Azhareth woke to silence.
Not the tight, coiled silence of a dungeon waiting for spring.
Not the heavy quiet that followed slaughter.
Just this morning.
Soft light slipped through thin curtains, pale and unassuming, cutting the room into gentle angles. Dust drifted lazily in the air, visible only because the world had decided, briefly, to be kind.
He lay still for a moment, cataloguing sensations.
The bed was narrow. Too narrow. His shoulder pressed close to the edge, sheets tucked tight with a care he didn’t remember requesting. The pillow smelled faintly of detergent—and something else.
Tea.
Azhareth frowned.
He sat up slowly. There was a faint ache in his jaw, not pain exactly, but the dull soreness of muscles used too long in a way they weren’t accustomed to. His fingers brushed his face out of habit, then paused.
The scent was stronger there.
Tea.
He stared at his hand.
“…Well,” he muttered quietly to the empty room, voice rough with disuse.
“You had your fun, Damian.”
No answer came.
There never was.
But the absence felt different this time. Not hollow. Not stolen.
Finished.
Azhareth swung his legs off the bed and stood. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath his weight, old wood complaining in a way that felt almost welcoming.
Movement caught his eye.
Rai lay curled near the bed, tail twitching once as Azhareth shifted. The beast lifted its head, golden eyes alert for half a second—then relaxed when it recognized him.
On the floor, near the chair, Squeak sat perfectly still.
The small mouse’s emerald fur caught the light, vivid and alive. Its eyes tracked him closely, not fearful, not curious.
Assessing.
Azhareth met that gaze.
“…You stayed,” he said softly.
Squeak tilted its head.
Rai rose and padded over without hesitation, pressing briefly against Azhareth’s leg before sitting at his side. Squeak hesitated a heartbeat longer—then scurried forward, settling close to Rai as if the decision had already been made.
Azhareth exhaled.
He hadn’t asked.
They had chosen.
That was… fine.
He left the bedroom quietly, the animals following with minimal sound. The apartment was small, but warm. Lived-in. There were signs of activity everywhere—small, human details that Damian must have left behind.
The dining table was clean.
Too clean.
Azhareth stopped.
Mira never cleared plates this early. She liked to leave them soaking, liked the excuse to fuss over them later. It was one of those habits that came from raising children—always leaving something undone so the house didn’t feel empty.
His gaze lingered on the table.
The realization settled strangely in his chest.
He didn’t remember eating.
But the body did.
He moved into the kitchen.
Mira stood by the stove, humming quietly under her breath as she stirred a pot. She moved with easy familiarity, barefoot, hair loosely tied, sleeves rolled just enough to avoid splatter.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Oh—good morning,” she said softly.
Then she froze.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Not in fear.
Recognition.
Her eyes widened slightly, the way they did when she realized she’d miscounted groceries or forgotten a bill—not panic, just recalibration.
“…Oh,” she said after a moment.
“You’re back. Damian had a good night’s sleep.”
Azhareth blinked.
Then chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
Mira tilted her head, studying his face with the same attention she’d once used to check scraped knees and fevers.
“In a world where monsters jump out of portals,” she said calmly, “a child changing faces doesn’t sound that weird, does it?”
Azhareth laughed quietly.
“…Fair point.”
She turned back to the stove as if the matter were settled.
“I made soup,” she said. “Nothing fancy. He—Damian—ate most of it.”
Her voice didn’t falter when she said the name.
That mattered.
Azhareth leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching her. He noticed small things now—the way she stood closer to the stove than usual, the extra care she took stirring, as if grounding herself in routine.
Two cups sat on the table.
Both filled with black tea.
Mira carried them over and set them down.
Then paused.
She stared at them for half a second longer than necessary.
Quietly, she picked one up and returned it to the counter.
Azhareth noticed.
He said nothing.
“There’s someone outside,” Mira added casually. “A man. Very polite. Too polite.”
Azhareth sighed.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Straight posture. Looks like he irons his soul.”
Mira snorted before she could stop herself.
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
Rina’s butler.
Azhareth closed his eyes briefly.
Of course.
He pushed off the counter and reached for the fridge instead. The door opened with a familiar hum. Cold air spilled out, comforting in its predictability.
He grabbed a can of cola.
The hiss when he opened it was loud in the quiet kitchen.
Mira glanced over.
“I made tea,” she said mildly.
Azhareth made a face and took a long drink.
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m not drinking that.”
The sweetness hit immediately, sharp and fizzy, grounding him fully in his own senses.
Mira smiled, not offended.
“Suit yourself.”
Rai settled near his feet. Squeak hopped once, then climbed neatly onto his shoulder, tiny claws careful, practiced. The weight was negligible, but the presence was not.
Azhareth glanced sideways at the mouse.
“…You really did pick sides,” he murmured.
Squeak chirped once, then settled, tail curling slightly.
Mira watched the interaction with quiet interest.
“You’re different,” she said suddenly.
Azhareth looked up.
“Last night,” she continued, stirring the pot again, “you leaned forward when you ate. Like you were guarding the food.”
She gestured vaguely.
“Now you’re sitting back.”
Azhareth glanced down at himself.
She was right.
He hadn’t noticed.
“…People change,” he said after a moment.
Mira smiled faintly.
“They do,” she agreed. “But not always like that.”
She turned off the stove and ladled soup into a bowl, sliding it across the table toward him.
“Eat,” she said. “Even if you don’t remember being hungry.”
Azhareth complied.
The soup was bland.
Perfectly so.
No sharp spices. No sweetness. Just warmth.
He finished it quickly.
Too quickly.
The body remembered habits the mind didn’t.
Mira watched without comment.
As he stood, there was a knock at the door.
Polite.
Measured.
Too early.
Azhareth felt the borrowed peace thin, stretched by obligation.
He reached for the door, then paused as Mira spoke again.
“Raine—”
She stopped herself.
“…No,” she corrected gently.
“You’re not Raine, are you?”
Azhareth turned.
“Call me Azhareth.”
Mira hummed thoughtfully, hands on her hips.
“Oh. The cold and tsundere one is Azhareth,” she said. “Duly noted.”
He snorted despite himself.
She stepped closer, voice lowering.
“Azh—are… is Raine still there?”
The question landed heavier than it should have.
Azhareth stilled.
“If so,” Mira continued softly, “be kind to him. He’s a good kid.”
Her eyes didn’t leave his.
“But the world’s always been against him.”
The words hit like a truck.
Against him.
In life after life, it had always been that way. Systems that demanded obedience. Gods that demanded worship. Worlds that demanded blood simply for existing within them.
He had assumed Raine was fine. Ordinary. Sheltered.
A temporary mask.
For the first time—
Azhareth wondered if he’d been wrong.
He didn’t turn back.
“…I’ll keep that in mind,” he said quietly.
He opened the door.
The hallway beyond was clean, quiet. The butler stood straight-backed and immaculate, eyes sharpening the moment he saw Azhareth.
Rai moved instantly to his side. Squeak adjusted on his shoulder, silent.
Azhareth stepped forward.
Behind him, Mira watched, arms folded loosely, expression unreadable.
The door closed softly.
And as Azhareth walked away—
For the first time since remembering who he was—
He found himself curious about the life he had never bothered to look at.
