove himself useful, he would do so on his own terms.

He had spent enough time being hunted. Enough time being a pawn.

It was time to start moving the pieces himself.

Kieran pulled open the door and stepped into the night.