Mather visited every evening.
He brought food. Sat in the same chair. Talked about nothing—the weather, the base gossip, the ongoing reconstruction in Sector 12.
He was waiting.
For me to talk. To explain. To be the Aurelion he remembered.
I gave him nothing.
But he kept coming anyway.
"The doctors say you'll be cleared for full duty next week," he said on the fifth evening. "Command wants you back on the monitoring station. Your predictions saved a lot of lives."
"Good."
He studied me. Those kind eyes missing nothing.
"Aurelion, I'm not going to push. You know that. But I need you to know something." He leaned forward. "Whatever happened in that building with Vorthar—whatever you saw, whatever you remembered—it's okay. You're okay. You're still here."
I met his eyes.
"Am I?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Mather's expression flickered. Concern. Grief. Something else I couldn't name.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "You are."
He left.
I stared at the door for a long time after.
The dreams started on the sixth night.
Not Aurelion Kade's dreams—I had read his journal, knew the nightmares that had haunted him.
My dreams.
Memories.
But not my memories.
I stand on a battlefield I do not recognize.
The sky is wrong. Too red. Too alive. Two moons hang overhead—one silver, one gold—and I know, with absolute certainty, that I have never seen them before.
Before me, an army stretches to the horizon.
Not demons.
Something else.
They are tall. Too tall. Their limbs bend in ways that should be impossible. Their faces are smooth—no eyes, no nose, no mouth—just blank expanses of pale flesh.
And they are singing.
A sound that should not exist. That cuts through me like blades made of light. That makes me want to fall to my knees and weep and die.
I am not afraid.
I am the Demon King.
But something in me—something ancient and buried—screams.
"Hold the line!"
My voice. But wrong. Deeper. Older. Carrying an authority I have not felt in—
In—
The dream shifts.
I am in a throne room.
Obsidian walls. Obsidian floor. Obsidian throne.
I sit on it.
Around me, demons kneel. Generals. Lords. The pillars of my empire.
One of them speaks. Vorthar. Younger. Less scarred. His left horn still intact.
"My King, the Fissure expands. We cannot hold it forever."
I—the other I—speak.
"We don't need forever. We need time."
"Time for what?"
I—the other I—smile.
It is not a kind smile.
"Time to find another way."
I woke gasping.
My heart pounded. My skin was slick with sweat. For one terrible moment, I didn't know where I was—whose body I occupied, whose world I inhabited.
Then the white ceiling. The beeping machines. The sterile smell.
Human medical facility.
Aurelion Kade's body.
Me.
I sat up slowly.
The dreams were not mine. Could not be mine.
But they felt real. Felt like memory.
The battlefield with the wrong sky. The singing things with no faces. The throne room. The other me, sitting on a throne I had never seen, commanding subjects I had never ruled.
Time to find another way.
Another way to what?
Another way to survive?
I didn't know.
But I was beginning to understand that the timeline I remembered—three thousand years of conquest, twelve hells, endless war—was not this world's history.
It was something else.
A dream? A prophecy? A different life?
The questions had no answers.
Not yet.
The dreams continued.
Every night, new fragments. New pieces of a life I had never lived.
The singing things had a name: The Chorus.
They came from the Fissure. Had always come. Had been coming for longer than anyone could remember.
The other me—the real Demon King—had fought them for centuries. Had held them back with nothing but will and power and the bodies of his subjects.
Had watched his children die, again and again, to buy time.
Time for what?
Time to find another way.
What other way?
The dreams wouldn't tell me.
On the eighth night, I saw her.
Ami Voss.
In the dream, she stood before the other me—the King—in a throne room that crackled with tension. Generals flanked her. Guards held her arms.
She was not afraid.
"You're wasting your time," she said. "I won't tell you anything."
The King—the real King—studied her from his throne.
"You dream of me," he said. "You've dreamed of me for years. I want to know why."
She met his eyes.
"I want to know why too," she said. "But I don't. I just... see you. In the darkness. Standing over me."
"Standing over you?"
"Your hands around my throat." She smiled. It was not a friendly smile. "You kill me. Every time. And every time, right before I wake up, I see something in your eyes."
The King leaned forward.
"What?"
She held his gaze.
"Sadness," she said. "You look sad. Like killing me is the last thing you want to do."
Silence.
Then the King laughed.
It was not a kind laugh.
"Interesting," he said. "Very interesting." He waved a hand. "Take her away. Keep her comfortable. She may be useful."
The guards dragged her out.
She didn't struggle.
Didn't scream.
