EMPIRE REWRITTEN

Chapter One: Awakening

A sharp, piercing noise shattered the quiet void of my mind, yanking me from the depths of sleep. Pain throbbed behind my eyes—dull yet persistent—as if someone had driven nails into my skull. I groaned, instinctively squeezing my eyes shut, hoping to push the ache away. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The dense, cold, alien air brushed against my skin, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. Where was the gentle hum of the air conditioner? The familiar scent of last night's chamomile tea? My bed felt too firm, and the sheets were coarse, scratching my skin like sandpaper. Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes.

What greeted me was utterly foreign. Above, dark wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, polished and gleaming—not the smooth plaster of my bedroom. Stone walls loomed around me, the kind you'd expect to find in a medieval fortress. Panic surged in my chest as I pushed myself up, my muscles protesting in a way that felt off, wrong, foreign. I looked down at the hands in my lap.

These weren't my hands.

I remembered my hands—slightly wrinkled, the skin soft from years spent turning pages rather than wielding weapons. There was a small scar on my left index finger from when Jason and I had tried to build a treehouse. We'd laughed so hard when the plank slipped, and I'd nicked myself with the saw. The memory brought a pang of longing. What would my sons, Jason and Nick, think if they saw me now?

My heart raced as I stared at my chest, flat and muscled instead of comfortably padded like I was used to. My breath quickened, short and ragged. Swinging my legs over the bed, I nearly tripped over the edge of a heavy rug that covered the cold, stone floor.

A voice behind me, soft and gentle, pierced the panic. "Does something trouble you, my Despot?"

I froze, the word echoing in my mind. Despot. The term was in Greek—a language I knew bits of thanks to my Yaya. But this was different; I understood it perfectly, as if I had spoken it my entire life. The word floated at the edges of my memory, yet it felt wrong. Not my title. Not my life. I swallowed hard, turning slowly toward the voice.

A woman lay there, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her features soft, though her eyes held concern as she studied me. She knew me. But I didn't know her.

I stared at her, my chest tightening. Who was she? More importantly—*who was I?*

Suddenly, memories flooded my mind—memories that didn't belong to me—stern, battle-hardened faces under crested helmets, battlefields drenched in blood, the thunderous clash of swords and shields, and Ottoman banners, black and gold, flapping in the wind.

The sensation was suffocating, like I was drowning in a sea of memories that weren't mine but somehow felt like they had always been there, waiting for me to remember them.

"No..." I muttered under my breath, gripping my head, my fingers digging into my scalp. "This can't be real."

I forced myself to look down at the hands again—youthful, scarred, marked by a life of battle. But whose life? Certainly not mine. The room spun, and I sank onto a nearby stool, the cold stone wall pressing against my back as I buried my face in my hands. Was this a dream? No, it felt too real. The smoky scent of burning wood, the chilly draft cutting through the room—everything was too vivid, too alive.

*Who am I?*

I tried to speak, to demand answers from the woman in the bed, but my voice faltered. When the words finally came, they were deep and resonant—a voice I did not recognize.

"I... I'm fine," I stammered, the unfamiliar voice grating against my ears.

Her face softened, relief washing over her as she leaned back into the bed. Her concern melted into sleepy reassurance. "You've been restless in your sleep," she said, her voice gentle and soothing.