“What wasn’t real, Edward?” Mister Finch asked, footsteps revealing his approach. The bed shifted as the man’s weight settled onto it. Which normally would’ve been completely inappropriate. “What happened to you? There’s dirt beneath your fingernails. And is that…is that blood?”

Edward’s eyes flashed open, landing on his nails, which were grimy and longer than they were supposed to be. Something rust-colored limned each of them. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he said.

The man who’d been demanding answers a moment ago visibly softened, taking one of Edward’s hands. “I know, son, but it’s going to be alright. I will be here with you every step of the way. We will figure this out together. But we need to act fast, before it’s too late. Already your great uncle sits the throne, and the longer he fills your mother’s seat, the more difficult it will be to toss him out of it.”

His head was still spinning with a kaleidoscope of shadowy images that suddenly felt less surreal than when he’d first awoken and more like memories. His memories. Of things he’d done. Of people he’d hurt. Killed. Of a name he’d called himself, a name passed down to him by another, his predecessor.

Korsiris.

“No,” he said. “No.”

“I’m sorry, Edward, I’ve dreaded this day ever since your mother’s…passing. But I still wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“What?” Edward said, sure he’d missed something. Some important detail that was leading him to the wrong conclusion. “What about my mother? And why is my great uncle sitting on the throne?”

“Your mother, the queen, is dead, Edward. She was murdered by your own brother. Tomas came to help locate you, and instead he, he…” The man shuddered, his eyes growing misty, which, for him, was an extreme show of emotion.

“Mother? Dead? And Tomas? My brother has never been across the border, much less to Drouin. If this is your idea of a jest, it’s awful.”

“You know I would never joke of such a thing. And yet I wish I was. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry it happened. I’m so sorry that you weren’t here for her entombment. I’m so sorry you won’t have time or space to mourn until the crown is on your head. I’m so sorry that the beginning of your reign will be marked with war.”

“War? War with whom?”

“The Finfallians, of course. We cannot allow their treachery to go unanswered. Blood must be met with blood.”

All of it was too much, a headache burrowing its way into his skull, pounding away like a hammer on an anvil. Mister Finch was still speaking, something about duty and drawing on loyal supporters and calling for an emergency court session, but all of that faded into the background, a single word—a name—repeating itself over and over again like a mantra.

Korsiris…Korsiris…Korsiris…

Then, suddenly, it changed.

I am Korsiris.

Yes, yes you are, that wicked voice answered. It’s time to get back to work.