| A Dream

.....

The scent of roses enveloped Nathan as his consciousness stirred to life. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing a world awash in delicate hues of petals. His body lay nestled upon a bed of velvety blooms, each one a fragment of a dream.

Slowly, his gaze turned toward the source of an ethereal presence—the woman who stood before him. She seemed an embodiment of this mystical realm, her attire seamlessly woven into the fabric of this world's era. A dress, elegant and time-honored, flowed like water, a dance of fabric that whispered secrets to the breeze. Her hair, the color of light baronet, was carefully gathered in a ponytail, a style that echoed forgotten tales of days gone by. Her eyes shone with the brilliance of a cloudless sky, the very same sky kissed by a sun that painted the world in its golden embrace. And her smile, wide and bright, curved upon gentle red lips, hinting at both warmth and wonder.

Morg blinked twice, his vision sharpening as if adjusting to the surreal painting that unfolded before him. The woman's voice, a soft melody interwoven with concern, touched his ears. "Morg? Are you okay?" Her words were a lifeline, a lifeline he clung to amidst the dreamlike wonder.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, Morg's gaze swept across the panorama of his surroundings. His gaze flitted from flower to flower, each a bloom of vibrant life, a tapestry of colors that held both the familiar and the exotic. The world seemed to stretch its arms in welcome, inviting him to immerse himself in its mysteries.

Yet, a single thread of unease tugged at the edges of his mind. The woman's voice—her calling him 'Morg'—resounded in the corridors of his thoughts. But Morg knew he wasn't 'Morg'; he was Nathan. Confusion swirled within him, weaving a web of questions he longed to untangle.

His gaze fell to his own hand, an anchor in the sea of uncertainty. It felt alien—smaller, paler, and somehow different. An inkling of realization washed over him, an awareness of metamorphosis that he couldn't yet comprehend.

A sudden urgency surged through him, a need to escape the enchanting but confounding scene. He surged to his feet, a whirlwind of panic propelling him forward. His heart raced like a frenzied gallop as he sought a way out from this surreal garden, this mysterious haven.

But her voice, tender yet firm, arrested his flight. "Morg! Are you truly okay?!" The woman's touch upon his trembling arm grounded him, anchoring him to the moment and to her presence.

Morg's gaze snapped toward her, the distress etched across her features mirrored in his own eyes. Struggling to rein in his racing thoughts, he attempted to steady his rapid breathing. And then, the gentle sound of water reached his ears—a gentle reminder of reality amidst the enigma.

At the edge of his vision, he noticed a small pond, a mirror for his reflection. He moved towards it, his palms pressing against the cool earth as he leaned over its edge. The sight that greeted him, though, was nothing short of astonishing. His reflection showed a young man, his hair a cascade of midnight, his eyes gleaming like precious metals, and his skin pale and untouched as fresh snow.

A realization dawned upon him—the visage staring back was not his aged and worn self but a rejuvenated version, a canvas painted anew by the hands of an enigmatic creator.

The woman's voice called out again, the urgency mingled with sadness. "Morg, you're acting strange. Are you truly okay?"

Turning his gaze from the pond to the woman, Morg offered a gaze both perplexed and morbidly curious. His voice, a mix of gentle confusion and the somber realization of the surreal, found its way to her ears. "Where... am I exactly?"

—-

Nathan's heart raced, a symphony of emotions playing across his features. The woman's words echoed like an elusive melody, a tune he had no recollection of composing. Confusion spun webs of uncertainty, shrouding his thoughts in a haze of amnesia.

As he opened his mouth to respond, the woman's voice broke the silence once more, her tone now a mixture of frustration and bewilderment. Her words, delivered with a raised brow and a look of exasperation, pulled Nathan from the depths of his contemplation.

"Where you are? Morg, you're in the garden house of my family's estate! You know, the place you wanted me to show you?" Her words carried a sense of familiarity, as if they danced on the precipice of forgotten memories.

