Gerald was… somewhere.

  Crouched on his knees, palms pressed against the cold, uninviting floor.

  A place, a complete mess—a diluted thought.

  He studied; he had to keep studying.

  Papers strewn around him, all around his slim frame—they were research papers—somehow, he knew this without the smallest inkling of their contents.

  His eyelids grew heavy, and though he resisted his sleep-induced mind, a small part of him hoped he wouldn’t have to for much longer.

  But that debilitating migraine alone would be enough to keep sleep away for hours to come.

  Uncomfortable.

  So very uncomfortable.

  His knees jabbed into the rough floor, hurting, aching.

  His back slouched, neck arched to an unnatural position.

  But he kept studying.

  Studying.

  For what?

  He didn’t even know.

  But he couldn’t stop.

  He had to keep trying—trying harder than anyone else.

  He had no other choice.

  Why were all these papers scattered on the floor in such disarray? That was so unlike him. He knew to keep his room meticulously clean at all times.

  Somehow, the clutter bothered him more than his own discomfort.

  His body was rigid, frozen, hands clenched around a single sheet of paper and holding it far too close to his face. Even like this, Gerald couldn’t make the letters separate into anything readable.

  That was when he noticed his palms were bare and paler than they had ever been. A sickly white. They were so thin, so soft. Not the muscular build he knew should have been there.

  He felt so… weak…

  A cold palm landed gently on his face. He looked up, relief washing over him like a warm blanket on a rainy night.

  Lisbeth.

  Her wonderful brown eyes encasing him in their warmth, those full lips he wished nothing more than to bury in a passionate kiss, her bobbed hair—silky and straight, sliding in a slow, fluid motion even without a breath of wind.

  She came in her signature red Spirit Academy uniform, the one she had altered to fit her provocative style. The one that made him feel so bland when walking beside her.

  She caressed his cheek with her smooth and delicate hands—Gerald felt at home at last.

  Like a lover’s touch.

  Like a mother’s embrace.

  The asymmetry of his feelings set him off-kilter, but he tried hard to focus on her beauty and accept her love, regardless of shape.

  But instead of accepting her, his body stiffened, his eyes shifting sideways. Gerald hated this; he wished nothing more than to sink every inch of her presence into his memory, but his body wouldn’t follow his command.

  Examining his surroundings, the room looked familiar yet not at the same time. A common bed positioned against the white wall, simple furniture like that of the Indigo House, a dark room, the only light spilling in from the hallway. Everything was ordinary and familiar, but not at the same time.

  Where were they?

  “Baby, it’s okay,” she spoke, a low, alluring voice. “You shouldn’t stay up so late. You need to rest.”

  “I have to.”

  He felt his lips move, but that wasn’t his voice.

  He sounded younger. His voice—smooth and velvety.

  So uncertain.

  She shushed him; finally, his eyes landed back on hers. He felt better. Like this, he could melt into her presence.

  She embraced him, burying his face in the skin of her collarbone. He could smell the warm scent of honey from her neck, her short hair brushing his cheeks.

  But his hands wouldn’t move.

  He was stiff.

  So frustrating.

  If he could just… hug her back.

  “There, there… It’s alright, baby.”

  She caressed the back of his head. So comforting, so tender. He could fall asleep in her arms, but that would mean surrendering the fraction of lucidity he still had. That wasn’t what he wanted.

  Anything to be with her.

  His ears were graced with the sound of her humming a familiar lullaby. At that point, Gerald was in heaven—it had been so long since he had heard her singing voice. It was majestic, unlike anything he had ever heard.

  It brought him to tears.

  Finally, feeling crept back into his hands. Moving them was painful, stiff and metallic, but he forced them forward anyway, trying to reach her despite the discomfort.

  Before he could get to her, though, her hands retracted and wrapped around his waist, his hands landing on top of her forearms. With a swift motion, she helped him stand.

  Now, vertical but relying on her hold to keep steady, his eyes landed squarely on her voluptuous chest. The warmth in his face was immediate as he tried to correct his mistake.

  That was when he realized—Gerald was shorter than Lisbeth.

  But that… didn’t make any sense. Even if she wore heels, he always had a few centimeters on her.

  Somehow, despite all the other oddities in this space, it was this realization that confirmed to him this was indeed a dream.

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  But even knowing that, something was very wrong.

  It might have been the uneasiness creeping in or a sudden burst of courage, but Gerald finally managed to lift his hands to examine his own face. He traced his fingers over the rounded shape, soft cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp nose.

  He wasn’t Gerald Aldrick right now.

  He was someone else.

  Someone shorter, but not a child… Someone… Looking at all the papers—homework? Most likely younger…

  The interior reminding him of the Indigo House…

  A teenage student?

  “Don’t touch your face—you’ll get acne.”

  The teen’s body retracted his hands, following the order on instinct.

  But the voice wasn’t Lisbeth’s this time.

  He looked up.

  Ms. Taylor stood before him in Lisbeth’s stead, her commanding presence accentuated by her ocean blue kimono.

  Gerald didn’t have time to adjust to the change, as the teen’s body relaxed in her presence. Ms. Taylor pulled his hands into the safety of her warm palm. She reached her other hand to caress his hair.

  A tuft of his own hair landed in front of his eyes.

  It was blond.

