The ground trembles beneath thousands of boots ours and theirs all churning the same mud into thick, blood-darkened sludge. To my left, a fellow soldier crumples as an arrow finds his throat; to my right, cavalry crashes through our front lines like a tidal wave of steel and fury.
"Do not falter!"
A voice cuts through the roar whether from our captain or a shout from another soldier soon lost to chaos, I cannot tell. The words land cold against my skin, clearing the haze of exhaustion that has clouded my mind since sunrise.
Arrows fill the air like a dark cloud of death against the crimson sky. My muscles burn with every movement; sweat mixes with dirt and blood on my skin. I swing my sword to parry, worn hands gripping the hilt as if it were my only anchor to this world. Tired legs drive me forward, cutting down enemies before and behind me.
Years of fighting have worn every soldier down, yet somehow, we cannot bring ourselves to throw our lives away.
Do not give up. Not even when we know we are fighting a losing battle. Not even when we no longer have the will to fight, or have forgotten the very reason we took up arms to begin with.
Today will not be, and shall not be, our last day.
A commander moves through the chaos with unexpected grace, beheading an enemy with one clean stroke. Three strides bring him before me, his blade aimed straight at my neck.
I block with all my strength; the impact jolts sharply up my arm. The man pauses. His obsidian eyes, framed by graying hair, scan me from head to toe.
"What a waste," he calls over the clang of steel and the screams of the fallen. "You have skill, young man. What is your name?"
"I don't remember," I gasp, shoving back against his weight. "A lowly soldier does not deserve a name."
I am only one of many swords serving the King. That is all I have ever been told, all I have ever known.
He twists his wrist in a motion I have never seen before. With a sharp crack that rings in my ears, my blade shatters, scattering across the mud like broken teeth.
"What loyalty," he murmurs, lowering his sword a fraction.
Instead of answering, I snatch up the broken hilt and swing with my last ounce of strength. He does not dodge perhaps he sees no threat in a dying man's rage. But before my makeshift weapon can even graze his armor, a sharp thump cuts through the din.
An arrow.
I cannot move away. It embeds itself in my chest, just above my heart. The sound of it piercing flesh and bone booms in my ears loud enough, I swear, for every soldier on the field to hear.
Breathing grows difficult; each inhale grates like shards of glass against my lungs.
"I am Gilbert Poluz, Commander of the Callibean Army," he says, kneeling as I crumple to the ground. "I will remember you, brave soldier. You fought valiantly."
My eyes drift toward the capital, where the King's castle rises like a white finger against the darkening horizon. What was it all for? Years of fighting, killing, forgetting who I was…
Ha. What a pitiful life.
One last glance at the battlefield: bodies piled like stones in a wall, the Custodian banner still flying despite its torn fabric, the setting sun painting everything in fire and ash.
Then I look at the Commander's face. Something lingers in his eyes that I cannot name pity? Recognition? I cannot be sure. For as long as I can remember, I have forgotten how to feel like a human being.
My sight blurs, warm golden light spreading at the edges of my vision. The roar of battle fades to a hum, then to silence.
Finally. I am going to die.
The light is not what I expected.
I thought death would be cold, silent, empty. Instead, it wraps around me like a soft blanket, carrying the scent of jasmine and rain-washed earth. There is no pain, no exhaustion only a strange sense of floating, pulled toward something warm and bright.
When I open my eyes, I stare at a face I do not recognize. Pale skin, delicate features, eyes the color of a clear morning sky nothing like the rough, scarred visage I had grown used to seeing in my sword's reflection.
Ten days have passed since I first woke like this. Fragments of my final moments press against my mind: arrows singing through the air, my former commander's face blurred by smoke, the golden light that swallowed me whole. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot recall my own name or what I looked like before. All I know for certain is that this body, and the lavish room that holds me, belong to a kingdom I once called enemy.
From the servants who tend to me, I have learned the truth: this is the body of Vernom, Third Prince of Callibean, son of the King's third concubine. He is so far down the line of succession that he is barely acknowledged as royalty. Weak, timid, and possessing little influence or power. I had heard whispers of him as a soldier they said he spent more time in the royal gardens than in court, more with books than with blades.
His appearance transcends ordinary beauty, yet he looks as fragile and delicate as a porcelain doll.
I do not understand why I woke in his body. Did we die at the same time? Did he take his last breath just as I fell upon the battlefield? The thought settles heavy in my chest a burden I never asked to carry.
Why did this happen? What happened to him? Is his soul inside my old body? Why did he die? Did we win the war? So many questions crowd my mind, and the more they pile up, the more confused I become.
"What are we going to do now?" I murmur to the mirror, where Prince Vernom stares back at me eyes wide with an uncertainty that feels both foreign and deeply familiar.
I pause, then speak aloud, my voice still adjusting to its new, soft tone:
"Naturally. We live."
Away from battlefields. Away from the endless cycle of fighting and dying that consumed my past life. I do not know your story, Prince Vernom why you left this world so soon. But whatever path you walked, let us forge a new one now. Let us survive. Let us live without laying down our lives for anyone else.
Yet one question claws at me, sharp and unyielding: As a sinner who has taken countless lives, do I deserve this second chance? Is this life meant to be my chance for atonement? Can the blood I have spilled ever be washed clean? Are my sins even redeemable?