Alaric Astreaus

The room lay in the same hushed stillness, the moon now receding and handing over the mantle to the approaching dawn. Alaric, compelled by a desperate hope to escape the unsettling reality that enveloped him, returned to the plush comfort of his bed. With a heavy exhale, he closed his eyes, hoping the world around him would dissolve into the fabric of a dream.

The mattress was soft and comforting, but Alaric couldn't find the relief he wanted. In his mind, he repeated a prayer, hoping to escape the nightmare. Eventually, he gave in to sleep's temptation and drifted off.

Two hours went by quietly. When dawn's light peeked through the small window, Alaric stirred once more. The realization that he was still ensconced in the lavishly adorned room, the very place that had become both his sanctuary and his jail, and he didn't like the feeling one bit.

For a moment, he lay still, his gaze fixed on the intricate patterns of the ceiling above. The gentle sound of fabric moving hinted at his confusion, the confusion was like a shadow that wouldn't leave. It was a futile attempt to deny the reality that, despite his efforts, refused to dissipate.

In the dim light, Alaric sat up, his messy black hair framing his youthful face. The grey colour of his eyes reflected the confusion around him. He let out a sigh, accepting that he couldn't escape the situation that kept him in this strange life.

Rather than succumbing to the despair that threatened to engulf him, Alaric took a steadying breath. This was no dream; it was a reality that demanded understanding.

Seated at the edge of the bed, Alaric initiated a conversation with himself, Alaric felt compelled to speak aloud, his thoughts a jumble of scattered fragments in need of organization. This soliloquy emerged as his way of sorting through the chaos, attempting to make sense of the information at his disposal. "Alaric Astreaus," he began, his voice a mere whisper in the confines of the lavash room. "Second son of Duke Astraeus, the third of four children."

He closed his eyes, retracing the details from the book that now served as a twisted guide to his own life. "An older brother and two sisters," he continued, assigning names to the faceless characters from the novel. "The duke, a man of influence and power, had two wives. My mother and the mother of the others."

A momentary pause hung in the air as Alaric's thoughts drifted to the past. "My mother," he uttered with a tinge of sorrow that wasn't inherently his. "She died during labour."

Recognizing his family's history brought forth a mix of emotions in Alaric. He couldn't help but think about his difficult relationship with his stepmother. Her ambitions clashed with the complicated web of succession that tied their destinies together.

"Distant relationships with siblings," he continued, acknowledging the echoes of mild estrangement that reverberated through the Astraeus family. 

As Alaric delved into the intricate dynamics of his familial ties, he couldn't escape the pressing awareness of his own age. "Fifteen maybe sixteen I can't quite remember," he murmured, contemplating the significance of the number. "Awakening soon if I haven't already."

Instinctively, Alaric placed his hand on his chest, as if searching for the beat of his own life. The idea of awakening, a transformation of the soul linked to the consciousness of the universe, stayed on his mind. The complexities of the Akashic record, a cosmic weave connecting every soul, deepened his comprehension with an otherworldly essence.

Before he could delve further into the mysteries of his own strength and potential, a sudden knock on the door shattered the contemplative silence. Startled, Alaric turned toward the source of the sound, his eyes widening in the realization that time had slipped away unnoticed.

A maid's voice, gentle yet insistent, called from beyond the door, inquiring if he had awoken yet. The rays of dawn had already infiltrated the room, casting a warm glow in his room. Alaric, torn from his introspection, responded with a composed affirmation.

"Thank you, my lord," the maid's voice carried gratitude. "Breakfast will be ready shortly."

As the door closed once more, Alaric found himself alone, bathed in the gentle light of the approaching morning. The weight of the unknown pressed upon him, yet he faced it with a newfound determination.

Rising from the bed, he moved toward the tall window, the city of Lysandria awakening beyond its panes. As the dawn enveloped him, Alaric dressed himself in clothing that exuded nobility. The elaborate attire, adorned with luxurious textures and detailed embroidery, seemed to embody his status. Yet beneath this facade of opulence, he concealed the inner turmoil that plagued him.

While Alaric carefully dressed himself in noble attire, memories of the book's character occupied his thoughts. Strangely, there seemed to be no clear protagonist in his recollection. This character, unlike the typical hero, walked a less extravagant path, lacking raw power and charm. Within the novel's intricate plot, this figure held no remarkable abilities, merely a pawn in the game of fate.

"The son of the Duke," Alaric murmured, a trace of melancholy tinting his thoughts. "Not a protagonist, but just another character that appeared often enough to be known."

The book's narrative, as he recalled, did not elevate this character to the pedestal of heroism or villainy. Instead, the lack of formidable power became a burden, a tragic flaw that eventually caught up with him in the later stages of the story.

"The lack of power," he pondered. He realised it was a haunting spectre that unfolded in the cruel stages of the novel.

"The world itself was the protagonist," Alaric pondered, idly tracing the patterns on his clothing. "Its stories intertwined like tendrils, shaping the lives of its chosen inhabitants."

Alaric contemplated his place in the unfolding story, grappling with the mystery of his own role. The understanding that he would probably be sent to the Astreavia Royal Academy after awakening teased at the corners of his mind. This prestigious institution, one of many across the continent, was where individuals chosen by birthright or magical ability received their education

"At sixteen," he thought, a tinge of irony in the echo of his own musings. "A student for three to five years, subjected to the rigours of education and the machinations of fate."

The details, drawn from the book's imprint on his memory, carried a peculiar weight. Alaric questioned the reliability of these memories, the uncanny clarity with which they painted a picture of his future. The contrast between recalling the book and the foggy memories of his own past left Alaric feeling uneasy, as if something was off-kilter. 

Alaric delved into the emptiness where his personal history should lie. As the son of the Grand Duke, a title of importance, he should have had a clear understanding of his role. However, his own memories eluded him. The vague memories of interactions with family members and the scarce connections that defined his previous life echoed in the forgotten recesses of his mind.

"Why don't I remember?" he wondered, the question a whisper that hung in the air like the trailing notes of a haunting melody.

A mental sigh accompanied the realization that, eerily, he possessed an intricate knowledge of his life as the son of the Grand Duke. Every detail, from the complexities of family ties to the intricacies of courtly customs, remained vivid in Alaric's mind. The Grand Duke, a paragon of virtue and fairness, had been kind to him, which allowed Alaric the mental space to question why he couldn't remember his own past.

Alaric's internal monologue reached a crescendo as he contemplated the disparities between the remembered and the forgotten. The haunting spectre of a life lived but unremembered cast its shadow over his thoughts, leaving him standing on the precipice of a mystery yet to unfold.

Before he could delve further into the abyss of introspection, a gentle knock echoed through the lavash room. A maid's voice, polite yet insistent, conveyed the message that breakfast awaited and that the Duke himself had requested Alaric's presence within the customary five minutes.

The ordinary yet pressing demands of the outside world broke through the maze of thoughts swirling within Alaric. It served as a grounding reminder that, despite the internal complexities, life beyond carried on its steady march. With one last look at his reflection in the mirror, Alaric released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Breakfast awaits," he muttered to himself, a self-assuring mantra as he made his way to answer the summons of both duty and uncertainty.