  “Now, young man—I will not be tolerating your nonsense any longer. You need to rest, and tomorrow you’ll clean up this mess.” She motioned at the paper clutter on the floor.

  But despite the order, this wasn’t the same tone she used for Gerald Aldrick.

  This was lighter, caring, maternal.

  He nodded his head instinctively.

  “Am I clear? I am not beyond calling Mr. Aldrick up here.”

  Somehow, those words filled him with a sudden, crushing fear. His hands trembled at his sides, and tears gathered so fast his vision blurred.

  Not him, Gerald didn’t feel fear of that nature. But whoever’s body he was in—feared just the mention of his name.

  The pang of guilt hit Gerald like a dagger, even though he didn’t know who he was right now.

  If a child feared him, he had failed as a human being.

  Ms. Taylor seemed to notice the teen’s distress, her gaze softening.

  “Ah… Okay, fine,” she relented. “I won’t do that. But you have to listen, okay?”

  She caressed his cheeks as she did so.

  The teen nodded again, but his eyes wandered down to the floor, fingers fidgeting nervously.

  Ms. Taylor pulled him into a tight hug.

  In his mind, Gerald was at ease, but the body of the teen stiffened.

  It felt wrong, so very wrong. Why couldn’t he enjoy her embrace?

  Her soothing voice reached up to his ears.

  “Now, it’s time to sleep… Christophe.”

  Gerald woke to a start.

  He sat still for several seconds, breath uneven, the last traces of the dream clinging to his mind.

  His room was silent, dark, foreboding. Not the suffocating silence of the dream—just the quiet of late night.

  His bed was neatly made despite his restless waking. A small bedside table stood to his left, gloves folded together. No clutter. No stray paper. No mess.

  Across from him, a tall wardrobe loomed in the shadow, its surface catching the faintest reflection of the window’s moonlight. A coat hung from its door, pressed and ready. Boots placed beneath in straight symmetry—the clothes he had prepared for Saturday.

  The room was clean. Some might even say characterless.

  Nothing like the disordered space from the dream.

  He ran a hand down his face, grounding himself in the familiar angular shape and structure of muscle. Strong. Solid. His skin was warm, not sickly pale. His hands calloused where they should be. No trembling.

  Yet the name lingered.

  Christophe.

  He was certain that was what he heard.

  But who was Christophe?

  The only Christophe he could think of at the top of his mind was Christophe Franciste II., the Crown Prince from the late 800s.

  That period he was teaching the fifth year students about not that long ago… the one where Clairmont had one of his regular tirades.

  One so lengthy and overblown that Gerald couldn’t even finish his lesson about the period of the Franciste re-establishment.

  Christophe Franciste II., the Prince who took his own life.

  Through his final words written on paper, it was revealed that he was pushed to the edge by the protests targeting his family’s legitimacy. The boy, seventeen at the time, believed his family would be dethroned, fearing the repercussions awaiting him for the sins of his predecessors.

  Just a child born into the wrong generation and suffering for things he couldn’t alter in his lifetime.

  It was the news of his suicide that had tamed the public protests. Society was so shaken by this, but the people were divided. Some didn’t care; conspiracy theorists even speculated the suicide was a hoax to garner sympathy; some even went as far as to suspect the poor boy was murdered by his own family, and the suicide was just a cover-up. But the majority sympathized with Christophe Franciste’s final words and suffering.

  Only a year after his tragic passing, the controversy fully subsided. The Chernwicks were the first to publicly defend the Francistes, followed closely by the other two royal families.

  After that, it was like nothing ever happened. The sins of the Francistes were left as a footnote in history books for scholars to discuss.

  Why on earth would that specific historical figure mix up with his dream?

  Well, it was true his mind worked in pattern recognition. He felt like he could envision historical events just from his reading. Even in daily life, he tended to compare past events to current ones.

  But this went slightly beyond that.

  Perhaps Akradites was right—maybe Gerald should try to live beyond his history books.

  Like the date he had planned for Saturday.

  Ms. Taylor was in the dream too…

  Only after Lisbeth disappeared.

  Seeing Lisbeth there was no surprise. She had been a constant in his dreams ever since she died in his bare arms.

  He could never stop thinking about it.

  After all, she joined them in Volnyr, voluntarily.

  Because Trizstan Attila didn’t feel like it, and the army needed more bodies to sacrifice.

  He begged her not to go.

  He should have stopped her with force if needed.

  After all, Walloruth students like her were sent directly to the front lines…

  Lisbeth was his first love—before she was a classmate—before she was a comrade.

  He could never forgive himself.

  He had to cut himself off before he would spiral further.

  There was no point drowning in the past.

  Ms. Taylor…

  This was the first time she had appeared in any dream.

  It brought a smile to his face, if only for the fact it was such a bizarre dream. Of course, that would be the one this chaotic lady chose to bless with her presence.

  A boring dream wouldn’t match her energy at all.

  He smiled to himself in the dark room—if someone were to see him now, a pathetic man in his thirties, his mind mixing between niche historical trivia and beautiful women.

  It was still dark out. No sign of dawn. The leaves outside ruffled from a small breeze.

  Gerald’s head shifted toward the window, where the shadows of the trees moved in a slow, swaying dance.

  The dream had awoken him at such an early hour…

  That dream…

  A dream…

  He quirked his eyebrows.

  What was that dream about again?