Chapter 3: A World Not His Own
"NOOOOO!!!!"
Cherion gasped loudly as he opened his eyes.
Before he could swallow it back, the voice tore from him. He leaped up, certain that he was still falling, his chest heaving and his hand clutching his ribs as if the next heartbeat could trigger another heart attack.
However, there was no wind or sky falling.
There was only soft fabric wrapped around him.
Rubbing his eyes, he realised that he was in a bed. Not just any bed, but the kind that belonged to someone whose shoes never touched the ground. It was freaking clean.
A canopy covered in cream-colored silk, with sheets so smooth they felt like they were criticizing him for every cheap sheet he’d ever owned.
Cherion’s gaze slowly rose and hey, there was a freaking chandelier that probably cost more than his entire rent.
This wasn’t his apartment.
"Oh, hell no."
Cherion squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Still here. Geez...
The universe was laughing at him, so was the stupid God. He was sure of it.
"Master Cherion!"
Without even knocking, a maid had come in. She hurried over to his side with her skirts swishing dramatically. She folded her hands anxiously, looking like the kind of person who would apologize to a chair for bumping into it.
She couldn’t have been much older than him, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had to be Cherion’s personal maid.
"You’re awake!" she said, relief flooding her expression. "We were so scared when you collapsed. You don’t know how worried I was."
"Collapsed?" Cherion repeated.
He literally fell from the balcony and just collapsed? But now he thought about it, there was no pain or broken bone or anything like that. Maybe God had done some of his miracles.
"Yes, Master. You were found fainted in the garden. Luckily someone discovered you quickly."
"Who found me?" He tilted his head.
The maid stuttered. "I didn’t know who. Only that you were brought in at once."
Cherion narrowed his eyes. Collapsed, found, brought in. No mention of being shoved off a balcony by the supposedly benevolent Philia. Which meant either the story had changed, or people were covering it up. Neither option sat well with him.
For one horrifying second he thought if he had actually died again. Maybe the fall had finished what the heart attack had started. But then he remembered that strange, shining man, calling himself God. The flick to the forehead. The command to live.
....Right.
Ugh, that incompetent God.
He let out a shaky breath. "Right. So I guess you’re really serious about this."
The maid frowned. "Pardon, Master?"
"Nothing!" Cherion said quickly, forcing a smile that probably looked more like he was in pain. Which, emotionally, he was. "Nothing at all. Thank you for your... dedicated service. But I’d like some privacy now."
She hesitated, clearly torn between obedience and worry. But finally she bowed and left, closing the door softly behind her.
As soon as the door shut, Cherion shot out of bed like a man possessed.
He went straight for the drawers, yanking them open with such frantic urgency. Then the wardrobe. Boxes, cabinets, anything that might hold what he needed.
He wasn’t looking for clothes. No, those were garish, jeweled monstrosities meant to scream, "I have never experienced inconvenience my whole life." What he needed was something lighter, round, and shiny that could be traded for coins.
And oh, did he find it.
Stacks of gold coins felt cool against his palms. Necklaces that shimmered like frozen rivers in winter, rings heavy enough to bruise a knuckle. Jewels so bright they nearly blinded him when sunlight hit them just right.
Cherion’s eyes gleamed. "Oh... Where have you been all my life?"
A tiny, unhelpful conscience whispered in his head, You can’t do this. This is stealing.
But then he scoffed out loud. "Stealing from who? From me? This body is Cherion, and I’m also Cherion. Which means, legally, spiritually, and emotionally, this is mine."
Problem solved instantly.
He stuffed handfuls of gold coins into a satchel he discovered hanging in the closet, jewels, then the jewelry.
As he packed, parts of the story crept back into his mind.
Yerel, the Crown Prince with golden hair, was cruel, and blessed with the kind of privilege that made consequences optional for him. Philia, the delicate little omega protagonist who had won his heart and in doing so, crushed Cherion. The engagement was broken, leading to the eventual execution for crimes committed out of jealousy.
Except that Cherion wasn’t jealous at all.
