Pain was the first anchor. Not the blinding, skull-crushing finality Kaedor's fist should have delivered, but a deep, resonant ache behind the eyes, a phantom map of agony tracing lines across ribs that felt strangely intact, and a sharp throb high on his back where Velryn's betrayal had struck home. Consciousness didn't return gently; it slammed into him, ripping him from a void that tasted like cold ash.
He gasped, breath sawing in lungs that felt tight, unfamiliar. His eyes snapped open. Not to moonlight on shattered glass, but to dappled sunlight filtering through rough-hewn wooden slats overhead. The air smelled clean, sharp with pine and damp earth, underlaid with the tang of woodsmoke. He was lying on scratchy furs over packed earth, not broken marble. Confusion warred with ingrained alertness. Threat assessment. Location unknown. Status… altered.
He tried to push himself up, expecting the powerful coil of Alaric's Alpha muscles. Instead, the limbs that responded felt leaner, the movement slightly awkward, lacking the familiar weight and density of power. Panic flared, cold and sharp. He looked down at his hands – calloused differently than he remembered, lacking the sheer breadth, the knuckles seemingly less prominent. He ran a hand across his chest, beneath the simple, unfamiliar leather tunic. Smooth skin, wiry muscle, none of the thick, battle-honed bulk he expected. Omega. The word echoed with sickening finality.
The constant, simmering furnace of the Solhallow curse felt… banked. Distant. Still present, a low thrumming beneath the surface, a whisper of paranoia at the edge of thought, but not the raging inferno that had defined Alaric's existence. It was like looking at a banked campfire after staring into a forge. Had the impact somehow damaged the curse's hold? Or was this new, lesser body simply incapable of containing its full fury?
Memory flooded back, sharp and cruel: Velryn's cunning smile as she stepped back, Kaedor's maniacal laughter, the coordinated betrayal, the final descent of that crushing blow. He felt a phantom impact rock his skull, a visceral echo of annihilation. He automatically reached for his chest, seeking the reassuring warmth of the Hearthseed Locket, his mother Lysandra's legacy. Gone. His fingers met only rough leather. The locket, his only link to her, the potential key to his impossible survival, was missing. Had it been destroyed? Or had its unknown magic somehow brought him here, consuming itself in the process? More terrifying questions with no answers.
He swung his legs over the side of the low pallet, his head swimming slightly. He needed to understand. Where was he? When? How?
Just then, the hide flap covering the entrance to the small dwelling was pushed aside. Lunrik— Alaric, the ghost king screamed inside him— reacted instantly, scrambling back, snatching up a nearby piece of firewood as a makeshift club, every nerve wired for combat.
A figure paused in the entrance, silhouetted against the brighter light outside. Dravenwolf. Female, leanly built, moving with the quiet confidence of a predator. She wore practical dark leathers, her dark hair secured in braids, her steady moss-agate eyes widening slightly at his defensive posture before narrowing in assessment.
He knew her. But not as Alaric. This knowledge felt… adjacent. Like a memory belonging to the skin he wore, not the soul inhabiting it. Kaelith. The name felt right, familiar in a way palace names never had. His childhood friend? The thought was jarring, contradicting everything Alaric remembered.
"Easy, Lunrik," Kaelith said, her voice a low, calming rumble, though she didn't lower her guard entirely. She held up her hands slightly, showing they were empty. "Just me. Bringing food." She gestured with her head towards a steaming wooden bowl she held balanced against her hip. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
More than one, he thought grimly. He slowly lowered the piece of firewood, his heart still hammering. "Kaelith," he managed, the name feeling both natural and alien on his tongue. "I… I was dreaming."
"Nightmares again?" Her brow furrowed with familiar concern. She stepped fully inside, letting the hide flap fall, enclosing them in the dim, smoky interior. "The Stigma acting up?" She nodded towards his left hand, habitually tucked away or gloved since the cursed mark had appeared years ago, around his seventh winter.
