Mihail did not move for a long time.
Sunlight crept across the floorboards inch by inch, catching dust in the air and turning it gold. Somewhere outside, a rooster crowed, confident and foolish. The sound cut through him more sharply than any blade.
Morning.
He sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet pressed against cold wood, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles ached. The body he occupied breathed easily, without pain, without the shallow rattle that had haunted his last years. His chest rose and fell with a steadiness he had forgotten was possible.
Seventeen, he reminded himself.
Young enough that the world had not yet taught him how cruel it could be.
He raised his right hand and turned it slowly, studying the skin. Smooth. No old burns. No split calluses hardened into memory. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting stiffness that never came.
In his other life, this hand had shaken when he signed treaties.
This one was steady.
Mihail stood and crossed the small room. Each step felt wrong—not painful, just unfamiliar, like wearing boots that belonged to another man. His balance was too light. His stride too quick. Strength lived here, unused and impatient.
The mirror waited.
He stopped before it, breath caught somewhere between fear and refusal. For a moment he considered leaving the room, walking outside, pretending this was a dream that would collapse if he stared too long.
He had learned, however, that avoidance did not change endings.
The glass was cracked down one side, distorting the image slightly. Still, the face looking back at him was unmistakable.
Dark hair, uncut and falling into his eyes. Cheeks full where age had not yet carved them hollow. No scar beneath the left eye. No crease between the brows from years of squinting into smoke and sun.
His eyes, though—
Those were wrong.
Too old.
Mihail lifted a hand and pressed his fingers against the mirror, matching the gesture of the boy staring back. "You don't know," he murmured. "How much you'll lose."
The boy did not answer.
Memory stirred, unbidden.
This room. This village. He remembered now—not as history, but as something personal, fragile. A border settlement in the Low Marches, half wood, half mud, built where the land refused to decide whether it was field or swamp.
He had grown up here.
Before crowns. Before banners. Before the road.
A sound outside—laughter, young and careless. Someone arguing about breakfast. A woman's voice calling a name that was not his.
Alive voices.
Mihail closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass.
In his other life, this village had burned.
He did not remember the day, only the smell afterward. Wet ash. Rotting beams. The way survivors avoided his eyes when he rode through what remained.
Not yet, he told himself.
If this was truly the past, then that fire lay years ahead, waiting patiently.
He straightened, forcing himself to breathe slowly. Panic would help no one. He had survived courts, sieges, betrayals that wore smiles. He could survive this moment too.
He turned away from the mirror and surveyed the room more carefully.
A wooden chest in the corner—scratched, old even then. He opened it. Inside lay folded clothes, simple and clean. A belt. A knife with a chipped handle. He picked it up automatically, weighing it in his palm.
Too light.
He set it down.
On a small table sat a clay cup, water still inside. He lifted it, hesitated, then drank. The water was cool, tasted faintly of earth. Real.
Reality settled heavier with every detail.
Mihail sat again, elbows on his knees, and tried to remember dates.
This was the danger.
He knew how things ended, but the middle—that was fog. Names slipped when he reached for them. Years blurred together. He remembered betrayals but not always the first kindness that preceded them.
Knowledge without precision.
A curse disguised as a gift.
He laughed quietly, the sound brittle. "You never made it easy," he said to no one in particular.
The presence from the road did not answer.
That bothered him more than if it had.
He needed anchors. Certainties.
Mihail closed his eyes and cataloged what he knew:
The Southern Empire would demand tribute within five years. Maybe less.
The Western Crown would smile and offer protection—and begin measuring his neck for a noose.
The nobles of the High Basin would resist any outsider, especially one born in mud.
And somewhere, walking the world right now, were men who would one day swear loyalty to him before plunging knives between his ribs.
He exhaled slowly.
Not today.
Today, he was seventeen. Poor. Unimportant. Alive.
A knock came at the door.
Sharp. Casual.
"Mihail?" a man's voice called. "You awake or dead?"
Mihail's heart stuttered.
The voice was familiar in a way that hurt.
He stood too quickly, dizziness flashing at the edges of his vision. Youth, he reminded himself. Blood too eager. He waited a breath, then crossed the room and opened the door.
A man leaned against the frame, arms crossed, expression amused. Broad-shouldered, sunburned, beard uneven as if cut by impatience rather than care.
"Thought you'd sleep through the bell," the man said. "Again."
Mihail stared.
"Father," he said before he could stop himself.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Last I checked."
Alive.
In his other life, his father had died quietly, years before Mihail ever raised a banner. A fever. Too little medicine. Too much pride to ask for help.
Mihail swallowed.
"I—" His voice failed him. He cleared his throat. "Just tired."
His father snorted. "You're always tired. Come on. If you want to eat, you'll work first."
He turned and walked away without waiting.
Mihail stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.
Careful, he warned himself. This was how mistakes were made. Words spoken too early. Knowledge revealed before the world was ready to hear it.
He followed.
Outside, the village unfolded exactly as he remembered—low houses, muddy paths, smoke rising from cookfires. People nodded as he passed. Some smiled. No one bowed.
No one feared him.
The weight of that settled oddly on his shoulders. Lighter, and somehow heavier for it.
He helped his father with the morning work—hauling sacks, mending a fence, tasks so ordinary they felt surreal. His body moved well, strong and unscarred, muscles complaining in ways that promised growth rather than decay.
As he worked, he listened.
The rhythm of village life. The gossip. A merchant expected next week. Rumors of border trouble farther south. Nothing urgent. Nothing world-ending.
Yet.
At one point, his father paused, leaning on the fence. "You're quiet today," he said. "Thinking again?"
Mihail hesitated.
In his other life, this man had once told him, Think too much and you'll miss the knife.
He smiled faintly. "Just… trying to learn when to speak."
His father studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Good. The world's loud enough without adding to it."
Mihail looked away before his eyes could betray him.
The day passed.
By evening, exhaustion crept in—the honest kind, earned rather than endured. He lay on his bed again, staring at the ceiling as shadows lengthened.
This was real.
There would be no voice tonight. No command. No guidance.
Only choice.
Mihail turned onto his side, fists clenched.
"I won't rush it," he whispered to the dark. "I won't burn everything just to feel clever."
The road had given him another beginning.
This time, he would learn where not to walk.
Outside, the village settled into sleep, unaware that history had just inhaled and held its breath.