I willed my blade to disappear, watching as the ethereal weapon dissolved into motes of light -the process couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds- before vanishing entirely. The transformation went along with it—the scales, horned crown, necklace and tail, all of them vanished in the same light, until I stood once more in my ordinary clothes and a painfully thin human form.
Staring at myself in the mirror without the supernatural transformation, I truly realized for the first time how badly this body had suffered during my almost fifteen year old slumber. My reflection was a stranger's—gaunt cheeks that had never known proper nourishment, arms that were little more than bone wrapped in pale skin, and a frame that spoke of years spent sustained only by the IV drips Knossos had mentioned. The sight was rather sobering, really. I needed to eat a lot and train just as much if I ever hoped to regain any semblance of strength.
My hand unconsciously went to my hair, fingers threading through the shortened purple strands that barely reached my shoulders. In my nightmare—my previous life, I corrected myself firmly—my hair had been much longer, flowing to my waist in waves and tied up in a ponytail that caught the sea breeze. Now it hung limp and lifeless, another casualty of my extended sleep.
"And I have to grow this out too," I muttered to my reflection, attempting a roguish grin that came out rather more pathetic than intended. "What will the ladies think otherwise?"
The mirror offered no response to my attempt at levity, merely reflecting back the hollow-eyed boy who bore little resemblance to the confident young man who had conquered the Lightning Dragon King. That person felt like a character from a story now, someone I had read about rather than lived as. The disconnect was unsettling, like trying to recall a dream that slipped further away with each passing moment, even though I knew it had been real—at least, real enough to matter.
KNOCK, KNOCK
The sharp rap against my door jolted me from my brooding contemplation. I turned away from the mirror, grateful for the interruption to thoughts that were growing increasingly melancholy, and walked toward the sound. My shoes made no noise against the plush carpet—another luxury I was still adjusting to. In Tyson Village, floors had been rough wooden planks that creaked with every step, worn smooth by generations of fishermen's boots.
When I opened the door, I found myself face-to-face with a man who appeared to be in his forties. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit that probably cost more than most villagers saw in a year, and I could sense immediately that he was a Master—he held the same presence Drakon had. His head was bowed slightly in a gesture of respectful deference that mate me deeply uncomfortable.
"Young scion," he began, "master requests your presence at the dinner table."
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady. I couldn't believe it. I was a noble of all things.
As we walked through the corridors of what I was beginning to understand was an enormous mansion, I found myself constantly amazed by the sheer scale of everything. The hallways were wide enough for four people to walk abreast, with ceilings that soared at least fifteen feet above our heads.
This was also one of the things that would take getting used to, I realized. The amount of possessions we seemed to have was staggering. It turns out being the sole heir to an elder of the House of Night was something rather more significant than I had initially grasped, though I still wasn't exactly sure what the House of Night was or how it was structured. Knossos had been rather vague on the details, and I suspected that was intentional.
"So," I began, partly to break the silence and partly because I was genuinely curious, "what's your name?"
The man's step didn't falter, but I caught a slight stiffening of his shoulders, as though my question had surprised him. "This one has the pleasure to be called Rashid, young scion."
His formal way of speaking reminded me uncomfortably of the soldiers in my nightmare—all deference and protocol.
"Hmm, that's a good name," I said, trying to inject some friendliness into my tone. In Tyson Village, everyone had simply been neighbors. There had been no need for such elaborate courtesy.
"Thank you, young scion Tristan."
The name hit me like a physical blow, stopping me mid-step. "It's Sinbad," I interrupted, perhaps more sharply than I had intended.
Rashid paused as well, turning to face me with an expression of polite confusion. "I'm sorry, young scion?"
"My name," I said, working to keep my voice level. "It's not Tristan. It's Sinbad."
For a moment, something flickered across Rashid's features—surprise, perhaps, or concern. But his training was excellent, and the expression was gone almost immediately, replaced by his usual mask of professional courtesy.
"Understood, young scion Sinbad."
I nodded, feeling a small smile spread across my face despite the lingering discomfort. It was a minor victory, perhaps, but an important one.
At that moment, Rashid stepped forward and opened a pair of elaborate double doors that I hadn't even noticed approaching. The wood was dark and polished to a mirror sheen, carved by talented hands, that had put work into the wood.
