Morning light filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across polished floors. Arthanis stepped out of the small village library, a worn leather tome tucked under his arm. The afternoon sun hung low, painting the cobblestones in shades of amber and gold.

  [Master,] Mire's presence flickered at the edge of his vision. [58:42:11 remaining. Recommend target acquisition window: 22:00-04:00 for optimal stealth parameters.]

  Tonight. I know.

  The market square bustled with afternoon activity. Merchants called out prices for grain and dried fish. Children wove between carts, their laughter bright against the steady hum of village life. Everything felt peaceful. Safe. Almost enough to forget the timer counting down in the corner of his vision.

  Almost.

  "Arthanis!"

  The voice cut through the market noise with startling clarity. Not loud—just... familiar in a way that made something in his chest tighten before his mind could catch up.

  He turned.

  Miyera stood beside a wooden cart piled high with vegetable baskets, one hand shading her eyes from the sun. Ciyera was next to her, struggling to push the cart forward, her small frame straining against the weight.

  Arthanis paused, rapidly cataloging. Miyera—seventeen, apprentice herbalist, family friend. Childhood companion to Arthanis. Risk level: moderate for pattern recognition, but non-hostile. Ciyera—younger sister, trusting, still recovering from the goblin attack.

  Declining to help would be... wrong. Not just tactically wrong, but fundamentally against whatever muscle memory this body carried.

  He walked over.

  "Need a hand?" The words came easily, naturally, like they'd been waiting in his throat.

  Miyera's expression shifted—surprise, then something softer. "I didn't think you'd offer," she said, then quickly added, "I mean, you usually pretend not to see us when you're reading."

  Arthanis blinked. Had Arthanis really been that cold? "I wasn't reading. Just carrying it."

  "Still." Miyera gestured at the cart. "We're taking vegetables to the south market. Ciyera insisted we could handle it themselves, but—"

  "I did not!" Ciyera protested, face flushed from exertion. "You said we didn't need help!"

  "I said we probably didn't need help. There's a difference."

  Arthanis set the book down on a nearby bench and moved to the cart's front end. "Where to?"

  "South market, near the well." Miyera hesitated, studying his face. "Are you sure? It's not far, but..."

  "I'm sure."

  They lifted together. The cart rolled forward with a wooden groan, wheels protesting against cobblestones worn smooth by decades of use. Arthanis adjusted his grip, redistributing the weight so Miyera wouldn't have to strain as much.

  She noticed. Of course she noticed.

  "You've gotten stronger," she said quietly. Not suspicious—just... observant. "Vaendalle's training?"

  "Something like that." He kept his voice casual, focusing on the rhythm of their steps. Left foot, right foot, avoid the pothole near the baker's stall.

  They walked in companionable silence for a while. Ciyera skipped ahead, occasionally turning back to make sure they were following. The afternoon light caught in her hair, turning it copper-bright.

  "Thank you," Miyera said suddenly. "For what you did in the forest. I don't think I ever said it properly."

  "You don't need to—"

  "I do." Her voice was firm. "You saved our lives. Uncle Ofero's life. If you hadn't been there..." She trailed off, the unspoken horror hanging between them.

  He didn't know what to say. The real Arthanis had died before any of that happened. He was just the one who'd stumbled into the aftermath, wearing a dead boy's face and making choices that felt right in the moment.

  "Anyone would have done the same," he said finally.

  Miyera laughed—soft and genuine. "No, they wouldn't. Half the village won't even go past the tree line anymore." She paused, then added more quietly, "You were different that day. Calmer. Like you knew exactly what to do."

  [Warning: subject demonstrating increased observational acuity. Recommend deflection.]

  I know.

  "Adrenaline," Arthanis said, which wasn't entirely a lie. "Everything just... slowed down. I didn't think. I just moved."

  "Hmm."

  That single syllable carried weight. Not suspicion, exactly. More like... puzzle pieces being turned over in her mind, examined from different angles.

  They reached the south market—a smaller square dominated by a stone well and a handful of permanent stalls. Miyera directed them to an empty spot near the herbalist's shop, and together they began unloading the baskets.

  "Red ribbons go to Mistress Sella," Miyera instructed, pointing to each basket in turn. "Green to Merchant Toman. Blue ones stay here—we'll sell those ourselves."

  Arthanis nodded, filing the information away. Organizational systems. Simple patterns. This he could handle.