He instinctively clenched his fist, hiding the back of his hand. The Stigma. He'd forgotten about it in the initial shock. It had been the start of all this strangeness – the mark appearing, followed soon after by the intrusive flashes of Alaric's life, the unsettling knowledge, the growing conflict within. Kaelith, like everyone else in their small pack segment, believed the mark and his subsequent troubled nature were linked, perhaps to some forgotten childhood trauma before he was fostered by his supposed Dravenwolf kin (the cover story likely created to explain his origin after the soul transfer).
"Maybe," he mumbled, avoiding her gaze. The last few weeks, since the news of Kaedor's victory—Alaric's death—had reached even these remote woods, the Alaric memories had become overwhelmingly vivid, almost constant. The nightmares were less dreams, more raw, bleeding recollections.
Kaelith sighed softly, placing the bowl down on a low, carved stool. "Elder Ronan worries. Says the turmoil down south stirs old shadows. We lost two hunters to an Ashfang patrol near the Whisperwood border last moon. Kaedor's reach is long, getting longer." She looked at him directly now, her steady gaze searching his face. "You've been… distant, Lunrik. Ever since that news. More than usual. You barely eat. You failed to track a simple rabbit this morning."
He felt a flush of shame mixed with Alaric's indignant pride. Failure is weakness. "My head wasn't clear," he defended lamely.
"No," she agreed quietly, kneeling beside him, her proximity both comforting and unsettling. "It wasn't. It felt like you were miles away, fighting a different battle." She hesitated, then reached out, placing a calloused hand gently on his forearm. Her touch was warm, uncomplicated, a stark contrast to the calculated betrayal seared into his memory. "Lunrik, whatever shadows haunt you from before… you're Dravenwolf now. You're pack. You don't have to face them alone."
Her sincerity, her unwavering loyalty despite his years of strangeness, was a physical blow, more staggering than any Ashfang attack. Guilt churned within him. She offered faith based on shared childhood memories he didn't truly possess, on a Lunrik identity barely holding together against the ghost king's resurgence. He felt like a fraud, accepting her comfort while hiding the monstrous truth of his origin.
He looked into her concerned eyes. Could he tell her? I am Alaric Banehallow, the cursed prince you hear tales of, betrayed and somehow reborn in the body of your friend. Velryn Silverhowl, the name whispered alongside mine in court gossip, orchestrated my death. Impossible. She would recoil in horror, fear, disgust. He would lose this fragile sanctuary, this one steadfast anchor in his shattered existence.
Yet, the pressure of the secret, combined with the burning injustice of Kaedor's reign and Velryn's treachery, felt like it was tearing him apart. He couldn't stay here, pretending to be Lunrik, haunted by Alaric's demands for vengeance, while the kingdom bled under the rule of his murderers.
Just as he opened his mouth, unsure what words would come out – confession or another deflection – the hide flap was thrust aside again. Tal, the young scout, stood there panting, eyes wide with alarm.
"Kaelith! Elder Ronan summons you! Quickly! Trackers just returned from the southern border patrol… they found tracks… confirmed Ashfang raiding party deep in the Frost Kestrel woods… but they also found… another set. Lone wolf. Marked. Moving south, fast. Looks like… looks like the Frostmane heir got away from the White River attack!"
Lunrik froze. Eryndor Frostmane. Alive. Fleeing Kaedor's purge.
A sudden, fierce clarity sliced through the fog of his internal conflict. This was it. Not vengeance, not yet. But action. Intervention. He couldn't let Kaedor hunt down another heir unopposed. He couldn't stay hidden while the cycle continued. Alaric's strategic mind and Lunrik's nascent sense of responsibility clicked into alignment.
He stood up abruptly, startling both Kaelith and Tal. He met Kaelith's questioning gaze, letting the fire he usually suppressed burn clearly in his eyes.
"Gather your gear, Kaelith," he said, his voice low, resonant with an authority that made her blink. "We're going south."