"We, the Asur, are a noble people, our long and proud history stretching back to a time when Men were still fur-clad savages. Living on our fair isles of Ulthuan, set in the centre of the Great Oceans, we are far removed from the petty squabbles of the lesser races. Here, we are able to practice our magic and our arts, perfecting for no reason than the sheer joy of it."
—Recounted by Unthwe Windrider, Herald of the Phoenix King
Hours passed quickly as Maerthas put David through the wringer. They moved from exercise to exercise, the woodsman nodding to himself occasionally. While stern, he was patient—and in David’s opinion, a fantastic teacher. Any annoyance or impatience he might have felt, he crushed immediately. There was no need to get frustrated when this was, for David, the first time ever holding a weapon. It was something David had never done in his previous life, and David forced himself into the mindset that this was simply a course he had enrolled in.
Learning only had to be frustrating if pride got in the way. And David knew these skills would be vital to living any sort of life here.
Toward the very end of the training session, it became clear that David still had a fantastic base in terms of muscle memory. David still had no clue what the technical terms were, or why they were applied when they were. So in all things, David was in a fantastic place to be a beginner—except now he had to regain the knowledge of why it mattered. It was like being supremely talented at a sport but not knowing the rules.
And while the clock ticked toward the end of the world, David estimated he was around three hundred years from the End Times. Which meant he would, this world’s gods willing, live three times longer even if he failed in preventing it—if one compared it to his previous lifespan.
He was basing that on the information on the current Phoenix King being Bel-Hathor, the one who had ruled right before Finubar. He had been told some more details when he had first woken up but that hadn't really meant anything to him. While David had been a massive fan of the lore and games, it didn't just mean he could take everything in stride.
A loud cough brought David out of his thoughts. He blinked slowly at Maerthas before smiling. “I’m sorry. Lots on my mind, memories being gone and all that.”
Maerthas just shook his head. “Well, let’s end it here for today. We made lots of progress, and honestly we’ve discovered some good news to share with your family. I plan on us repeating this in the morning, every day, until we get you back to where you used to be.”
David honestly didn’t look forward to the running in his future, but regardless of his wants he needed to get stronger. So he nodded in agreement with Maerthas.
Maerthas then gestured behind David. “She will take you back to your quarters. I know you haven’t learned where everything is quite yet.”
David turned.
The servant waiting was slender and poised, with pale hair braided neatly down her back. Her clothes were practical, but still fine: layered linen in sea-white and soft blue, belted at the waist, sleeves fitted so they wouldn’t snag when working.
She dipped into a curtsey the moment David’s eyes found her. “My Prince,” she greeted, voice respectful and smooth.
David’s stomach tightened anyway.
Maerthas calling him by his title had become… something he had begun to get used to. But hearing it from anyone else renewed the awkwardness that made David wince internally. It felt absurd to hear it, when you used to be utterly normal and hear people seriously refer to you as royalty it made him cringe.
Still, David gave a small nod. “Lead the way.”
The servant stepped ahead guiding him through the villa.
It was like walking on a movie set. White stone walls rose in clean lines, carved with subtle patterns that caught the light when the angle was right—lions worked into the trim, leaves and curling waves. Tall arches opened the corridors to fresh air. Sunlight spilled across polished floors, while crisp mountain air and flowering greenery drifted in from open courtyards. All of it made him wonder how they went about building it all.
Banners hung in places, red and white, the lion motif returning again and again. Here and there stood slender columns and sculpted plinths with marble figures: warriors in crested helms, hunters with bows drawn, a lion carved mid-roar.
They passed a courtyard garden, enclosed on three sides and open to the sky. Water ran somewhere nearby. The servant didn’t pause, but David’s eyes did, trying to take it in. It was awe inspiring, He found it similar to when he had seen Mont-Saint-Michel in France the first time. You could just stand there and admire it for who knows how long. He hoped to never grow used to the beauty of it.
The servant guided him down a corridor lined with tall windows that looked out over the grounds. Beyond them, David glimpsed the city below—a sprawling thing of beauty. Tens of thousands of Elves probably lived here. Tor Achare was an elven capital, and it showed.
Eventually, the servant stopped before a set of double doors. She opened them smoothly and stepped aside.
David’s quarters were spacious, meant for someone important. Light streamed in through a wide balcony opening, curtains shifting slightly with the breeze. Fine furniture sat arranged with careful taste. A low table held a carafe and a cup. A wardrobe stood to one side, and near the bed rested a folded set of clothes laid out as if someone had anticipated his return down to the minute.