  He worked methodically, moving baskets according to Miyera's directions. The physical labor was straightforward, requiring no deception, no careful word choice. Just gravity and mass and the simple satisfaction of completing a task.

  Ciyera darted between them, "helping" by rearranging vegetables into aesthetically pleasing pyramids that promptly collapsed when customers came to browse. Miyera corrected her gently, showing her how to stack them properly.

  "Like this, see? Biggest on the bottom."

  "But it's prettier my way!"

  "Pretty doesn't help if they all fall when someone picks one up."

  Arthanis found himself smiling—a real smile, not the calculated expression he'd been practicing. The simple domesticity of it all was... unexpectedly pleasant.

  Then Ciyera knocked over a basket of turnips.

  The vegetables scattered across the cobblestones, rolling in every direction. Ciyera's face crumpled immediately, tears welling up.

  "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

  "It's okay," Miyera started, but Arthanis was already moving.

  He knelt, gathering the nearest turnips. "Accidents happen. Help me pick them up?"

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Ciyera sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "You're not mad?"

  "Why would I be mad?"

  She stared at him like he'd asked a very stupid question. "Because... because you're always mad when I mess things up."

  The words hit him like a physical blow.

  Always mad.

  What kind of person had Arthanis been to this little girl?

  Before he could respond, something shifted. The world didn't blur or tilt—it just... expanded. Like a door opening in his mind to a room that had always been there.

  Small hands dropping a clay cup. It shattered on the kitchen floor, pieces scattering like the turnips now.

  "I'm sorry!" A younger Ciyera, maybe six years old, backing away with her hands raised. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

  "Worthless." The voice was Arthanis's, cold and cutting. "Can't you do anything right?"

  The little girl flinched as if struck. Miyera, standing in the doorway, opened her mouth to protest—then closed it, eyes downcast. Afraid.

  Vaendalle, older but still strong, placing a weathered hand on Arthanis's shoulder. "Boy, she's just a child—"

  "She's a burden." Arthanis shrugged off the touch. "They both are."

  The memory released him as quickly as it had come.

  Arthanis found himself still kneeling on the cobblestones, a turnip clutched in his hand, Ciyera watching him with wide, worried eyes.

  "Brother?" Her voice was small. "Are you okay?"

  No. The word echoed in his mind. No, I'm not okay. Because that wasn't me, but I feel sick anyway.

  "I'm fine." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I'm fine. Just... remembered something."

  He handed Ciyera the turnip, then reached out and gently ruffled her hair. The gesture felt foreign and natural at the same time—something Arthanis should have done years ago but never had.

  "Accidents happen," he repeated softly. "You don't need to apologize for being human."

  Ciyera's expression transformed. Confusion gave way to wonder, then to a smile so bright it hurt to look at.

  "You really are different," she whispered.

  Miyera was staring at him too. Not with suspicion—with something far more dangerous. Hope.

  "Arthanis," she said quietly, "what happened to you in that forest?"

  I died, he thought. And someone else came back wearing my face.

  "I don't know," he said instead, which was closer to the truth than she'd ever realize. "I just... I don't want to be that person anymore."

  "That person?" Miyera's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

  How could he explain? How could he tell her that he'd inherited memories of a boy who'd been cruel to the people who loved him, who'd pushed away kindness until there was nothing left but isolation and self-loathing?

  "Someone who took everything for granted," he said finally. "Someone who hurt people without meaning to. Someone who..." He met her eyes. "Someone who didn't deserve you."

  The words hung in the air between them.

  Miyera's eyes glistened. "You always deserved us. You just wouldn't let yourself believe it."

  She thought he was Arthanis. Thought this was growth, redemption, a boy finally healing from whatever wounds had made him cruel.

  She had no idea she was mourning someone who was already gone.

  "Miyera—"

  "I'm glad," she interrupted, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so glad you came back. Not just from the forest, but... back to us. To yourself." She wiped her eyes quickly. "Mother will be so happy. She's been praying for this for years."

  The guilt was a physical weight in his chest.

  [Master,] Mire's voice cut through, clinical and cold. [Subject Miyera's emotional investment in your identity is increasing. This creates leverage for manipulation, but also increases exposure risk if inconsistencies are detected.]

  Not now.

  [Recommendation: maintain current behavioral patterns. Her interpretation of your actions as "character growth" provides optimal cover.]

  I said not now.

  Ciyera tugged on his sleeve. "Can we get honey cakes? Please? You used to never let us get honey cakes."

  Used to. Past tense. As if the old Arthanis was already a ghost.