Just watched the King with those sharp eyes until the doors closed behind her.
I woke with tears on my face.
Again.
I wiped them away. Stared at the ceiling. Felt something cold and unfamiliar twist in my chest.
The real King had captured Ami.
Had interrogated her.
Had kept her.
In my original timeline, I had killed her on the battlefield. Quickly. Efficiently. Without thought.
But in this timeline—the real timeline, the one that actually existed—she had been taken alive. Questioned. Studied.
Why?
What made her special?
The journal entry echoed in my mind:
She dreams of him too. The figure in the shadows. The one with the crown.
She dreamed of me.
Both of me.
The King on the throne and the ghost in human skin.
What did that mean?
I was cleared for full duty on the tenth day.
Mather met me at the medical bay entrance. He looked tired. Worn. Like he hadn't been sleeping either.
"Welcome back," he said. "Command wants a full debrief on your Vorthar encounter. Today. 1400 hours."
"I'll be there."
He nodded. Fell into step beside me.
"You've been having nightmares," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Me too." He was quiet for a moment. "Ami's been asking about you. She wants to see you."
"I'll find her."
"Good." He paused. "Aurelion, I know you're going through something. Something big. And I know you're not ready to talk about it. But when you are—" He met my eyes. "I'm here."
I said nothing.
He nodded again and walked away.
The debriefing took three hours.
Command wanted details. Every detail. How I had found Vorthar. How I had survived. Why he had let me go.
I gave them versions of the truth.
I had identified his position from the monitoring station. Had gone to confirm. Had fought him—briefly—and been overwhelmed. Had blacked out. Woken up alive.
Why had he let me go?
I didn't know.
They didn't believe me.
But they couldn't prove anything.
Afterward, I found Ami.
She was in training yard three, running drills with her squad. When she saw me, she dismissed them and walked over.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
She smiled. Small. Real.
"Mather said you were asking about me."
"I was." She studied me with those sharp eyes. "You've been having nightmares."
"Yes."
"Me too." She stepped closer. "Same ones?"
I didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
"In my dreams," she said quietly, "I'm in a throne room. Black walls. Black floor. And there's a... a figure. On a throne. Watching me." She paused. "He kills me. Every time. But right before I wake up, I see his eyes."
"What do you see?"
She met my gaze.
"Sadness," she said. "He looks sad. Like killing me hurts him."
The words hit like a blade.
I had killed her. In my original timeline, I had killed her without thought, without feeling, without sadness.
But the real King—the one in this timeline—felt something different.
What?
Why?
"Aurelion?" She touched my arm. "You okay?"
No.
I was not okay.
I was falling apart, piece by piece, and I didn't know how to stop it.
"Fine," I said. "Just... tired."
She nodded. Didn't believe me. Didn't push.
"Get some rest," she said. "We'll talk more later."
She walked away.
I watched her go.
Watched the way her head sat on her shoulders. Intact. Alive.
In the dreams, the King had kept her alive.
In my original timeline, I had killed her.
Which version was real?
Which version was me?
That night, the dreams changed.
I am the King.
I sit on the Obsidian Throne, and before me, the Chorus sings.
Not in battle.
In my mind.
"You cannot hold," they whisper. "You cannot win. You cannot save them."
I close my eyes.
"I don't have to save them," I say. "I just have to buy time."
"Time for what?"
I open my eyes.
"Time for him."
"Him?"
I smile.
It is not a kind smile.
"The other me. The one who doesn't know what he is yet."
I woke screaming.
The next morning, I made a decision.
I needed to understand. Not just the dreams—the timeline. The differences between my memories and this reality.
The only way to do that was data.
So I went to the archives.
The Vanguard archives were vast. Records of every incursion, every battle, every demon sighting since the first portals opened.
I requested everything related to demon command structure. Demon origins. Demon history.
The archivist raised an eyebrow but complied.
Three hours later, I found it.
A captured demon communication. Translated. Dated two years ago.
The King commands from the Obsidian Throne. The Fissure holds. For now. But the Chorus grows stronger. We need more territory. More resources. More time.
The human world is our only hope.
The King has authorized full-scale invasion.
Glory to the King.
Glory to Azrathor.
Azrathor.
My name.
The real King's name.
He was out there. Commanding. Fighting. Holding back something called the Chorus.
And I was here.
Wearing human skin.
Dreaming his dreams.
Why?
I found more.
Reports of a human captive. Female. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Taken during the Battle of Lyse's Fall—a battle I didn't remember, in a place I had never heard of.