The servant dipped her head again. “If you need anything, my Prince, I will be nearby.”
David managed another polite nod. “Thank you.”
She withdrew without a sound, leaving him alone.
As soon as the doors closed, he nearly collapsed. He was exhausted—more mentally than physically. He had been here a week now and still had yet to process everything. He wasn’t sure if he ever would.
David was doing his utmost to keep his sanity together and had used the mindset of a tourist since arriving. That he would be here temporarily, and that soon things would go back to how they were. It helped him more than he wanted to admit. It allowed him to look at things and feel excited to see them, to avoid the fact he was in a stranger’s body, and that this stranger’s parents had no idea he wasn’t Calethor. That any day now, whatever cosmic mistake had brought him here would rectify itself, and he would be back home.
Slowly, he began moving toward the bathroom—an outrageously beautiful bathroom. Unfortunately, no place in this world had showers. However, In front of him was a bathtub carved from some sort of stone. It seemed everything the elves made was exceptionally crafted. But more realistically speaking he was sure most people had humbler alternatives.
Undressing from his sweat-soaked clothes, he lowered himself into the bath with a sigh. Someone had prepared it beforehand. He would have to thank whoever had. Maybe it was the servant who had led him back. He would ask next time.
Thinking back to his first day here—waking up to multiple strangers in his face, calling him a name he didn’t recognize—was something. The only reason they still thought he was Calethor and not David was because he had not been able to tell them. Literally. When he tried to say his actual name, to explain the circumstances, to tell them he was from somewhere else, it was as if someone had taken the air out of his lungs. Not a fun experience.
It had also scared the hell out of the people crowding him in the bed. Thus the misunderstanding—him “losing his memories.” David felt horrible. The mother and father showered him in affection, and David couldn’t even tell them the truth.
The warm bathwater was a balm to his mind and body. David had no idea how the water had been heated—probably magic, if he had to guess.
He wondered how permanent his situation was here, if Calethor would ever regain his body, and if David would be able to go back home.
He stayed in the bath for a while before finally pulling himself out. Drying himself off, he switched into comfortable dress robes—soft, layered things that were something similar to nightwear. He would have to get used to the new clothing style.
He walked out onto the balcony of his room, grabbing the wine off the table and a glass. He sat down and poured himself some. It was mulled wine, warmed and spiced, the scent rising immediately—sweet and sharp at once.
Tor Achare stretched out below, carved into the mountains of Chrace. White stone terraces and tall, elegant towers clung to the slopes in deliberate tiers, connected by arching bridges and winding stairways that looked too narrow to be comfortable. Lantern light began to bloom as the sun lowered.
David could see elves moving along the streets far below—small figures at this distance. Cloaks and robes drifted as they walked. Mounted riders passed now and then, and somewhere a small procession moved across a bridge, their banners stirring gently in the mountain wind.
Above it all, great eagles soared through the open air. Sometimes they circled alone, riding the currents with effortless strength. Sometimes there were riders on their backs, silhouettes against the sky—still and composed as if flying over a mountain city was the most normal thing in the world. Which to them it probably was.
David took a slow sip and let the warmth settle in his chest. He could sit there all night and watch it. Unfortunately, he had someone who was demanding his attention.
Across from him sat himself, or rather the original Calethor. He had been with him since David’s first day arriving here. David had thought it was just another Elven healer or mage until he had seen his reflection in a mirror for the first time and realized, quite horrifically, that it was him. What got even worse was when he asked who it was, hoping, for a while, that he had a twin. He remembered pointing at him and asking. The healers and mages had looked at him with immediate concern and said there was no one there.
Fortunately, David managed not to shit his pants. He’d done a fantastic job of ignoring it. However, on the second day, it spoke to him.
The good news was that it wasn’t some horrific ghost come to haunt him for taking his body. No, it seemed to be the memories of his new body made manifest in a way that was, from everything David knew, not possible.
Calethor sat on the balcony opposite him. His face was the same as the one David now wore, but not.
“Finally done ignoring me for the day?” Calethor asked.
David kept his eyes on the city for a moment longer, as if the lights of the city might offer a way out of this conversation. Then he sighed and looked over, mulled wine warming his hand.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” David said. “I was… trying to process everything.”
Calethor hummed softly, as if that explanation was both acceptable and faintly amusing. “It seems you process a lot.”
“Well there is almost too much to think about.” He defended.
Calethor’s mouth twitched. “I would agree," he spoke, voice smooth.
David’s grip tightened on the glass. The spice in the wine suddenly felt sharper.
“Look,” David said quietly, “I’m sorry. Truly.”