Nathan's mind raced, his inner turmoil masked behind a façade of waning recognition. He struggled to remember, to grasp at fragments of a past that seemed to slip through his fingers like sand.

He was well aware that revealing his true situation—his inexplicable shift from death's doorstep to this enigmatic existence—would only breed more confusion and disbelief. Instead, he embraced the role he had inadvertently assumed, playing along with practiced ease.

His response, a carefully crafted act of feigned recollection, hung in the air, laden with a blend of guilt and hope. "Ah! Yes, I did say I wanted to see your garden, didn't I? I'm sorry, guess I was just in need of a nap, hah..."

Nathan's nervous laughter accompanied his words, a charade of reassurance that belied the storm within. The woman regarded him with a mixture of amusement and concern, her smile a testament to her kindness.

But beneath the surface, Nathan's heart thrummed with a tempestuous rhythm. His mind, fragmented and perplexed, raced to piece together the puzzle of his altered reality. His new identity as Morg—the inhabitant of this world, this body—was a riddle he had to unravel, lest his guise be shattered and the truth exposed.

"You were acting strangely even before we came to the garden house," the woman continued, her laughter like the sweetest of melodies. "Like you were sick or something. But I guess you're doing better now. Maybe you did need a nap, hehe~"

Her laughter painted a canvas of warmth and camaraderie, but for Nathan, it only intensified the layers of complexity enveloping him. A nod of agreement accompanied his gentle smile, a mask worn with practiced grace.

"Yes, you're right," he replied, voice carefully measured. "I guess a nap was all I needed. Thank you for looking out for me."

The woman's expression shifted to a pout, her eyes narrowing as if trying to communicate something through her vexed gaze. Nathan felt the weight of her unspoken expectation, a puzzle piece he couldn't fit into place. He stammered, his uneasiness evident in his response.

"...and?..."

But the woman's patience was wearing thin, her frustration boiling over as her words emerged like a storm. "For goodness sake, Morg! You're supposed to say my name after saying thank you!"

Her anger seemed disproportionate to the situation, leaving Nathan caught in a whirlwind of confusion. He hadn't anticipated this, hadn't prepared for the intricate nuances of social interaction in this world he barely understood.

His mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of uncertainty. The gap between his assumed identity and the truths he concealed loomed like an insurmountable chasm. The name of this woman had never graced his lips before, a testament to the complexity of this charade he had unintentionally woven.

"Um... did I give you a nickname?" Nathan inquired, his uncertainty reflected in his voice. The woman's sigh was laced with disappointment, her eyes gazing upon him with a mixture of irritation and impatience.

"Ethal! You're supposed to say thank you, Ethal!" Her words, though childish in nature, resonated with the weight of his own inadequacy.

As she stormed away, Nathan found himself grappling with emotions he hadn't anticipated—frustration, confusion, and a growing sense of unease. His thoughts danced on the precipice of revelation, a truth he couldn't yet articulate.

Observing the woman's retreating figure, he was left to contemplate the enigma he found himself trapped within. The woman's words carried more significance than he could fathom, an unspoken key to a narrative that was both his own and entirely foreign.

With a simple gesture, a beckoning of her finger, the woman called Nathan to follow. The garden house's exit seemed to shimmer with an intangible allure, the threshold of his journey into the depths of this uncharted world.

"Come now, Morg," her tone held a newfound seriousness, "I think it's about time you take your leave."

Nathan stood on the precipice of the bed of roses, a doorway to an unknown world about to be thrust open by Ethal's whims.

A shiver of uncertainty raced down his spine as he inquired, his voice tinged with the undertones of desperation. "Leave? Where would I go?"

Ethal's gaze bore into him, a mixture of confusion and irritation painting her features. A mocking laugh danced on her lips, a discordant note in a symphony of puzzlement. "Where else?, your beloved abode, you imbecile, haha~"

Nathan's facade wavered for a moment, replaced by a nervous smile as his mind raced to keep up with the unexpected exchange.

