* * *
When he had first woken below, Roman had gasped as if he were taking his first breath. He had opened his eyes to the flicking firelight, had seen the white marble walls around him, had felt the hard slab of rock beneath him, and he had known he was somewhere else. A magical place he had never encountered.
He was also naked.
With a groan, he sat forward, taking in the strange room.
It was an oddly sized chamber, hewn entirely from rock. It had nine walls, all of them white and veined with blue, gleaming like the facets of a diamond. The ceiling glittered with tiny flecks of gold, and it was reminiscent of the night sky if Roman squinted his eyes. Four torches burned from iron brackets, and the fire was the only source of light.
With a shudder, Roman slid from the hard table he had been resting on. The rock beneath his bare feet was smooth, and he began to walk before the walls, seeking a door. He could find none, and he swallowed his panic, walking a second time around, his fingers rushing over the planes of the stone.
“Hello?” he called, his voice still thick from sleep. “Is anyone here?”
There was no response. Only the sound of his own breath, rising and falling.
He couldn’t remember being brought into this chamber. He didn’t know how long he had been confined in this place, and he shivered, eventually coming to a halt.
He glanced down at his body, pale in the firelight, as if he might find answers on his skin.
To his shock, he found something.
Roman frowned as he leaned over, studying the array of scars on his right leg. There were many of them, some long and jagged, others small and smooth, and Roman traced them as if they were routes on a map. Eventually, he pressed hard against their soft marks, hoping pain would help him remember.
There was no pain, but he saw something flash at the corner of his eye. His head snapped up, but he realized what he’d seen wasn’t something in the room but a snippet in his mind. Sunlight and smoke, the boom of artillery. The ground was shaking; the wind smelled like hot metal and blood. A lance of pain so sharp it had stolen his breath and made him crumple on the ground.
But he hadn’t been alone. Someone had been with him, holding his hand.
Roman’s fingertips fell away from his scars. He brought his palms close to his face and noticed there was an indention on his left pinkie. He must have been wearing a ring at some point, and he touched the slight mark it had left behind.
There was nothing to remember. No other flash of brilliancy or piece of his past to claim.
He flexed his hand until his knuckles bloomed white.
Am I dead?
As if in reply, pain suddenly surged. Roman’s head began to ache so violently that he lowered himself to the stone floor. He cried out, curling his knees to his chest. There was a blade in his mind, sawing back and forth. A blade flaying him open from within.
The pain was so sharp he lost consciousness.
Sometime later, he woke again with bleary eyes.
A delivery had been made. On the floor sat a tray of food: a bowl of steaming stew, a hunk of dark bread, a pitcher of water and a small wooden cup. And beside it, a pile of garments and a pair of leather boots.
Roman crawled to the offering. He was so hungry, so empty, that he didn’t think twice about eating the food or drinking the water. But when he reached for the garment, letting it unfold in his hands, he paused.
It was a jumpsuit. Again, that sense of familiarity washed over him. The garment was a dark red color, and he studied the white badge stitched over the left breast pocket: UNDERLING CORRESPONDENT.
Roman eased into the jumpsuit, ignoring the surge of uneasiness in his blood.
The moment he finished hooking the final button, the cold fled from his body. He felt warmth radiate from his ribs like he had swallowed sunlight, and he quickly donned the pair of socks and boots waiting for him.
A few heartbeats later, a sound broke the ringing silence.
Roman turned as a fissure opened in the wall. The door he had been seeking earlier and failed to find.
A young man in a tan-colored uniform stepped into the chamber. He looked to be around Roman’s age, perhaps a few years older, and was fair-skinned with short blond hair. His brows were heavy, and his mouth was pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t smile often.
“Who are you?” Roman rasped.
“I’m Lieutenant Gregory Shane. And your name is?”
Roman froze. His name? He couldn’t remember, and his mind reeled.
His panic must have bled through his expression, because the lieutenant said, “Don’t worry. It’ll come back to you. Don’t force it.”