The reports described her as "cooperative but unbroken." As "valuable for her dreams." As "under direct observation by the King himself."
Ami Voss.
The King had kept her alive.
For two years.
Why?
That evening, I sat in my quarters, staring at the data slate.
Pieces were coming together. Slowly. Painfully.
My original timeline—three thousand years of conquest, twelve hells, endless war—was wrong. Had never happened.
Instead, there was this timeline. Where the Fissure had always existed. Where the Chorus had always sung. Where the King had fought for centuries to save his people.
Where a human woman dreamed of him and felt pity.
Where a fragment of his soul—me—had ended up in the body of his greatest enemy.
Why?
What was I?
A copy? A weapon? A mistake?
The dreams whispered answers I couldn't hear.
The data showed patterns I couldn't understand.
And somewhere, in the space between worlds, the real King was waiting.
Watching.
Dreaming of me.
On the fifteenth night, the dream was different.
I am the King.
I stand before the Fissure.
It is vast. Endless. A tear in reality that leads to—
To the Chorus.
They sing.
I bleed.
"You cannot hold," they whisper. "You cannot win. You cannot—"
"I know," I say.
They pause.
"You know?"
"I know I can't hold forever. I know I can't win. I know my people will die." I turn away from the Fissure. "But that's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
I smile.
It is the same smile. The one that is not kind.
"The point is that he's ready."
"He?"
"The other me. The one who thinks he's human." I look past the Fissure, past the Chorus, past everything. "He doesn't know it yet. But he will. And when he does—"
"When he does?"
"When he does, he'll come home."
I woke with the sunrise.
Sat up.
Stared at the wall.
The dreams weren't random. Weren't fragments.
They were messages.
The King was talking to me.
Through dreams. Through memories. Through whatever connection existed between us.
He was telling me something.
Preparing me for something.
When he does, he'll come home.
Home.
The demon realm.
The Obsidian Throne.
Me.
I was supposed to go back.
But not yet.
Not until I was ready.
Not until I understood.
The door chimed.
I ignored it.
It chimed again.
"Aurelion?" Ami's voice. "You in there?"
I stood. Crossed the room. Opened the door.
She stood there, sharp eyes studying me, taking in my rumpled clothes, my exhausted face.
"You look worse than yesterday," she said.
"Thanks."
She smiled. Stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
"We need to talk," she said. "About the dreams."
"I don't—"
"Yes you do." She cut me off. "You've been having them too. I can see it. And I think—" She paused. "I think they're connected. Yours and mine. I think we're dreaming about the same thing."
I said nothing.
She moved to the window. Stared out at the training grounds below.
"In my dreams," she said quietly, "I'm not just a captive. I'm... something else. Something important. The King—he watches me. Studies me. Asks me questions about my dreams."
"What kind of questions?"
"About you." She turned to face me. "He asks about you. A human who fights like a demon. A human who carries something of his." She met my eyes. "He knows you exist, Aurelion. He's been looking for you."
The words hit like a blade.
The King knew.
Had always known.
Had been preparing for this.
For me.
"What else?" I asked.
She hesitated.
"In the dreams, he tells me things. About the Fissure. About the Chorus. About why they're here." She swallowed. "He says they're not invaders. They're refugees. Fleeing something worse. Something that's been chasing them for centuries."
"I know."
She blinked. "You know?"
"I know." I moved to stand beside her. "The Fissure. The Chorus. The King's war. I know all of it."
"Then you know—" She stopped. Stared at me. "You know what that means?"
"What?"
"If they're refugees—if they're running from something—then this war..." She trailed off.
"Then this war is a tragedy, not a conquest." I met her eyes. "Two species, killing each other, because they have nowhere else to go."
She nodded slowly.
"Yeah," she whispered. "That's what I thought too."
We stood in silence for a long moment.
Then she asked the question I had been dreading.
"Aurelion, who are you? Really?"
I looked at her.
At the woman I had killed in another life.
At the woman the King had kept alive.
At the woman who dreamed of monsters and felt pity.
"I don't know," I said.
It was the truest thing I had said in weeks.
She left an hour later.
No answers. No resolutions. Just more questions.
I sat alone in my quarters, staring at the data slate, at the journal, at the fragments of a life that wasn't mine.
The King was out there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Dreaming of me.
And when the time came—when I was ready—he would call me home.
But first, I needed to understand.
What was I?
Why was I here?
And what did the King want from the fragment of himself that wore human skin?
The questions had no answers.
Not yet.
But they would.
Because the dreams were getting clearer.
And the King was getting closer.