A metallic tang coated Cormac’s tongue when his eyes finally fluttered open. Daylight, weak and diffuse, seeped through a small, grimy window, painting streaks across rough plaster. Head throbbed with a dull ache, a persistent rhythm behind his temples. Still thought it a lingering nightmare, a particularly vivid one spun from the fevered remnants of his grand vizier’s life. Tried to shift, but every muscle protested, screaming with a dull, unfamiliar agony. This body, thin and unwieldy, wasn’t his own. An unfamiliar old man stood by the crude bed. His face, a roadmap of age, was pitted with pockmarks, yet his eyes gleamed with an unsettling, sharp intensity. Something in his gaze, a blend of disdain and weariness, scraped against Cormac’s nerves. “Wretch,” Master Valerius rasped, his voice brittle like old parchment. “You bring nothing but shame.” Words, harsh and undeserved, stung. What new folly had Kaelan Thorne’s mind conjured? No vizier, let alone one of his standing, would tolerate such address. He attempted to speak, a dry rasp escaping his lips, but Valerius cut him off. “Silence, boy. Your mother’s fury has yet to run its course, and you lie here, unrepentant.” Slowly, Cormac pushed himself up, every joint protesting. His gaze swept the humble room – a sparse space with a chipped wooden chest, a single chair, and a tarnished bronze mirror hanging precariously on the wall. He caught his reflection, a face he now knew intimately, yet alien. It was the young man’s face, bruised and swollen around one eye, a split lip marring a otherwise smooth, youthful visage. Dark hair, unruly and thick, framed sharp, if currently swollen, features. Recognized the eyes. Wide, dark, and still holding a spark of defiant youth, even with the marks of violence. And in those eyes, a faint, unsettling echo of the woman who had struck him. She truly was this boy’s mother. “Her…” he began, the word catching in his throat. “Her?” Valerius’s brow furrowed, deepening the lines on his face. “Watch your tongue, boy. That is your Lady Mother.” Cormac swallowed. A grand vizier did not make such blunders. Yet, this body, this situation… It was all wrong. This was a nightmare of exquisite detail, a torment for a mind that prided itself on logic and control. He reached out, fingers brushing the rough wool of the blanket. Coarse threads grated against his skin, a texture far too real for a dream. “Your antics yesterday were deplorable,” Valerius continued, a sigh escaping him. “A disgrace to the family name.” “Don’t remember,” Cormac managed, the words a hollow echo. He truly didn’t. This boy’s life was a blank slate, save for the pain now searing through his muscles. Valerius offered no comfort, only a withering glance. “Of course, you wouldn’t. Never did, never will. You shirk responsibility as easily as you shed old skin.” A sharp pang of indignation pierced through Cormac. Not for himself, not for this young wastrel’s deeds, but for the principle. As Kaelan Thorne, architect of empires, orchestrator of subtle manipulations, he had lived by an iron creed. Consequences were clear, vengeance certain, and responsibility paramount. Never had he blamed circumstance, never had he shirked his duties, even when the burden of the Dominion's fate rested solely on his shoulders. A warrior might fall, a strategist might err, but a man always owned his actions. Fingers clenched into weak fists, a tremor running through his arm. Valerius noticed the tightening in Cormac’s jaw. His pockmarked face twisted into a sneer, as if he’d just stepped in something foul. The old man turned abruptly, his back rigid. “You, boy,” Valerius spat, his voice laced with venom, “are a blight upon the Blackwood lineage.” A heavy slam of the door echoed through the room, leaving Cormac alone in the oppressive silence. What grand folly had this boy wrought to earn such universal contempt? His own past life, for all its ruthless cunning, had at least commanded fear, if not respect. This was merely… disdain. Overwhelming fatigue washed over him, pulling at his very core. A desperate hope flickered: if he slept again, truly slept, he would awaken in his own bed, in his own aging, powerful body. Back in the Vizier’s tower, the first snow melting on the windowsill, Galen’s report on his desk. Yes, that was it. A long, restorative sleep. --- Woke again to a bruised, violet light filtering through the window. Dusk, not dawn. A long shadow stretched from the sill across the rough floorboards. The air felt cool, thin. His head still ached. His body still felt like a sack of damp kindling. The undeniable truth settled over him like a stone cloak. This was no dream. No elaborate hallucination induced by arcane tampering or soul-scrying rituals. Dreams faded. Hallucinations bent to the will, however subtly. This persistent reality, the aching body, the raw texture of the blanket beneath his fingers, the faint smell of stale straw from the mattress – it was all too stubbornly, unforgivingly real. Was this a Spirit Fragmentation? A soul torn from its vessel, drifting into another? Kaelan Thorne, master of esoteric lore, had never encountered such a phenomenon. Not in his seventy years, not in the forgotten texts he had painstakingly deciphered. This was beyond lore, beyond magic. He had been reborn. Reincarnated. Whatever the term, his consciousness, his memories, his entire being as Kaelan Thorne, were now trapped within the confines of this unfamiliar, pathetic