The portrait's halo flared once.
Arik opened his eyes and found himself seated beneath a skylight of gold-veined glass, one hand resting over the carved arm of a black imperial chair, the other positioned loosely against his thigh as if a painter had arranged him there and then begged every god still listening that the Emperor would not become bored before the work was finished.
His body felt wrong, not necessarily unfamiliar but definitely odd.
Broader through the shoulders, heavier with age and power, every breath drawn through channels that were deep, vast, and old enough to make Arik's current body feel unfinished by comparison.
His breathing was slower than Arik's, more controlled, edged with the faint irritation of someone who had already been asked not to move three times and had obeyed only because history required patience on occasion.
The chamber before him was not Felix's suite.
It was the old imperial palace.
