Darkness. Not sleep. Not exactly. Something deeper than that—weightless and absolute, with no dreams to mark the passing of time and no sense of myself beyond the distant certainty that I am still, somehow, here.
Then pain finds me. It arrives slowly at first, a dull pressure behind my eyes and an ache buried so deeply through my body that I cannot immediately decide where it begins. My chest tightens when I breathe. Something along my ribs protests. My head feels as though someone split it open, rearranged everything inside, then put it back together incorrectly. Gradually, other sensations follow: warmth, a blanket, a mattress beneath me, the faint crackle of a fire somewhere nearby. None of it means anything.
My eyes remain closed while I reach instinctively for an explanation. There should be one. Where was I? Nothing. What happened? Nothing. Who— The thought stops. For several long seconds, there is only the sound of my own breathing. Then, from somewhere beneath the emptiness, a single word rises intact.
Drake.
My name. I know that with the same certainty that I know how to breathe. Drake. Everything after it is gone. Drake what? Nothing. Where do I live? Nothing. Family? Friends? Enemies? Occupation? Home? Nothing.
I open my eyes. Wooden rafters sit above me, darkened with age. The ceiling is low. Modest. A small bedroom, judging by the narrow bed beneath me and the simple furniture arranged around it. Pale firelight reaches in from beyond the doorway, catching against a washbasin, folded cloth, and a chair dragged close enough to the bedside that someone has clearly been sitting there. I don't recognize any of it.
My body reacts before my mind does. Every muscle tightens. I try to push myself upright and immediately regret it; pain tears through my side hard enough to force a sharp breath between my teeth, and I drop back against the pillow before I've managed more than a few inches.
"Fuck."
The word comes naturally. At least I apparently remember how to swear.
I stare at the ceiling again, jaw clenched, waiting for the room to stop shifting around me. Think. Drake. That is something. I know what a cottage is. I know what firelight is. I know the blanket over me is wool, cheaply made but warm. I know from the smell lingering in the room that some sort of medicinal herb has been steeped recently. I know the bandaging beneath my clothes has been wrapped by someone competent enough not to make the injuries worse. Knowledge remains. Memory does not. The distinction is immediately obvious, and somehow that makes it worse.
I know things. Far too many things, perhaps. But I cannot tell myself where any of them came from. My gaze moves toward my hands: long fingers, pale skin that leads into blackened hands, faint marks I don't recognize. They look like my hands, despite the oddness of them. That is an absurd thought, but it is the only one available. I turn one over slowly and find nothing. No memory of holding a pen. A weapon. Another hand. Nothing. The emptiness where a life should be is so complete that, for the first time since waking, something colder than confusion settles beneath my ribs.
I do not panic. I notice that too. Interesting. Perhaps concerning. There should be fear. Instead, my thoughts have already begun sorting the room into useful information: one door, one small window, no visible restraints, clothing nearby, no obvious guards, no voices immediately outside. Whoever brought me here treated my injuries rather than binding me. Why am I doing that? I don't know. Another answer missing.
My jaw tightens. "Drake," I murmur aloud, testing the sound. It fits. Only Drake. I search again for anything attached to it, but nothing answers.
Then I hear footsteps.
My attention snaps toward the doorway. Not loud. Not hurried. Someone moving through the cottage beyond the bedroom, close enough now that I can distinguish the soft shift of floorboards beneath their weight. My body goes still. There is an instinctive urge to reach for something, and the realization comes so quickly that it nearly escapes notice.
Magic.
I know what magic is. I know I possess it. I have absolutely no idea how I know either of those things.
Something vast seems to stir beneath the surface when I reach inward—deep, tangled, unfamiliar despite belonging unmistakably to me. The sensation is enough to make my head throb violently, and I stop before instinct becomes experimentation. Not yet.
The footsteps approach. I look toward the nearest object that might serve as a weapon, then toward the door again. No. Whoever is coming had ample opportunity to harm me while I was unconscious. Instead, I woke beneath a blanket. That does not make them trustworthy. It does make immediate hostility inefficient.
The door opens, and you step into the room.
My eyes settle on you immediately. I know nothing about your face, nothing about your voice, nothing about why you are here. But the instant you see that I am awake, something changes in your expression. Recognition. Relief, perhaps. So you know me. Or at least you know something.
I study you in silence for a moment too long, taking in your posture, your hands, the distance between you and the bed, every small detail my mind insists might matter. Then I speak.
"Before you come any closer."
My voice is rough from disuse, but steadier than I expect. I pause, glance once around the unfamiliar bedroom, then return my eyes to yours.
"Where am I?"
A beat.
"And perhaps more importantly... who are you?"
---
[ DAY 1 | FRIDAY | NIGHT | SMALL COTTAGE (BEDROOM) ]
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