body. And the memories… they were terrifyingly vivid. Not only his own, but this boy’s. Fragments of a spoiled life, impressions of faces, smells, sounds, all swirling around the bedrock of Kaelan Thorne's existence. Contradictory to the fog that had stolen his mind moments before his collapse, now everything was sharp, crystalline. Events long forgotten, minor details from decades past, surged forth with unnerving clarity. The precise shade of green on the Chancellor’s robes during his first council meeting. The specific tremor in the old Emperor’s hand when he signed the Edict of Iron. Even the texture of the snow that had fallen on his final day, crisp and cold on his skin. How could such a memory lapse have occurred then, only to be so perfectly restored now? It was utterly impossible. A mind like his did not simply forget critical information, especially not concerning the very future of the Dominion. The thought solidified into an icy dread. He hadn’t simply died of natural causes. No. Something, some arcane manipulation, some potent poison, had seized his mind. Someone had assassinated the Grand Vizier. If this was true, then what was this new existence? A cruel twist of fate? Or some divine, or perhaps infernal, compensation? A second chance. A chance for what? Revenge? Moved to the window, the young body protesting every step. Sat on the narrow sill, gaze fixed on the dying light beyond the keep walls. Unfamiliar faces. A body devoid of power. An existence stripped of every vestige of his former might. It felt… like a joke. A cruel cosmic jest. Still, his mind, the mind of Kaelan Thorne, began to sift through the shock. The grand vizier in him, the strategist, was already at work, even as the new reality threatened to consume him. This new life, this Cormac Finn, was a clean slate. A disadvantage, yes. But also an opportunity. A chance to rebuild, perhaps even to understand the forces that had brought down a man like Kaelan Thorne. A creak of the door. Someone entered. A young man, barely older than this body, with a mild, open face and a perpetually worried expression. He looked to be in his early twenties, clad in simple, functional garb. Most servants scurried past this room, avoiding eye contact. This one, however, walked straight in. “Ah, you’re awake!” Bran exclaimed, his voice hearty, if a little strained. He sat down beside Cormac on the sill. “Didn’t I tell you, Master Cormac? You never win against a woman, no matter what. Even with your five years under Master Borin! Please, next time, listen to me. My heart nearly burst carrying you back, worried you’d cracked your skull open.” “Who are you?” Cormac’s voice, raspy and thin, betrayed little emotion. Bran’s face fell slightly, then quickly recovered. “Still at it with the memory loss, eh? Good show, honestly. No one will believe it, but you played it well enough to avoid another thrashing from the Lady Mother. You’re clever sometimes, Master Cormac, but sometimes… No, never mind. You’re just too pure-hearted, that’s all.” “Again,” Cormac pressed, leaning into the pain in his ribs, “who are you?” “And Master Cormac, seriously, you must start your training properly this time. It’s not right, getting beaten by women, no matter how skilled they are!” “One last time, your name.” Cormac’s voice dropped, a subtle, underlying threat that likely went over Bran’s head. “It’s Bran! Just Bran! This isn’t funny anymore, Master Cormac! Stop with this charade!” Bran’s tone turned pleading. “Bran?” Cormac repeated, tasting the name. It felt… ordinary. Unimportant. A placeholder. “Yes, Bran. As in the raven. You know.” Bran looked increasingly confused, his eyes darting to Cormac’s bruised face. “Don’t remember,” Cormac stated plainly. “Truly. My memory is… gone.” Bran stared, eyes narrowed, searching Cormac’s face for a flicker of deception. He saw none. A sigh escaped him, laden with disbelief. “Really?” Cormac nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. Bran pondered this, then, a glint entering his eye, asked, “Then… do you remember that silver mark I lent you? Two of them, actually.” Being Kaelan Thorne, who detested debt in any form, Cormac immediately felt for a purse. Found a small leather pouch. Fingers delved inside, pulling out two tarnished silver marks. He held them out. Bran’s eyes widened, fixated on the coins. “By the gods above! You truly don’t remember, do you?” “Why?” Cormac asked, genuinely curious. “Because you’ve never paid back a single coin you’ve borrowed, Master Cormac! Never! What in the blazes happened? Did you take a direct hit to the head?” “Seems likely,” Cormac conceded, a wry twist to his lips. “What did Master Valerius say?” Bran asked, leaning closer. “Valerius? That old man from earlier?” Bran gasped, drawing back. “You fear Master Valerius more than anyone, Master Cormac! Even when you were at your most reckless! You really don’t remember!” “Answer my questions, Bran. Perhaps hearing will stir something.” Cormac’s voice took on a sharper edge. “Who was that old man?” “He’s the estate’s physician and its steward. And your father’s sworn brother,” Bran explained, still reeling from the memory loss revelation. “My father?” Bran’s face contorted in a mixture of fear and bewilderment. “What’s wrong with you today? You’re scaring me, Master Cormac.” “He looked far too old to be a sworn brother to my father, whoever he is.” Cormac observed, the tactical part of his mind already calculating lineage, age