Calethor’s gaze stayed on him, steady and strangely patient. “Sorry for what, exactly?”
“For this situation,” David admitted. “For being here and… being you.” The words felt wrong. “For whatever happened to you.”
Calethor leaned back slightly, resting an arm along the balcony rail like he’d probably done a thousand times. The city lights caught the edges of his hair. “Did you plot my death?” he said. “Did you choose to inhabit my body?”
David let out a humorless breath. “Well no. But I still feel guilty.”
A flicker crossed Calethor’s face at that. “You assume I am dead.”
David stared at him. “Aren’t you?”
Calethor’s eyes shifted to the streets below, to the lantern glow and the moving silhouettes, the quiet life continuing as if the sun had not set. “I have come to understand something,” he said, and the honesty in it was worse than any anger would have been. “While you have taken over my body, I still have occupancy in my… or I guess your mind now. I have gained your memories.”
David swallowed. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
“It is not meant to,” Calethor replied, still polite, still controlled. “But it is true.”
David took a sip of wine just to do something with his hands. “So what has happened to you?”
Calethor glanced at him again, studying him. “I don’t think I did die,” he said slowly. “If I have gained your memories then I would hazard a guess that you could have mine.”
David frowned. “But I don’t.”
“But you do,” Calethor said, dry as dust. “Just as you have been ignoring me I believe you have been ignoring my memories. Our memories.”
Calethor continued, voice softer, “I remember Chrace. I remember Tor Saroir. I remember the Phoenix Gate, the road home, the smell of rain on armor and the way Maerthas counts like it is a law of nature. I remember my sister’s laughter. I remember my mother’s hands in my hair when I was small. I remember giant metal cities, skyscrapers, planes and all. Mine and yours.”
David’s chest tightened.
“And you remember none of it,” Calethor added. Not accusing. “That is the tragedy.”
David looked down into his wine, watching the surface tremble slightly with his breathing. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know,” Calethor said. “You make that clear, often.”
David glanced up, caught between irritation and exhaustion. “Then why are you here?”
Calethor’s eyes narrowed a fraction, thoughtful. “You need to accept me. Like it or not, you are now Calethor. We are the same person but only I have done any accepting. You think of me as another person entirely when that is no longer true. I do not see you as an invader or body snatcher. Since I have gained your memories I only see myself.”
David’s stomach turned.
Calethor lifted a hand, palm out. “You will need to do the same if we are to survive The End Times.”
David let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “How do I go about that?”
Calethor’s gaze drifted back to the city. A great eagle crossed the sky, broad wings cutting clean through the air. “You already know the answer to that,” he said quietly.
David’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s not fair.”
Calethor looked back at him. “We both know that life isn't, David.” Calethor’s expression softened, just a little, and for the first time he looked less like a perfect noble.
The wind rolled in off the mountains, cool against David’s damp hair. Somewhere far below, voices drifted up—faint and indistinct.
David stared out at the city for a long moment, jaw tight. The mulled wine had gone lukewarm in his hand, spice clinging to his tongue.
“So what,” David said finally, quieter now, “I just… stop thinking of you as you?”
Calethor’s gaze didn’t leave him. “You stop thinking of me as something separate," he corrected gently. “You stop treating this life like it belongs to someone else.”
David swallowed.
“I don’t know if I can,” David admitted.
“You must,” Calethor said.
David let out a slow breath through his nose.
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was the most companionable silence David had since he had been with his actual family back on Earth.
After a time, Calethor shifted forward in his chair. The movement was unhurried, almost careful, like he didn’t want to startle David. Then he extended his hand across the space between them.
David stared at it, uncertain for a heartbeat. The instinct to pull away was there—because it was absurd, because it was intimate, because it made the whole thing real. Then David set the glass down and reached out.
Forearm met forearm.
The grip was solid. Warm. Familiar in a way that David could not describe.
Calethor’s smile was small, but kind.
For a moment the balcony disappeared. Like David had blinked and the world had shifted.
Snow in Chrace, bright and clean, falling over black pines and white stone.
Maerthas’s voice, counting laps with infuriating patience while David—Calethor—laughed and cursed and ran anyway.
A courtyard with red banners snapping in the mountain wind.
The weight of a practice blade far too big for a child’s hands, wrists aching, because every Chracian noble must fight.
A sister’s laughter, clear as bells, and the way she shoved his shoulder when he pretended to be offended at her teasing.
Sneaking out onto a terrace as a boy to watch the eagles circle above the peaks, convinced one day he’d ride one, then being dragged back inside by a servant.
