My name is not Neil Abercombry.

  It never truly was.

  Once it was Nebuchadnezzar.

  Nebuchadnezzar II.

  King of Babylon.

  Builder.

  Conqueror.

  Fool.

  I ruled long enough to believe my works might outlive death.

  In that, at least, I was correct.

  Just not in the way I intended.

  I have died more times than any man should.

  Not continuously. Not as one long life. That would have been simple. Merciful, even.

  Instead I have been broken across centuries. Scattered through bodies, nations, languages, faiths, and graves. Each life begins whole and ignorant. Each life ends before the truth fully returns.

  Until something breaks.

  A wound.

  A fever.

  A moment when flesh fails and the mind fractures.

  Then the memories come back.

  Slowly.

  Never all at once.

  A child’s mind would shatter under the weight of three thousand years.

  I learned that lesson long ago.

  So I built a place to hold them.

  Inside my mind there is a place I call the Hall of Lives.

  When I close my eyes and focus, it appears.

  A vast chamber stretches before me. The floor is polished stone. Tall pillars rise into darkness far above. Along the endless walls hang portraits.

  Hundreds of them.

  Perhaps more.

  Each portrait shows a face I once wore.

  Kings.

  Soldiers.

  Scholars.

  Wanderers.

  Lives lived and buried by time.

  Each portrait is a door.

  When I step close to one, the memories behind it stir. If I wish, I can open it and walk through that life again. Every memory. Every lesson. Every mistake.

  I walk slowly through the hall.

  A Roman soldier standing in a forest far from home.

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  A scholar leaning over silk as his brush finishes a final line of poetry.

  A sailor breathing salt wind beneath gray northern skies.

  A rider racing across endless steppe grass.

  A condemned man staring out at the roaring crowd of revolutionary Paris.

  The gallery stretches farther than sight.

  At the far end waits the newest portrait.

  Neil Abercombry.

  India.

  The last death.

  Now death again.

  The exhaustion returns as the memories settle into place.

  Not fear.

  Not grief.

  Something worse.

  Fatigue without end.

  I have been warrior, king, prisoner, artisan, beggar, believer, cynic, husband, son, executioner, victim.

  I have watched empires rise hungry and die bloated.

  I have seen wise men fail and fools inherit their thrones.

  I have spoken languages the world has forgotten.

  I have marched armies across borders that no longer exist.

  I have gathered enough knowledge to fill libraries.

  None of it bought peace.

  When Neil Abercombry’s heart finally failed, I believed the cycle might have ended.

  For a moment, I welcomed it.

  Then the pain came.

  Not the pain of wounds or sickness.

  Compression.

  Reduction.

  Vastness forced into narrowness.

  A sea poured into a cup.

  Every memory inside me tightened at once. It felt as if my soul were being driven through the eye of a needle.

  I tried to scream.

  Then

  Light.

  I blinked.

  The room around me was drenched in violet velvet. Gold molding curled along the walls in elaborate patterns. A towering bed stood beneath a gilded canopy. Amethyst curtains spilled softly across embroidered pillows.

  A crystal chandelier hung above, casting warm light across thick rugs and polished brass trunks.

  This was not merely a bedroom.

  It was a chamber meant for someone expected to become powerful.

  I blinked again.

  Silk curtains covered tall windows.

  A rocking horse stood in the corner.

  Tin soldiers lined a shelf.

  Wooden blocks lay beside a chair far too small for an adult.

  A nursery.

  I tried to sit up.

  My body refused.

  Something was wrong.

  The sensation came immediately. My limbs felt lighter than they should. My bones felt fragile. My muscles weak.

  Slowly I lifted my hands.

  They were tiny.

  Soft.

  Unscarred.

  Child’s hands.

  Ridiculous.

  Panic followed.

  No, I thought.

  No.

  Not again.

  Pain throbbed through my skull.

  Images burst across my mind.

  A stern man with silver hair and a soldier’s posture.

  A woman seated beside a bright window in a wheeled chair.

  Two older boys laughing from horseback.

  A hunting horn.

  A scream.

  A fall.

  Darkness.

  Then me.

  I lay still for a long time, listening to my breathing while the storm inside my mind settled.

  Some memories belonged to me.

  Some belonged to the child.

  Some had already begun to merge.

  At last a name surfaced.

  Allastor Corvus.

  Eight years old.

  Son of General Xandros Corvus.

  I closed my eyes.

  Not Earth.

  The certainty came without logic. Something in the air felt wrong. Something in the light. Reality itself felt slightly misaligned.

  The door opened.

  A young woman hurried inside carrying a basin.

  She froze the moment she saw me.

  “Master Allastor?”

  Shock spread across her face.

  Then relief.

  “You’re awake,” she whispered. “By the Aether, you’re awake.”

  The word meant nothing to me.

  Not yet.

  My throat burned when I spoke.

  “Where am I?”

  She rushed to the bedside.

  “At home, my lord. The Corvus Estate. You fell during the hunt. You struck your head and never woke. The physicians said...” She stopped herself.

  I studied her carefully.

  Her dress resembled a servant’s uniform, yet the seams were unfamiliar. Brass clasps gleamed along her collar, each one glowing faintly with a pale blue light.

  The basin in her hands steamed.

  I saw no fire.

  Not magic, I thought.

  Mechanism.

  Principle.

  Science not yet properly understood.

  “My head hurts,” I said.

  That required no acting.

  She nodded quickly.

  “I will fetch Lady Ariadne. And the General. They will be so relieved.”

  She turned toward the door.

  “Wait.”

  She paused.

  “What day is it?”

  She frowned slightly.

  “Ferrisday. The twenty first of Emberwake.”

  The words meant nothing.

  Still, the answer confirmed what instinct already told me.

  This was not Britain.

  Not India.

  Not any land I had known.

  After she left, I forced myself from the bed and staggered to the window.

  The city beyond stole the breath from my lungs.

  Stone terraces stretched across the horizon. Iron towers rose beside marble palaces. Chimneys poured smoke into the sky. Rail lines curved through dense districts that resembled mechanical hives.

  Bridges crossed black water.

  Great glass domes shone in the afternoon sun.

  And everywhere there was light.

  Not flame.

  Not electricity.

  Something else.

  Lamps.

  Cables.

  Towering pylons.

  Carriages glowing with strange lanterns.

  The child’s memories whispered a name.

  Valdris.

  Capital of the Vesperian Empire.

  I gripped the sill with small trembling fingers.

  A new world.

  A new body.

  A new empire.

  And I was tired enough to hate all three.