The ruins of the once-mighty castle loomed around them—broken stone walls reaching toward the sky like skeletal remains of a fallen titan. The air was thick with dust, the scent of burnt wood and old blood lingering in the night. Achem crouched behind a crumbling pillar, his breathing controlled but heavy.

A part of him still reeled from the absurdity of it all.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Just hours ago—was it even hours?—he had been an ordinary man, trapped in the monotony of corporate life, doomed to a slow, meaningless existence. But now, he found himself hiding in the wreckage of a world that was not his own, wearing the body of Rogar, the greatest warrior-king of Eldoria.

And he was being hunted.

From beyond the ruined corridors, voices carried through the cold air. The enemy was close.

Beside him, Lysara pressed her back against the wall, her sharp eyes scanning the darkness. The glow of the twin moons above cast eerie silver streaks across her face, highlighting the exhaustion in her features. She was strong, but even she was struggling.

She handed him a dented flask, her fingers brushing against his as he took it.

"Drink," she whispered.

Achem hesitated. The flask smelled of something strong, something bitter. But his throat was dry, and his body ached as though it had been through hell.

He took a sip. It burned all the way down.

Lysara wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and exhaled slowly. "You’re quieter than usual. Not used to running?"

Achem shook his head. "Not used to hiding."

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Then you’d better get used to it, ‘Your Majesty.’ The people who overthrew you? They don’t like leaving loose ends."

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The Kingdom of Eldoria had once been a beacon of strength. A golden empire, built on conquest and steel, feared by its enemies and worshiped by its people. But that was before.

Now, it was rotting from the inside out.

The Council of Lords—once meant to serve as advisors—had become a nest of scheming traitors. Greedy noble houses turned on one another, each vying for more power, more land, more control. Betrayal festered in the corridors of the palace like a disease, and Rogar had been its latest victim.

Overthrown. Hunted. Erased from history.

And in his place sat a false king—Alistair Valen, a puppet propped up by the very lords who had orchestrated Rogar’s downfall.

Achem’s fingers tightened around the flask. He wasn’t just a man thrown into a foreign world—he was a man carrying the weight of another’s past.

Memories flooded his mind in fragmented flashes.

The clash of steel in the throne room. The roars of the council as they turned against him. The look of smug satisfaction on Alistair’s face as he took the crown.

Achem inhaled sharply. No. Rogar’s face.

This wasn’t his pain. These weren’t his memories.

And yet, they felt real.

He had to survive. Not just for himself, but because he refused to let these bastards win.

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A rustling sound brought Achem back to the present.

Lysara was already moving, crouched low, her body tensed. Her dark eyes flicked toward the approaching footsteps.

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"They found us," she whispered.

Achem nodded. The time for contemplation was over. It was time to act.

From the darkness, a lone soldier appeared—a man in battered armor, his sword resting lazily at his side as he relieved himself against a pile of broken stone.

Achem moved before he could think.

With a swift, controlled step, he reached the soldier, clamping a hand over his mouth and driving his blade through the man’s throat in one fluid motion.

The body crumpled.

Lysara stared at him, unimpressed.

"That was loud." Her expression seemed to say.

Achem exhaled, wiping the blood from his blade. He wasn’t used to this, but his body was.

More voices. More footsteps.

They were coming.

Lysara raised her hands, and suddenly, the air crackled with energy. Sparks of blue light danced between her fingertips, illuminating her face in an unnatural glow. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she unleashed a crackling bolt of lightning.

The spell tore through the darkness, striking the oncoming soldiers.

The smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Achem’s eyes widened. Magic.

Sure, he had felt it before—when Lysara had healed him—but seeing it in action? Seeing someone bend the very elements to their will?

It was surreal.

And he barely had time to process it before his body moved on instinct.

While the soldiers were still reeling from the attack, Achem charged, cutting through them with a precision he didn’t understand.

The sword was an extension of his arm, the weight familiar.

His lips curled into a strange smile.

A sickening, alien thrill ran through him as he struck down another soldier. Was this who he was becoming?

Or was he merely Rogar, waking up?

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By the time they reached the outskirts of the ruins, the castle lay behind them, bathed in the cold silver glow of the twin moons.

They had escaped.

But the night was far from over.

"Where now?" Achem asked, breathing hard.

Lysara didn’t look at him as she adjusted her cloak. "There’s a hidden passage beneath the eastern wall. If we reach it before they find us, we might have a chance."

Achem frowned. "And if it’s a trap?"

She smirked. "Then you die dramatically, and I run."

Achem didn’t laugh.

He followed her anyway.

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The ruins gave way to open wilderness, but the chase wasn’t over.

A loud whistle sliced through the night air—a signal.

Achem turned his head just in time to see torches flaring to life behind them.

Shouts erupted as arrows rained down.

He ducked, rolling behind a fallen tree as a projectile whizzed past his head, embedding itself into the dirt beside him.

More were coming.

They couldn’t keep running forever.

"We need to fight," Achem growled.

Lysara shot him a sharp look. "You’re in no condition—"

"I refuse to die in the dirt."

For a moment, she studied him. Then, with a resigned sigh, she flicked her wrist. Blue flames danced at her fingertips.

"Fine," she murmured. "Just don’t slow me down."

Achem grabbed a discarded sword from the ground, its blade rusted but still sharp. He tested its weight and turned toward the enemy.

The first soldier charged.

Achem sidestepped, slamming his sword into the man’s side. The soldier crumpled with a gurgling gasp.

Lysara sent another bolt of scorching fire through the air, setting two more ablaze.

The battle raged on, each strike, each movement an echo of the past and present colliding.

The war horns in the distance signaled more reinforcements.

This wasn’t over.

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By the time they reached the hidden tunnel, they were bruised, bleeding, and exhausted.

But they were alive.

Lysara leaned against the tunnel’s entrance, wiping sweat from her brow. "We survived. For now."

Achem wiped the blood from his face. His voice was low, steady.

"Then let’s make sure we keep it that way."

The road ahead was long.

But he was done running.