A mother’s hands in his hair when he was small, fingers gentle, voice low, telling him he would be fine, telling him he was hers, telling him to sleep.
A father standing in silence beside a balcony like this one, looking out over Tor Achare.
The pride of finally landing a clean strike on a padded post, then the immediate embarrassment when his sister clapped like he’d slain a dragon.
Music, fire dancers, the smell of spiced wine, the press of nobles and the undercurrent of eyes always watching, always weighing.
The memories did not crash into him.
They settled into place.
Like a book returned to its place on the shelf.
Calethor blinked once. Then again. His chest rose and fell, steady. The balcony was still there. The city lights still burned below. The mountain air still cooled the sweat on his skin.
But something inside him had irrevocably shifted.
He had always been Calethor, just as he had always been David. Two lives he had lived, both real, both his—and now he remembered them fully. It was bizarre. Two lifetimes in his head: one lived to completion, and another he was only just beginning. He finally understood.
He had always been Calethor.
His vision of himself was gone, having done what it had needed to do.
Calethor now knew what he needed to do.
He stood so fast the chair scraped, then sprinted out of his doors, heart hammering, no longer lost in the paths and hallways he had grown up in. The villa unfolded around him with familiar certainty. As he ran, he caught brief flashes of servants attending to quiet tasks, their heads snapping up in startled confusion as the prince tore past.
Two guards posted outside his quarters surged after him.
One shouted, boots pounding hard against the stone.
Calethor didn’t slow. He didn’t even look back. Important things to go and say.
His parents.
He remembered them now—properly, fully—and the ache that came with it was sharp enough to make his throat tighten as he ran. He took the last corridor too fast, nearly skidding at the corner, then forced himself to slow as he reached the doors he’d been aiming for.
He stopped.
For the first time since bolting from the balcony, fear crept in. Not fear of what waited beyond Ulthuan and in the future, but something smaller and worse. Fear that he would open his mouth and his parents would not recognize who was speaking. He hoped even with the knowledge he had gained they would still see him for who he was.
Calethor lifted a hand and knocked lightly, almost timidly.
A moment passed.
Then the door crept open.
His mother’s face appeared in the gap, hair loose, sleep still heavy in her eyes. Candlelight painted soft shadows along her cheekbones. For a heartbeat she simply stared, as if her mind couldn’t process what she was seeing.
“Calethor?” she questioned, voice confused.
“Lady Aelira,” one of the guards behind him began, having caught up, but Calethor cut him off with a look.
His mother blinked, and the sleep in her gaze cracked, replaced by something raw and desperate. “Calethor…?”
He swallowed. His chest rose and fell once, hard. Then he stepped closer, just enough that she could see him clearly.
“Mother,” he said, his voice steady and certain. “It is me… It is me.” He looked her in the eyes as if he could show her he was back by sheer emphasis.
Her breath caught.
The door opened wider, slowly. She stared at him as if he might vanish if she blinked.
He crossed the threshold in two steps, carefully.
His mother’s mouth trembled. “You… you—”
“I’m here,” he said quickly, the words spilling out. “I’m sorry. I—” His throat tightened. “I’m back.”
For a second she simply stood there, frozen.
Then she moved.
She reached for him with both hands, fingers pressing into his shoulders as if to confirm he was solid. Her eyes searched his face with frantic precision, like she was looking for something only a mother could recognize.
And when she found it—whatever small, invisible thing it was—her composure shattered.
She pulled him in, hard, arms wrapping around him with a strength that surprised him, like she had been holding herself together by sheer force for a week and could finally let go.
“Oh, my son,” she whispered, voice breaking.
Behind him, the guards slowed in the corridor, their voices dying out as they realized what they were seeing. Somewhere deeper in the chamber, movement, the faint sound of fabric, as if someone had risen from sleep.
His father appeared in the doorway to the inner room.
Tall, broad-shouldered, hair pale and unbound from sleep, he looked every inch the soldier even without armor. The weight of command sat on him naturally even after just waking up from bed. For a heartbeat he simply stared, and Calethor saw it plainly: the sharp assessment, the need to confirm, to be certain.
Then Calethor’s father’s gaze met his.
Something in the man’s face shifted. The rigid line of his jaw eased, as if he’d been carrying a burden he could set down finally.
He let out a sigh that sounded like relief.
“Calethor,” his father said.
Calethor pulled back just enough from his mother’s embrace to look at him properly.
“Father,” Calethor said. The word came easier than he expected. It felt right.