"And my home would be located... precisely where?" The words left his lips, tethered to a veneer of cautious optimism.

Ethal's laughter tapered, the absurdity of his question dawning on her like a weighty realization. An exasperated sigh followed her response, laced with an undercurrent of fatigue. "Honestly, if you were that eager for my company, Morg, you could've simply asked for an escort to your domicile."

Nathan's head tilted in a mask of feigned confusion, masking the spark of opportunity that flickered within him. He nodded, a semblance of agreement, seizing upon Ethal's words as a breadcrumb in the labyrinth of his circumstance.

Ethal's smile carried a hint of bewilderment as she beckoned him forth, leading the way into the expanse of her sprawling estate. Nathan trailed in her wake, his steps echoing through halls that seemed to stretch into infinity. The air weighed heavy with unease as he ventured further, reality blurring at the edges as the boundaries between his assumed identity and the fragments of this body's existence began to fray.

"Come along, Morg!" Ethal's voice was vibrant with excitement, a cadence that pulled Nathan from the precipice of his contemplation. She tugged at his arm, drawing him close, as if fearing he might slip through the cracks of her world.

Yet, as they walked, a surge of agony lanced through Nathan's mind—a memory, not his own, but an indelible imprint left by the body he now inhabited. The vision manifested like a mist, a fractured echo of Morg's past. A feeble figure, racked with coughs, hunched over a dusty desktop, the ghostly outline of a sickly form. The crescendo of coughs reached a peak, a testament to the ailing body's struggle. And in the aftermath, a whisper, a plea tinged with defeat, "I don't have much time left, do I...?"

Nathan's grip on reality wavered, the haunting memory receding like a tide. Beside him, Ethal's excitement seemed to fill the air, but his mind lingered on the residue of that glimpse into the past.

In tandem, they navigated through the estate, drawing closer to the exit doors that beckoned them. Nathan's outward guise remained intact, his steps steady, even as his thoughts churned in a sea of unanswered questions. The puzzle pieces of this new existence were fragments at best, an enigma shrouded in darkness and uncertainty.

—-

Moments unfurled like the rich tapestries of a fantasy world, each step Nathan took beside Ethal revealing a city that defied the boundaries of his previous reality. As they emerged from the grand entrance of Ethal's estate, the panorama of her home expanded before him, a visual symphony of architectural marvels.

His eyes traced the intricate details of each estate, an array of structures that spanned styles and eras, a testament to the diversity that this realm held. Nathan's heart swelled with a mixture of awe and wonder, the kind of opulence and grandeur he could only have dreamed of in his past life.

Ethal's guidance led them to the towering gates, flanked by sentinels clad in golden armor. The very air seemed to shiver in their presence, the aura of their weapons radiating an invisible weight that pressed upon Nathan's chest, stealing his breath.

Ethal's grasp on his hand was both grounding and invigorating as they stepped through the threshold of the gates. The streets beyond teemed with life, a bustling tapestry of people and activity. The essence of the city flowed through Nathan's senses, a rich blend of sights, sounds, and scents that painted a portrait of vibrancy.

"Ready for a jaunt to your abode, Morg?" Ethal's voice danced with mirth, a playful invitation to an adventure awaiting them.

Nathan's grip tightened, his nerves threatening to betray his carefully crafted façade. "Yes, Ethal, I'm prepared. But if you could humor me for a moment... could you refresh my memory about this place?"

The words hung in the air, a catalyst for confusion in Ethal's eyes. A flicker of astonishment flitted across her features, quickly masked by her determination to guide him. 'Could it be,' she wondered, 'that Morg's brief slumber robbed him of fragments of his recollection? I must tread carefully.'

Ethal gathered herself, a renewed sense of purpose guiding her response. "Of course, Morg. This city, the crown jewel of this realm, is known as 'Norencia.' It stands as the beacon of dreams, a testament to the combined legacy of the 19 major bloodlines that shape our hierarchy of power."

