A voice from the deepest part of him filled his mind.
You know who you are, Dexmon Drakenfell. But you have forgotten who you were.
Dexmon blinked a few times. The air smelled of sea salt. He was standing in an open courtyard with reflecting pools and golden lions guarding staircases. It was architecture that predated Drakenfell, older than anything he'd ever seen. A civilization that had risen, fallen, and long been forgotten.
Two boys tore through the colonnade at a full sprint, laughing so hard that the taller one could barely breathe. The shorter one, dark-haired and wiry, was carrying what appeared to be a stolen crown stuffed with horse manure.
Dexmon knew them both. He knew them because the shorter one was himself at fourteen. Wild-eyed. Grinning from ear to ear.
Dexmon heard the voice again.
Your first life, Dragon Prince. Before Drakenfell there was Valerion. You were named Asher, son of Ragnar.