discrepancies, potential power dynamics. “Didn’t you always say age means nothing to true martial aspirants?” Bran countered weakly. “Who says such nonsense?” “‘All men under the banner are brothers,’ you often quoted.” Nonsense, Kaelan Thorne knew. A comforting platitude for the naive. True power structures were built on rigid hierarchies, on bloodlines and oaths, on strength and influence. There was no group more stratified, more prone to subtle, nuanced discrimination than the noble houses and their vassal families within the Fractured Dominion. Age, lineage, wealth, even the color of one’s family crest – all mattered. “What did Valerius say about my… condition?” Cormac pressed. “Didn’t believe it,” Bran shrugged. “Said you were just being dramatic.” “Of course.” Cormac sighed. “The old man’s reaction was rather… indifferent. What exactly did I do to warrant such contempt?” Bran ran a hand through his hair. “Where to begin?” It seemed this Cormac Finn had amassed a considerable ledger of transgressions. A grim inventory, no doubt. “Start with the most recent. Why am I injured?” Bran let out a long, theatrical sigh. “You went to see Lady Seraphina Blackwood, proposing some new folly. She rejected you. You got drunk, made a scene outside her manor. Then she came out, and as you were slinging insults, she beat you like a cur. A truly humiliating display, Master Cormac.” “Lady Seraphina Blackwood?” Cormac repeated, the name unfamiliar. Bran’s jaw dropped. “You’re asking who Lady Seraphina is?” “Yes, who is she?” “She’s Lady Seraphina Blackwood! Heiress of the Blackwood Marches! The most beautiful, intelligent, and fiercely skilled lady in all the Blackwood lands. She’s perfect, save for one fatal flaw.” “Which is?” “You’re her betrothed. Betrothed before birth, they say.” Cormac processed this. Prenatal betrothals were rare, usually reserved for merging powerful houses or settling ancient debts. For a girl of such apparent accomplishment to be tied to this… this Cormac Finn… “She has the worst luck in husbands,” Cormac muttered, almost to himself. He remembered his own ruthless courtships, the women he’d taken and discarded for strategic gain. This sounded like a different kind of entanglement entirely. “Do I… often strike you, Bran?” Cormac asked, a sudden, cold curiosity in his voice. The thought of this body’s past actions, its temper, was an unsettling shadow. Bran flinched, then laughed awkwardly. “Ah, no, Master Cormac! Never! Why would you ask such a thing?” “Listening to you speak, my hands itch strangely.” A new, raw sensation. The young man’s body held a primitive aggression, a quickness to anger that Kaelan Thorne had long ago mastered and channeled. “Oh, haha. Our bond, Master Cormac, is stronger than any prenatal betrothal!” Bran insisted, though his eyes darted away. “Doesn’t feel like it,” Cormac murmured. Still, a measure of familiarity, however strained, existed between them. A thread to pull. “But why did she hit me? If we were betrothed, would we not have been close since childhood?” “You were! You two used to play like siblings. But five years ago, Lady Seraphina left for the Whispering Peaks to train. She only returned a few days ago.” “Her affections shifted, then,” Cormac concluded. “And you changed a great deal during that time too, Master Cormac,” Bran said, a sigh escaping him, laced with profound regret. “What of the troubles before that?” Cormac asked, determined to catalogue this young man’s sins. “Oh, there was the time you lost a vast sum to a rigged card game in Silver Creek, then spent even more on courtesans at the Golden Lantern, got into countless drunken brawls in the market, ran away from home saying you wouldn’t train in ‘dusty old forms,’ then tried to gain fame as a ‘shadow blade’ and ended up nearly gutting the Lord Regent’s prize hound…” Bran trailed off, looking overwhelmed. “That’s enough,” Cormac interrupted. He had heard all he needed. A clear picture, if deeply unflattering, emerged. “Yet my mother only struck me once on the back of the head?” Cormac mused. If Kaelan Thorne had a son who behaved thus, he would have done far worse. A swift, permanent solution. “In short, Bran,” Cormac continued, the words carefully chosen, “what kind of person am I?” Bran hesitated, chewing on his lip. “Can I be honest, Master Cormac?” “Now is precisely the time. Your chance for true candor.” Bran took a deep breath, then blurted, “You’re trash, Master Cormac. Utter trash.” A ghost of a memory, sharp and sudden, pierced Cormac’s mind. His last conversation, his last living memory before the snow and the collapse. His most trusted agent, Galen, stood before him. “What am I, Galen?” he’d asked, the fog already creeping into the corners of his mind. Galen’s unwavering reply: “You, Lord Kaelan, are the Dominion itself.” From the architect of an empire, the very embodiment of its will, to… human refuse. The fall was dizzying, a descent into utter ignominy. Bran, who had instinctively shuffled a few paces back after his blunt assessment, tilted his head, a puzzled expression on his face. Cormac’s calm, almost reflective silence, clearly disconcerted him. “It truly seems,” Bran mumbled, “you had a near-death experience.” Close. But not quite. He had died. And in some twisted, cruel irony, been reborn into a life of utter, undeniable disgrace. This was not a reprieve. It was a sentence. A new reign, indeed. One forged in ash and ember. ---

A New Skin, A Familiar Disgrace