  He glanced at Miyera, who shrugged. "We do have a little extra coin from the vegetable sales..."

  "Honey cakes it is," Arthanis heard himself say.

  Ciyera's delighted squeal was almost enough to drown out the voice in his head asking: How long can I keep this up? How long before they realize I'm not him?

  They finished organizing the vegetables, then walked together to the baker's stall. The baker—an older woman with flour-dusted hands—greeted them warmly.

  "Arthanis! Good to see you out and about. Vaendalle mentioned you've been... better lately."

  Word traveled fast in small villages.

  "Feeling better," he agreed, paying for three honey cakes.

  The baker's smile was genuine. "That's wonderful, dear. Your grandfather worries, you know. It's good to see you taking care of yourself."

  Grandfather. Another detail filed away. Vaendalle wasn't just a guardian—he was family. The memories had hinted at it, but hearing it confirmed made the deception feel even heavier.

  They sat on a low wall near the market square, eating their honey cakes in comfortable silence. Ciyera swung her legs, humming tunelessly. Miyera sat with her shoulders relaxed, the tension from earlier finally easing.

  “If you have a lot of money from hunting,” Artham asked casually while eating honey cake, “would you like to move to the capital? Open a flower shop there?”

  Miyera's smile immediately disappeared. Her face turned pale, and Ciyera suddenly stopped chewing, looking down at her feet.

  “We don't talk about ‘outside’, Arthanis,” Miyera said softly, her voice trembling. “You know that. Uncle Ofero said... people like us don't suit the outside air. We'll get sick.”

  Sick?

  Artham thought, watching the genuine fear cloud her eyes. That's a strange reason for not wanting to see the world. It sounds more like a quarantine than a home.

  An awkward silence stretched between them. The joy of the honey cakes seemed to evaporate for a moment. Miyera took a shaky breath, seemingly realizing she had dampened the mood. She forced her shoulders to relax, shaking her head as if to physically dispel the dark thoughts.

  She looked up at him, a fragile smile returning to her lips—desperate to hold onto this rare moment of peace.

  "But this... this is nice," Miyera said softly, changing the subject. "Just... this. Being together without everything being complicated."

  Arthanis nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  Because for her, this was simple. Her childhood friend had finally stopped pushing her away. Her brother-figure had come back to them after years of emotional absence.

  For him, this was the most complicated thing he'd ever done. Every smile was a lie. Every kind word was borrowed from a dead boy's potential. Every moment of warmth was built on a foundation of deception.

  But as Ciyera leaned against his shoulder, sticky honey on her fingers and contentment on her face, he found himself thinking:

  Maybe some lies are worth telling.

  "Arthanis?" Miyera's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

  "Hmm?"

  "Promise me something." She wasn't looking at him, her eyes fixed on the distant tree line beyond the village walls. "Promise me you won't go back to how you were before. Even if things get hard again. Even if..." She trailed off.

  "Even if what?"

  "Even if you remember why you were like that in the first place." She turned to face him then, and her eyes were older than they should have been. "Whatever hurt you before... don't let it win again."

  I don't know what hurt him, Arthanis thought. I only have fragments. Pieces of a puzzle I'll never complete.

  "I promise," he said anyway.

  Because what else could he say? That he wasn't Arthanis? That their brother was dead and gone, replaced by someone who only knew him through borrowed memories and secondhand grief?

  That the boy they loved had been broken long before Artham arrived, and no amount of pretending could bring him back?

  Miyera smiled—relieved, trusting, hopeful.

  And Arthanis felt something crack inside his chest.

  [Master, your cortisol levels are elevated. Heart rate increasing. Are you—]

  I'm fine.

  [You are demonstrably not fine. These emotional responses are—]

  I said I'm fine.

  The sun was setting when they finally parted ways. Miyera and Ciyera headed home, waving as they disappeared around the corner. Arthanis stood alone in the dimming market square, book under his arm, honey cake sitting heavy in his stomach.

  He'd played the part perfectly. Kind older brother. Redeemed friend. Good grandson.

  Everything Arthanis should have been and never was.

  The timer in his vision ticked down: [55:18:33]

  Tonight, he would hunt. He would kill. He would feed on whatever creatures he could find in the forest, stealing hours and days from their lives to extend his own.

  But right now, standing in the gathering dusk with the taste of honey still on his tongue, he let himself feel the full weight of what he'd done.

  He'd given them hope.

  And hope, he was beginning to understand, was the cruelest lie of all.