His father took a measured step forward, then another. When he reached Calethor, he didn’t grab him the way his mother had. He placed a hand on Calethor’s shoulder—firm but comforting.
His father’s eyes searched his face with a soldier’s precision, but there was no coldness in it. Only a fierce, contained emotion fighting to stay controlled.
“You remember,” his father said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement he was almost afraid to believe.
Calethor nodded once, hard. “I do.”
His father’s throat worked, and Calethor saw the moment the man nearly lost his composure.
Another quiet sigh left him, softer this time.
“Thank the gods,” his father murmured, and the words sounded almost like a confession.
Calethor swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he said again, because it felt like the only thing that fit in his mouth. “I didn’t— I couldn’t—”
“I know,” his father cut in. “You do not need to explain yourself right now.” He tightened his grip on Calethor’s shoulder, just a fraction. “You are back.”
Calethor’s mother made a small sound, half laugh and half sob, pressing her hand to Calethor’s cheek as if she was afraid he would forget everything again.
His father looked between them, then back to Calethor.
“Sit,” his father ordered. “Both of you. Before your mother faints and I am forced to carry her.”
Calethor’s mother gave a watery, offended sound at that, and Calethor felt himself smiling.
After his heart-to-heart with his parents, the following day Calethor went about telling everyone he needed to speak to—Maerthas, Isilya, and his sister, Ariandrel, whose birthday he had missed due to his circumstances.
He found her where he expected to: in a quieter part of the villa where the light came in soft and warm. Although she was an outgoing child she loved exploring quiet places where she could be left to her own devices.
When she saw him, she froze.
For a heartbeat, her face held a careful expression.
“Calethor?” she said, voice small.
He swallowed.
“Ari,” he said softly. “I’m back.”
She took a step forward, then stopped. “They said you were… they said you didn’t—” Her words faltered. “That you didn’t even know my name.”
Calethor’s throat tightened. “I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
Ariandrel’s mouth trembled. Then, like anger had been waiting underneath the fear the whole time.
“You missed my birthday,” she said, and there was accusation in it—sharp, and childish. “You’ve never missed my birthday.”
Calethor actually managed a faint smile at that, because of course that's what she would focus on.
“You know I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I was… not myself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s what they keep saying. They wouldn't even let me see you.”
Calethor nodded once. “They weren’t wrong to do so. You would not have enjoyed seeing me like that” He stepped closer, slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. “But I’m here now. I am completely healthy now.”
Ariandrel stared at him, searching his face like their mother had.
“Prove it,” she demanded, voice tight.
Calethor exhaled. “Last year,” he said. “The fire dancers. You complained it was too loud, but you watched anyway, and you pretended you didn’t like it until the third dance.”
Ariandrel blinked hard.
“And when you were nine,” he continued, “you stole one of Father’s gloves because you thought it would make you look like a warrior.” His smile grew a fraction. “Maerthas caught you and made you run laps for it. You cried the entire time and swore you hated him. Then you gave him a ribbon the next day and told him you forgave him.”
Her lips parted.
“You—” Ariandrel’s voice broke. She stepped forward suddenly and shoved him in the chest—hard enough to make him shift back a half step.
“Idiot,” she hissed, and her eyes were bright with tears.
“Yes,” Calethor agreed. “But I am here now.”
She hit him again, lighter this time, more a gesture than a strike. Then she surged in and wrapped her arms around him, face pressed against his chest.
Calethor held her firmly.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “For your birthday. For all of it.”
Ariandrel sniffed. “You owe me,” she muttered into his robes.
Calethor let out a soft breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I know.”
She pulled back just enough to glare up at him, tears still clinging to her lashes. “And you’re getting two gifts. One for the birthday you missed, and one because you made Mother cry.”
“That’s extortion,” Calethor said, deadpan.
Ariandrel just stared at him.
“Fine,” he said. “Two gifts.”
Ariandrel’s expression softened, just barely. “Good.”
They stood like that for a moment longer.
What Calethor needed now was to catch up— to properly digest the life he’d lived here with his old one. In the first week after the attack, he had been confused, somehow unable to fully understand or come to grips with his memories. He was complete but now had to find the balance of who he was in between those two.
David didn’t disappear. Neither did Calethor.
He had become the sum of the two.
Of course he wasn’t the same. Who wouldn’t change after gaining an entire lifetime of experiences? But he was better off for it. He knew his world now, and what was coming for his people—and for all the races that dwelt on Mallus.
There was so much to do.
But fortunately, his time had not yet dried up. And there would be time to gain the allies he needed… and to curb a few bad eggs before they became a problem for everyone.
