Darkness pressed in, viscous and absolute. Not sleep's comfort, but a suffocating abyss stripping away all sensation. Time vanished until white-hot pain lanced through my temples, each throb echoing nauseously. I gasped, choking on cold liquid—perfume, stale alcohol, disinfectant.
My eyes opened to harsh, artificial light unlike any moonlight or lamp I'd known. Where was I?
I pushed myself up, hand sliding on impossibly smooth, cold surface beneath wet clothes. The fabric felt alien—too slick, too thin. Panic coiled in my gut like a serpent awakening.
Memory fragments flashed: ancient symbols in shadow, chants vibrating through bone, catastrophic energy, then falling endlessly into chaos.
And hatred. Oh, the hatred.
It surged like black fire, threatening to tear this unfamiliar body apart. My hands clenched, nails biting into the floor, the small sting anchoring me in the chaos.
**Blackwood!**
The name burned like a brand, conjuring images of ancestral halls aflame, family screams silenced, the betrayer's icy gaze watching it burn. This injustice burned hotter than any physical pain.
That hatred sliced through my mental fog. I forced myself upright despite protesting muscles that felt wrongly balanced. The room tilted precariously.
It was vast and opulent, yet ravaged. Strange angular furniture lay overturned, gleaming with metals and leather unlike the solid oak and brocade I knew. Shattered glass littered thick carpet, catching light like malevolent diamonds. The air reeked of chemicals, perfume, disinfectant, and something else—blood.
My gaze snapped toward the smell. A figure lay curled nearby—a man, twisted unnaturally, expensive clothes soaked with dark liquid. His exposed skin was deathly pale, dark hair clinging damply to his temples.
Dead? Or merely broken?
A different chill snaked down my spine. Was he cause or victim? And where did I fit? The soul abruptly thrust into this strange woman's form?
I needed answers. Moving cautiously in this clumsy vessel, I scanned the wreckage: an ornate silver flask; scattered tarot cards near his hand; a red leather book filled with familiar diagrams; small objects of crystal and metal pulsing with residual energy.
Energy.
I reached out with deeper senses that stirred sluggishly. Yes. The air felt charged—the lingering resonance of powerful forces unleashed. Had she been attempting something dangerous? And this man—participant, sacrifice, or intruder?
My gaze locked onto him again. That flicker of resonance returned stronger—a phantom connection warring with cautious revulsion.
Then my eyes found the mirror. It dominated one wall, reflecting perfect, cruel clarity.
And in it—her.
Devastatingly pale, with dark-smudged eyes wide with my emotions—shock, fear, confusion, hatred—yet in a face utterly alien. Wet black hair clung to sharp cheekbones and delicate jaw. The features were exquisite, morbidly beautiful. But not mine.
My hand touched my face, trembling. The reflection mimicked. Cold skin, unfamiliar bone beneath my fingers—ruthless confirmation. I was truly someone else.
The ritual hadn't killed me but displaced me across time or dimensions.
Where was the original soul? Gone? Obliterated? Watching helplessly?
And this man—what was his connection to the Blackwoods?
The name hit me again like physical violence. Enemy. Anyone associated with that name—prey.
My thoughts collided chaotically until external sounds cut through—wailing sirens piercing windows, then heavy footsteps in the corridor. Muffled voices approached rapidly.
Ice-cold panic seized my throat. They were coming—for the noise? The man? Me? What explanation could I possibly offer?
Capture wasn't an option. I gritted my teeth as resolve flooded my veins. Memories—my true memories—surged forth: survival instincts, court intrigue, desperate gambles. They were all I had.
Calm. Assess. Act.
My eyes darted analytically: Window—impossibly high above a glittering city. Door—blocked by approaching threat. Hiding places—minimal. Weapons—glass shards, overturned furniture. The man—potential resource or burden?
The footsteps stopped outside. An electronic beep and click echoed as a keycard entered the lock.
Time was up.
Phantasmagorical city lights pulsed beyond the window, painting the opulent chaos in crimson and gold. I stood poised on the edge, a vengeful ghost centuries displaced, with nothing but hatred and cunning to guide me.
The abyss beckoned. Or perhaps another path existed—carved in desperation and blood. Blood had brought me here. Perhaps blood would show the way forward toward vengeance.
The lock disengaged with a final click.