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Eryx

Eryx cursed himself.

Why wasn’t he faster? The spell left his hand, his spear followed—movements drilled into him a hundred times—but it still wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.

The ground beneath him was already red. His body screamed, and the pain didn’t fade. There was no swift, clean end for him. Every heartbeat was agony. Worse than the pain was watching the man he’d tried to save die anyway. 

He didn't care about the patriarch, unlike moments before. He could only feel regret. As the shards of gold and black Aura pierced him, he still felt regret. Regret that he hadn't tried harder. Kept his promises.

Regret that he let himself be invisible.

This room...

This bed.

Eryx blinked slowly, lying still as the ceiling above gradually came into focus. Morning light slanted in from the tall windows to his right, fractured into golden rays by gauzy curtains. There was no shouting. No screech of demons. No smoke. No blood.

He reached up with a trembling hand, brushing his palm over the center of his chest.

No pain.

The sheets were soft. The scent of lavender hung faint in the air, mingled with aged cedar from the furniture. His legs weren’t shaking. There was no weight of armor, grime, or exhaustion clinging to his body.

“What the hell...?” he breathed, his voice hoarse. Not from screaming. Just morning rasp.

He sat up slowly, pushing the sheets aside and planting his feet on the polished floor. His hands flexed, turning over before his eyes. The calluses he’d once worn like armor—thick, cracked, ugly—were gone. A young man’s hands again.

He stood, unsteady, and made his way to the mirror by his bed. What stared back at him wasn’t a soldier.

It was a boy.

Around sixteen, maybe seventeen. Messy blonde hair. Clearer skin than he remembered. And eyes, still his own, wide with a complicated mix of awe, confusion, and unease.

I look... younger.

He stared for a long while. Then, filled with an energy to figure out what had happened, he turned towards his wardrobe. He grabbed the first outfit he could find, not caring how it looked. It fit, at least.

He was halfway to the door when it opened suddenly with a soft creak. A small maid with long, dark hair entered with a polite knock that came a second too late.

“Master, you must wake u—oh!” She nearly dropped the towel in her hands, blinking at the sight of him fully dressed. “Y-You’re awake!” she stammered, blinking in obvious surprise. Then, with professional speed, she composed herself.

“But—what are you wearing, Master Eryx?” Her brows furrowed with real dismay. “You can’t wear that to Collegem orientation! It’s completely wrinkled!"

Orientation?

That was enough to tell him where he was. Before the war. Before the frontlines. Before the death of his friends. Before he learned what guilt could do to a man.

He turned back to the mirror. His reflection looked unburdened. But only on the surface.

Underneath the skin—beneath the boyish face and softer frame—he could feel it. The weight of his promises. Still with him. Still real. He looks down at his outfit and chuckles to himself.

“...Yeah,” he muttered, almost to himself, almost to her. “I guess I can’t.”
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Funeral for the Living

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