He was just annoyed. Deeply, violently irritated.
In the novel, Philia never harmed anyone, so why now? Was it because Cherion hadn’t begged, hadn’t wept prettily the way the original must have? Did refusing to grovel cause the plot to go, Cool, we’re freestyling now?
"Great," he muttered. "So not only am I stuck in a trash novel, and even the plot can’t follow its own rules."
All the more reason to leave as quickly as possible.
He closed the satchel tightly, took another look around the room, and concluded that clothing wasn’t necessary. Nothing here was subtle, nothing simple. Wearing any of it would make him look like a walking jewel box. Better to keep his plain white sleep shirt and trousers.
He stopped at the door, opened it slightly, and looked out. Good, empty.
Even though the sun was well up, a long corridor with sconces lit stretched silently in both directions. His heart thumping against his ribs, he slipped out. He moved as though the shadow might take him, pressing himself against the wall as each step echoed louder than it should have.
He let out a breath of relief near the corner. It was almost time for freedom. After just one turn, he would...
Thud.
He hit something solid, fell, and landed hard on his backside. Coins clinked inside the satchel, betraying him.
Groaning, he looked up.
And froze.
It was... Yerel?
But, no... no, not Yerel. The resemblance was uncanny, but the man in front of him was surely older. Same golden hair, though some covered with silver now. Same sharp jawline, but no arrogance there. Robes heavy with embroidery. And an aura that pressed down like a storm.
The King.
Cherion’s stomach fell to the ground. Why did I have to run into the King now of all times?!
The man stared at him, stern at first, then surprisingly gentle. "Are you alright, child?"
Cherion blinked. Child?
The King extended a hand, helping him up with surprising gentleness. Cherion, still too shocked to refuse, let himself be pulled to his feet. His satchel nearly slipped from his shoulder, coins threatening to spill.
The King’s gaze darted from Cherion’s pale face to it. "I’ve heard about what happened. I came to see you. And yet here you are, hurrying down through the hallway. Where were you heading?"
Cherion cleared his throat, but nothing came out. This man had an overwhelming aura as big as a cathedral. It seemed impossible to lie. On the other hand, it seemed suicidal to tell the truth.
Cherion swallowed hard and forced a smile onto his lips. "Y-Your Majesty," he stumbled and bowed his head. "Pardon me for... for running into you right now."
The King’s expression remained calm and patient, though his eyebrows lifted slightly. Cherion spoke quickly, stumbling over his own words. "I was just looking for some fresh air, nothing more."
Silence gripped him like a stone for a heartbeat. Every nerve in his body screamed that lying to this man was a death sentence.
Oh, really? Then off you go, Cherion.
How he wished that was what the King would say.
Then, to his surprise, the King laughed. "Fresh air? In this corridor?" He tilted his head in the direction of the long row of stone walls. "Why not the garden?"
Cherion went cold. His chest ached from the painful lurch of his heart. "Yes! "Yeah, of course... the garden," he blurted out, trying to regain his composure. "That’s where I was going."
The King’s mouth curved in a way that was neither quite disbelief nor quite a smile. "Hmm. So why do you walk in the other direction?
Oh my god, I have no idea where the garden is! The layout is unfamiliar to me! Please stop bombarding me with questions, I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack!
Of course all of that were just inside his head.
He forced another tense smile, trying his best not to look like he wanted to curl up and disappear. "Ah... I must have gotten... wrong turn." His face stayed calm, didn’t want the King to notice his panic.
After a moment, the King remarked, "It is good, at least, that you appear well enough to walk about after fainting earlier."
Cherion blinked, caught off guard. "...Yes?"
Cherion’s stomach knotted as the King’s gaze grew more intense. "Yes. Because I wanted to speak with you."
Cherion’s blood ran cold.
What now?
The King sighed, almost weary. Then he touched Cherion’s shoulder. "Come. Walk with me."
Cherion opened his mouth, but there was no protest. Just the quiet wail of a man whose meticulous escape plan had just fallen apart.
I just want to get away from here.