The room smelled different now.
The incense had been replaced by something sharper burned herbs, crushed crystal, and faint ozone that made Andrew's skin prickle. Thin curtains were drawn around the bed, muting the sunlight into a pale glow.
Feels like an infirmary, Andrew thought.
Which is never a good sign.
A man stood beside him, dressed in deep blue robes trimmed with silver thread. Unlike the servants, his posture was relaxed, confident in a way that came from knowledge rather than hierarchy. Around his neck hung a chain of clear crystal shards, faintly glowing.
The physician.
"Please remain still, my lord," the man said gently. "This will not hurt."
They always say that.
Andrew nodded and lay back against the pillows, eyes tracking the physician's hands as they rose into the air.
The crystals around the man's neck brightened.
Symbols thin, glowing lines of light unfolded from his fingers and drifted downward, sinking into Andrew's chest, arms, and head like warm mist.
Andrew inhaled sharply.
The sensation wasn't pain. It was… presence. As if something was reading him from the inside.
Magic, he realized.
Actual magic.
The physician hummed softly, eyes half-lidded in concentration. The glow intensified over Andrew's torso, lingering just above his heart.
Then
The man froze.
"…Remarkable," he whispered.
Andrew's stomach tightened. That's not the word you want to hear when someone's scanning your organs.
"Is something wrong?" Andrew asked carefully.
The physician looked up, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it. "On the contrary, my lord. Everything is… intact. Whole."
He waved his hand, and an image formed in the air above Andrew's chest: a translucent outline of a body, with faint lines marking veins and bone.
At the center
A scar.
Even in the magical projection, it was ugly. Jagged. Deep. Right over the heart.
Andrew stared.
"That," the physician said quietly, "was once a fatal wound."
The room went silent.
Fatal… wound?
Andrew swallowed. "Once?"
"Yes. Two years ago." The physician traced the image gently. "A blade pierced the chest during an incident in the capital. You were brought back barely breathing. The heart was stopped. The damage… extensive."
Andrew's thoughts spiraled.
A stabbing.
So he didn't just fall into a coma. He was killed. Almost.
"That wound," the physician continued, awe creeping into his voice, "should have ended your life within minutes. Even with magic, survival was… unlikely."
Andrew forced himself to remain calm. "But now?"
The physician dispelled the image. "Now there is no trace of corruption. No lingering decay. Your mana flow is stable. Stronger, even."
Stronger? That's… concerning.
"So," Andrew said slowly, choosing his words, "I truly recovered?"
The physician smiled, reverent. "You did more than recover, my lord. You returned."
Before Andrew could respond, the curtains were pulled aside.
A man stumbled into the room.
He was older, with silver threading through dark hair pulled back neatly. His clothing was elegant but understated—clearly noble, but not ostentatious. The moment his eyes fell on Andrew, his composure shattered.
"Andren…"
The man crossed the room in three unsteady steps and dropped to his knees beside the bed, gripping Andrew's hand like it might vanish.
"You're awake," he whispered. "You're really awake."
Andrew froze.
Father.
The word surfaced instinctively, uninvited.
The man laughed weakly, tears spilling freely now. "Two years," he said, voice breaking. "Two years of silence. I thought—I thought I'd lost you."
Before Andrew could react, the man pulled him into an embrace.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't dignified.
It was desperate.
Andrew stiffened for half a second—
Then slowly relaxed.
He waited too.
"I'm here," Andrew said quietly. "I'm… sorry. I worried you."
The man laughed again, pressing his forehead to Andrew's shoulder. "You foolish boy. You could never worry me by living."
This is dangerous, Andrew thought.
If I slip… if I act wrong… I'll destroy this man.
After a moment, the father pulled back, wiping his eyes and straightening. "Physician," he said sharply, returning to authority like armor. "Explain."
The physician bowed. "Lord Valecourt, your son has made a complete recovery. The wound that placed him in the coma has healed beyond expectation."
The father closed his eyes briefly. "…The gods are merciful."
Andrew seized the moment.
"Father," he said hesitantly. "There are… gaps. In my memory."
Both men turned to him at once.
"I remember things," Andrew continued carefully, "but others are… blurred. The incident. People. Customs."
The physician nodded immediately. "That is not uncommon after such trauma. The soul does not always return unchanged."
Soul, Andrew noted.
The father's expression softened. "Then you will relearn. Slowly. There is no rush."
Andrew let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Good. Permission to ask questions.
"What happened," Andrew asked quietly, "that night I was wounded?"
The room darkened—not physically, but emotionally.
The father's jaw tightened. "That is a conversation for another day."
So it was political.
Andrew nodded. "I understand."
Inside, his thoughts sharpened.
Someone tried to kill him.
And now I'm wearing his face.
As the physician began giving instructions to the servants and the room returned to motion, Andrew stared at his hands again.
This world didn't just give me a role.
It buried someone else in it first.
And whatever killed Lord Andren Valecourt…
Might not be finished.