The room beyond was enormous, easily large enough to hold every family in Tyson Village with space to spare. Despite its size, however, it felt strangely empty. The furnishings were minimal—primarily a single massive wooden table that could have seated thirty people comfortably, though only one place was currently occupied. The walls were bare except for more tall windows draped in heavy curtains dominated one wall, though I couldn't see what lay beyond them, the sun had already set.
Sitting at one end of the table, looking rather small and lonely in the vast space, was Knossos. When he saw me enter, a smile spread across his weathered features—a genuine expression that reached his eyes and transformed his entire face. For the first time since waking, I caught a glimpse of what he might have been like as a younger man, before whatever burdens he carried had etched those deep lines around his eyes.
Rashid smoothly pulled out a chair positioned next to Knossos.
"I'll bring out the first course shortly," Rashid said, executing another of his precise bows.
"Thank you, Rashid," Knossos replied, his voice carrying genuine warmth and appreciation.
Rashid bowed once more and departed through what I assumed was a door leading to the kitchens, wherever those might be located in this labyrinthine house.
"He's a nice guy," I commented, settling into the offered chair and immediately feeling dwarfed by its high back and ornate armrests. I grabbed one of the three forks arranged precisely beside my plate and began twirling it between my fingers.
"Indeed he is," Knossos agreed, watching my fidgeting with an expression I couldn't quite read. "His loyalty is unmatched. Rashid has been with our family for over twenty years. He knew your parents quite well."
"That's nice," I said, though the mention of my biological parents sent an uncomfortable pang through my chest. "For you, I mean."
"Indeed it is."
An awkward silence settled over us like a heavy blanket. I continued playing with the fork, acutely aware of every small sound it made against my fingers. The dining room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, and I found myself wondering how many meals Knossos had eaten alone in this vast space.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Knossos cleared his throat. "Do you want to tell me what happened in your nightmare? Your aspect? Anything at all?"
The questions hung in the air between us, and I could hear the genuine curiosity—and perhaps hope—in his voice. But these were my secrets, at least for now, earned through pain and loss that this man, however well-meaning, could never truly understand.
"I'd prefer to keep that to myself," I said carefully, trying to keep any edge out of my voice. "It may have been just a nightmare for you, but it was my life before this. I may never divulge it. As for my aspect, I'd like to keep that to myself as well. This is, after all, my first day meeting you."
Knossos nodded slowly, though I caught a flash of disappointment in his eyes. "I understand that, Tristan."
"And it's Sinbad," I corrected automatically. "My name isn't Tristan. It's Sinbad."
The correction seemed to impact him more than it had done so to Rashid. Silence fell across the table once more, heavier this time. Then a sad smile appeared across his weathered features, and he craned his neck back to stare at the ornate ceiling high above us, releasing a long, shuddering sigh.
"That is the name your father—my son—chose for you," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, but I never knew him, I never knew them," I replied, perhaps more gently than before. The pain in his voice was unmistakable, and despite my determination to maintain emotional distance, I found myself affected by it.
"I know," Knossos sighed, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling almost like he couldn't quite meet my gaze. "I'm just... sad."
I looked down at the polished surface of the plate, even if I was thin and my hair was short, I could still tell I looked almost exactly like I had in the nightmare, I held so many features of my mother and father that it made me wonder if this body's own parents looked like them, it was a comforting thought... in a way.
"I can understand that," I admitted quietly.
Again, silence fell across the dinner table, but this time it felt less oppressive—more like the comfortable quiet that sometimes settled between people who understood each other's pain, even if they couldn't share it.
"But I'll try my best, Sinbad," Knossos said eventually. "I know you may never see your parents as your parents, or even me as your grandfather. But I do see you as my blood, and I hope that maybe one day I can change your view."
Before I could formulate a response to this unexpected offer of patient understanding, the doors opened again, and Rashid appeared bearing plates that emanated the most wonderful aromas I had ever encountered.
"For the first course," he announced with evident pride, "pasta carbonara. I hope you'll enjoy it. I'll bring the second course shortly."
"Thank you, Rashid," we both said in unison.
The simultaneous response surprised us both, and we shared a brief smile—the first genuine moment of connection since I had awakened to this strange new world. Rashid's face lit up as well, clearly pleased to see the scene, and he bowed once more before departing to prepare whatever culinary delights awaited us next.
I looked down at my plate and realized just how different the food was from home, but hey at least it looked better than the stews I could cook.
A/N: Send those stones ladies and gents, 100 and I'll upload an extra chap I promise