Chapter 1 — Crimson Eyes

Chapter 1: Chapter 1 — Crimson Eyes

Chapter 1 — Crimson Eyes

Christopher woke with blood in his mouth.

He coughed and rolled onto his side, and more blood spilled across the stone floor. His chest burned, and his arms shook when he tried to push himself up. For several seconds, he could only breathe.

The room was large and cold, wooden practice swords hanging from one wall while spears and real blades rested on racks near the door. Straw targets stood at the far end, beneath narrow windows. He had never seen this place.

Christopher stared at his hands, pale and lean and younger than the ones he remembered. Cuts covered both palms, but one of them closed while he watched, the torn skin pulling together until only a red line remained.

His clothes were wrong too: a dark training tunic, trousers, and high leather boots, the front soaked through with blood. He pressed a hand against his ribs. His heart beat too quickly, but he found no open wound.

"Where am I?"

Even his voice sounded wrong.

He tried to stand, but the room tilted and he dropped to one knee as a sharp pain passed through his head.

Then the memories came.

He saw a boy training in this room, swinging a wooden sword until his hands bled, resetting his stance and swinging again — wanting, more than anything, his father’s praise. Christopher understood the memory, but he did not feel what the boy felt; it was like watching a scene through a screen.

Another memory followed: the boy sitting beside a woman in a garden, a woman with pale skin, dark hair, and tired eyes.

Cecily Drake.

His mother.

Not his mother.

Christopher pressed both hands against his head.

His real mother called him whenever he forgot to message her; his father complained about the cost of university while still sending him extra money; his siblings fought over the television and stole food from his plate. Those memories were his, and they carried warmth, embarrassment, anger, and love.

The memories of Cecily Drake carried only facts.

She had died in an accident several years ago, though Christopher Drake had never believed the story. His grandmother, Lady Matilda, had died later from illness, and his father, Edmund Drake, had gone north to fight the Orcs.

Another scene forced itself into his mind.

A messenger stood inside a stone study, mud covering his boots and one arm resting in a sling, while Viscount Osbert Drake stood behind a desk and his sons Hugh and Ranulf waited nearby.

Edmund Drake was dead.

The boy who had owned this body heard the words without moving, his face staying still until he reached his room. Then he broke a chair against the wall.

Christopher watched the grief from a distance.

The boy stopped eating and refused to speak to the servants, and that night he entered the training room alone.

He wanted strength.

Black Iron.

The meaning came with the memory: Knight Apprentices trained until their bodies reached the natural limit of an ordinary person, and breaking that limit required a Knight Seed, along with enough Essence to survive the change.

Christopher Drake had not been ready.

He tried anyway.

Christopher saw him sitting in the center of the floor, sweat covering his skin as Essence forced its way through unprepared channels. Something deeper answered at the same time, and heat spread through his blood until his eyes burned.

The boy understood that he was dying, and still he tried to finish the breakthrough.

The memory ended.

Christopher took in the blood pooled around him.

"So you died here."

The words sounded too loud in the empty room.

The failed breakthrough and the awakening in his blood had struck together, and the body had survived neither.

Now another person occupied his body.

Christopher searched his own memories for an explanation. He remembered university lectures, cheap food near campus, a message from home about the coming break, and books left open on his desk because he had planned to use them the next morning.

He did not remember an accident. He did not remember dying.

One life simply ended, and another began in a pool of blood.

He leaned against the wall as the heat beneath his skin began to weaken. His chest still ached, but each breath came more easily than the last.

The body was healing too quickly.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fresh blood came away, but when he ran his tongue over his teeth, none were loose. He checked his nose, his ears, the bruised skin beneath his tunic. Everything hurt, yet nothing explained the amount of blood on the floor.

The stone held the rough shape of where the other Christopher had fallen, one handprint marking the floor near his knee, a darker streak leading toward the weapon rack where the dying boy must have tried to stand, and failed.

Christopher looked away.

He wanted to believe this was only a dream brought on by exhaustion or fever, but dreams did not usually include the taste of iron, the cold of stone through his trousers, or memories belonging to a dead stranger. His university lectures had given him no useful way to examine a second life.

The only certainty was the sound of people waking beyond the room: doors opening somewhere down the passage, a bucket scraping against stone. The castle would not stay quiet long enough for him to understand what had happened.

A heavy knock struck the door.

"Young Master?"

Christopher froze.

The handle moved, but the door was locked.

"Young Master Christopher?"

Recognition came from the other life — the voice belonged to Oswin, one of the household servants.

"I am awake."

His throat felt raw.

"You have been inside since last night. Shall I call Sir Godfrey?"

"No. Give me a moment."

There was a pause outside.

"Are you hurt, Young Master?"

Blood still covered the floor around him.

"I trained too hard. I can walk."

"I should still call someone."

"Call Agnes. Bring clean clothes and water. Do not wake the entire castle."

The answer sounded more controlled, and it also gave Oswin something useful to do.

"Yes, Young Master."

Footsteps moved away.

Christopher pushed himself upright, and this time his legs held.