As they walked, Ethal spun a tapestry of words, each sentence a brushstroke adding depth to the city's portrait. Norencia, a haven for dreams and aspirations, a place where homes, businesses, and schools intertwined to weave the fabric of community. Ethal painted the picture of a city where opportunity bloomed, where the local populace worked in harmony to uplift the capital's reputation.

"Norencia is particularly renowned for its schools," Ethal continued, a wealth of information at her disposal. "It's here that the newly anointed royal kin receive their education, ensuring that their legacy will shine as bright as their forebears'. However, enrollment isn't granted lightly—it hinges upon one's rank. Those of the high, middle high, and middle classes have access to these halls of learning, their privilege allowing them to glean the wisdom that sets them apart. Meanwhile, the lower class struggles to make their mark, left with meager opportunities and limited access to the privileges the affluent enjoy."

Nathan and Ethal moved through the cobblestone streets, a tableau of antiquity unfolding before Nathan's discerning gaze. His eyes dissected the quaint homes, the anachronistic contraptions, and the fashion of the era. Vehicles, more reminiscent of horse-drawn carriages, carried people and cargo along the roads, a peculiar dance between steam engines and archaic technology.

In contrast to the automotive luxury Nathan once navigated in his own era, the people who traversed these pathways donned attire that echoed the early pages of history. Their suits and dresses held an air of opulence, a lavish display of wealth that contrasted sharply with the advanced sensibilities Nathan once encountered.

Astonishment, though hidden behind a mask of practiced indifference, crept into Nathan's gaze. The architecture of this world spoke to him in a language of grandeur, a feat of craftsmanship that danced on the edge of sublime. Yet, he understood that for those immersed in its beauty day by day, the marvels surrounding them might not inspire the same sense of awe.

"Why the bewildered expression, Morg?" Ethal's nudge interrupted Nathan's contemplation, her smile a mixture of amusement and cunning. He quickly tugged at the threads of his thoughts, weaving them into a convincing response.

"Ah, you know, just impressed by the meticulous design and structure of everything," Nathan replied, his voice a careful mix of nerves and delight.

Ethal's gaze held a complexity that spoke of her understanding, and yet her voice carried a veneer of playful irony. "Impressed, are we? Morg, these streets and edifices form the backdrop of our daily lives. Your fascination with them is... unexpected."

Though her words painted a different picture, Nathan's true experience remained veiled. He was a stranger to this world, his very presence a charade woven into the tapestry of existence. Ethal was an enigma, her importance a riddle Nathan yearned to unravel, one puzzle piece among many in this intricate mosaic.

While he wore the skin of another, the past was a cloak he was determined to discard. A promise to himself took root—an oath to shed the darkness of his former life, to embrace this new identity as Morg, and to unearth the secrets that clung to his borrowed form. The original owner's ailment gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, a puzzle piece that held a clue to his purpose in this unfamiliar world.

—-

Ethal and Morg moved through the clamor of the crossroads, a symphony of wagons and carriages raced past in a frantic ballet of haste.

Ethal's voice, a sigh carrying undertones of annoyance, filled the air. "For heaven's sake, seems like some stores are in dire straits with their stock."

Morg's curiosity flared, a spark of inquiry igniting his expression. "Is this a regular occurrence?" he queried.

Ethal's head shook with a mixture of dismissal and amusement, her lips curving into a sly smirk. "Hardly, my dear. Ordinarily, our merchants and establishments brim with a bounty of wares—weapons, essentials, everything one could desire. But as the congested streets and the cavalcade of carriages attest, today seems to be a day of market mishaps," Ethal's words dripped with a tinge of frustration.

'Valuable commodities in this world,' Morg mused, his thoughts unraveling the strings of economic intricacies that wove through this society.

