Chapter 1: The Awakening

When he first opened his eyes, he did not see a familiar white ceiling or the glow of his phone screen. He saw only darkness. His first breath did not bring relief. It felt as though he had inhaled a handful of crushed glass.

Cough!

A violent cough tore from his throat.

He arched his back, gasping, as the spasm shook his entire frame. He instinctively reached up, pressing a hand to his mouth. When the coughing fit finally subsided, leaving him panting and shivering, he pulled his hand away.

Even in the dim, gray light filtering through the window, he could see the smudge on his palm. It was blood.

Jack stared at his hand. It was not his hand.

His hands were broad and steady. This hand was shockingly thin. The skin was so pale it looked translucent, stretching tightly over narrow knuckles and thin, brittle-looking fingers. There was no meat on his arms, no strength in his wrists.

He tried to sit up, but his muscles screamed in protest. He felt like a wooden puppet whose joints had rusted solid.

“What…” Jack muttered, his voice a dry, gravelly whisper that barely carried in the quiet room.

As he spoke, a sudden rush of foreign memories flooded his brain. They did not come with a painful explosion, but rather like ink dissolving in water, bleeding into his consciousness until he could no longer separate his own thoughts from those of another.

He was John Frost-Grip. Or simply “Jack” to the few people who still remained in this godforsaken place.

He was the last living noble of the Frost-Grip family, a minor and thoroughly forgotten lineage tasked with guarding a barren, frozen valley in the far north of the empire. His father had died two years ago. His mother, a year before that. The family had once been wealthy from the local coal mines, but the mines had collapsed, the wealth had vanished, and the cold had moved in to claim what was left.

The current Jack—the modern young man who had gone to sleep in a warm, heated apartment after a long shift at work had somehow slipped into this dying noble’s body during the coldest night of the year.

A howling gust of wind slammed against the window, making the wooden frame groan.

Jack looked toward the source of the noise. The bedchamber was massive, but completely ruined. The wallpaper was peeling away in long strips, revealing the stone beneath. In the far corner, an oak wardrobe sat with one door hanging off its hinges. The window itself was a disaster; several panes of glass were completely shattered, stuffed with yellowed rags and old, woolen socks in a desperate attempt to keep the storm outside.

It was a losing battle.

Jack could see his own breath. The edges of the blanket were stiff and frozen from the moisture that had accumulated during the night.

If he stayed in this bed, he would die. It was that simple.

Before he could attempt the monumental task of swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the door of the bedchamber creaked open.

A young woman stepped into the room. She was small, perhaps nineteen years old, with her pale brown hair tied back in a messy, bun. Her face was flushed bright red from the cold, and her nose was perpetually running. She was wearing three mismatched, overlapping wool shawls, none of which quite fit her, and a pair of leather boots that looked three sizes too large.

In her hands, she carried a gray clay bowl.

“My Lord!” she gasped, nearly dropping the bowl as she saw Jack sitting up. She rushed forward, her oversized boots clacking loudly against the cold stone floor. “You’re awake! Oh, praise the gods, I thought… I thought you wouldn’t make it through the night.”

This was Karen. She was the castle’s sole remaining maid, cook, and self-appointed guardian. She had been with the family since she was a child, and her loyalty was as fierce as it was highly strung.

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“Karen,” Jack said, his throat clicking as he swallowed.

“Don’t speak, please don’t speak,” she pleaded, setting the bowl down on a small, rickety three-legged stool beside the bed. She immediately reached out, pressing the back of her chapped hand against his forehead. “You’re freezing. You’re colder than the water in the well, Lord Jack. You must eat this. It’s not much, but it’s warm.”

Jack looked down at the bowl. It was turnip broth.

But calling it broth was generous. It was mostly lukewarm water with a few translucent, gray slices of turnip floating in it. There was no meat, no fat, and not even a pinch of salt to give it flavor. It looked like dirt water.

Yet, as the steam rose from the bowl, Jack’s stomach gave a loud growl.

“Eat,” Karen urged, her eyes wide with anxiety. She picked up a wooden spoon and held it out to him, her own hand shaking slightly from the cold. “Please, My Lord. If you don’t keep your strength up, the fever will return.”