He needed to face people who had known this body for years. The memories gave him names, habits, and old conversations, but none of it told him how to become Christopher Drake.

Perhaps he did not need to act perfectly, since a failed breakthrough and his father’s death could explain confusion, silence, changed behavior.

The plan was weak, but it was the only one he had. For the next few minutes, it would have to be enough.

A tall mirror stood beside the weapon racks, the kind used to correct sword stances and footwork, and Christopher crossed the room slowly toward it.

For one foolish moment, he expected to see his old face.

A stranger looked back at him.

The body appeared seventeen, black hair clinging to a pale forehead, dried blood marking the chin and neck. The face was narrow and exhausted, but no wound was large enough to explain all that blood.

Then Christopher saw the eyes.

The irises were crimson, thin black slits running down their centers.

He stepped closer.

The heat beneath his skin moved behind his eyes, and the room changed.

Every scratch in the weapon racks became sharp, and faint light clung to the blades — weak traces, but each carrying a different color. A cracked practice sword held none; a real sword near the door gave off a pale white glow.

Pain pressed against his temples.

Christopher closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the strange sight was gone, the crimson fading slowly until his eyes looked brown.

He leaned close to the mirror and lifted one eyelid with his fingers; the last trace of crimson retreated around the iris. A servant entering now might see nothing except a frightened boy covered in his own blood.

Christopher stepped away from the mirror. If the crimson returned in front of anyone, frightened would turn to suspicious very quickly.

He tried to call the sight again without drawing on the heat in his blood, and nothing happened. When he reached for it more deliberately, pain warned him before the room could change, and Christopher stopped. Testing the ability repeatedly while barely able to stand seemed like an excellent way to join the body’s first owner.

A name rose from the bloodline memory.

Dragon Eyes.

He did not know what they could see or why House Drake had forgotten them. He knew only that using them hurt.

The door opened after another knock, and a young maid entered with a basin and folded clothes, Oswin behind her.

Agnes stopped when she saw the floor.

"Young Master."

Oswin swore under his breath.

Christopher took the clean cloth from the basin. "Close the door."

Neither servant moved.

"It looks worse than it is," he said.

Agnes stared at his soaked tunic. "There is blood across half the room."

"I know. I woke in it."

Her face lost what little color it had.

"Oswin, call Sir Godfrey."

Christopher wanted to stop him, but that would only make them more suspicious.

"Call him," Christopher said. "Do not bring the whole household."

Oswin left at once.

Agnes set the clothes down. "Where are you wounded?"

"The wounds closed."

"Wounds do not close before the blood dries."

"These did."

She approached with the cloth, and Christopher almost stepped back. Agnes had cared for this body after Cecily died, and refusing her now would look stranger than accepting.

Agnes cleaned his neck and opened the torn collar of his tunic. She found bruises, red marks, and unbroken skin.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I tried to reach Black Iron."

Her hand stopped.

Heavy steps sounded outside.

Sir Godfrey Hales entered without waiting for permission, broad through the chest and shoulders, gray just beginning in his brown hair. A plain sword hung at his side, its grip worn from use.

His gaze went from Christopher to the floor.

"Agnes, leave us."

She hesitated.

"He needs the physician."

"Send for him. Then leave us."

Agnes bowed and went.

Godfrey closed the door. "Tell me what happened."

"I forced a breakthrough."

"You attempted the breakthrough alone?"

"I locked the door and attempted it without help."

Anger tightened the knight’s face. "You knew you were not ready."

Christopher lowered his eyes. "I thought grief and determination would be enough."

"Grief kills more fools than swords."

Godfrey caught his wrist, and a controlled pressure entered Christopher’s arm. The Essence inside his body answered, gathering around a new center near his heart.

Godfrey’s expression changed.

"You formed the Seed."

"Then I reached Black Iron."

"You nearly died reaching it."

"I noticed."

Godfrey ignored the reply and checked Christopher’s pulse, his chest, his eyes, while Christopher kept his gaze lowered until the last moment.

"Look at me," Godfrey ordered.

Christopher obeyed; his eyes had returned to brown.

Godfrey studied them. "Did your sight change during the breakthrough?"

"Everything was blurred when I woke. The room became painfully sharp for a moment, but my sight is clear now."

That was close enough to the truth.

Godfrey released him. "Your channels are strained, but they are closing. Too quickly."

"Does healing too quickly create another danger?"

"I don’t know yet. You will see the physician. You won’t train today. You won’t gather Essence until I say your body can bear it."

Christopher considered the blood a moment longer. "What will we tell my grandfather?"

"The truth. You forced a breakthrough after hearing that Edmund died."

"He will think I am an idiot."

"You were an idiot."

The blunt answer eased some of Christopher’s fear — Godfrey’s anger was familiar and direct, and Christopher knew how to answer it.

"Get changed," Godfrey said. "The household is already awake. By noon, everyone will know you reached Black Iron."

He opened the door, then paused.

"Your father was strong. He did not become strong in one night."

Christopher had no answer.

Godfrey left.

Christopher looked once more at the mirror, and brown eyes stared back at him now.

Beneath them, the Dragon Eyes waited.