Ethal, perceptive as ever, caught the stern yet contemplative cast of Morg's features. Her lips curled as if she held a secret, her voice a melodious entreaty. "No need to furrow your brow so, Morg. Your home is but a corner and a street away. Let's make the most of this walk together, shall we?" Ethal's words carried a gentle lilt, her smile a radiant beacon.

Caught between her charm and his own uncertainty, Morg's voice stumbled over his words. "Sure, why not..."

Ethal's laughter seemed to paint the scene in hues of joy, her hand wrapped around Morg's arm with a purposeful grip. They weaved through the tide of carriages and wagons, a tandem dance of avoidance and connection, a metaphor for their evolving relationship in this enigmatic world.

—-

Footfalls, a rhythm of calculated steps, reverberated down the narrow corridor of the street, leading to an expanse framed by a grand gateway.

Morg's voice, laced with a tinge of curiosity and guarded anticipation, pierced the air. "Ethal, do you see that?"

Ethal's head bobbed in affirmation, her words dripping with an air of bittersweet inevitability. "Indeed, that's the threshold of your abode. Our path together will soon diverge, Morg," her voice carried the weight of reluctant acceptance, punctuated by a fleeting smile.

Behind his mask, Nathan grappled with a surge of trepidation, a familiar cocktail of fear and uncertainty. Confronting Morg's world—family, relationships, the life that once was—loomed like an abyss before him, an abyss he didn't know how to navigate.

Anxiety seeped in, a sensation akin to the first day at a new school, gnawing at his insides. His stomach churned with knots of unease, each step towards the gate heightening his apprehension.

He clung to the fabricated persona of Morg, a lifeline he hoped would shield him from the unknown that lay beyond the gate. The notion of feigned amnesia danced on the periphery of his thoughts, a contingency plan to avoid scrutiny and questioning.

A droplet of sweat trickled down his cheek, a betraying testament to his inner turmoil. Ethal's watchful eyes caught the sign, her words laden with concern. "Morg, are you unwell?"

Nathan's consciousness snapped back to the present, her inquiry a lifeline that anchored him to the scene. He rallied, the act of Morg once again his shield. "Huh? Oh, no, Ethal, I'm good. Just... a bit spaced out, you know?" His words, inadvertently laced with the idiomatic slang of his time, earned him a quizzical glance.

Ethal's retort, a whispered enigma, fluttered through the air. "Interesting..."

Caught off guard, Nathan inquired, "What's that?"

Ethal turned towards him, a sly smile accompanying her response. "Nothing, Morg. Just a fleeting thought," her tone as enigmatic as her words.

Nathan's shoulders lifted in a subtle shrug, his exterior a mask concealing the whirlwind of thoughts within him. Meanwhile, Ethal's contemplations remained veiled, a private symphony of musings hidden beneath her composed façade.

His focus, however, shifted to the entrance of the estate that beckoned before him—a symbolic threshold to Morg's past life. A tide of unease swelled within, its waves threatening to engulf him. Gathering his resolve, he braced himself for whatever encounters lay ahead.

Yet, on the fringes of his peripheral vision, a figure materialized, a man who emanated an aura of gravity and power. His elegant attire bespoke a lifetime of refinement, his silver hair a testament to age and wisdom. Eyes as dark as the abyss bore into Nathan, the intensity of his gaze stirring a tremor of fear within him.

Ethal's voice cut through the tension, a cheerful greeting to the figure that Nathan now recognized as his father. A jolt of realization struck him—Morg Venidict. That was the name he now inhabited, a moniker laden with histories and obligations he had yet to understand.

Nathan's voice, tinged with anxiety, broke through the air. "Ethal, do you know that man?"

Ethal's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and curiosity, her words carrying an undertone of both seriousness and playfulness. "Who else could it be, Morg? That's your father. Why wouldn't I be friendly with him?"

A sudden revelation pierced through Nathan's mind, his anxiety now crystallized into a chilling recognition. That man, the one who stood before him, was his father. A chill ran down his spine as his inner voice echoed in frightened disbelief. 'That's... my father?'