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Arlen woke up choking on sand.
Not the clean kind. The gritty, blood-soaked kind that stuck in his teeth and scraped down his throat when he tried to breathe. His lungs burned. His ribs felt like they'd been kicked in. He rolled onto his side and spat red into the dust.
Wrong.
Everything was wrong.
His hands were too small. The scar he'd carried across his knuckles since he was twenty—gone. His left shoulder, the one that always ached when it rained, felt fine. Better than fine. And the sun. The sun was too hot, too white, beating down on skin that didn't feel like his.
Footsteps. Close.
"Get up, sand rat."
Arlen's body moved before his brain caught up. Old instinct. He rolled onto the balls of his feet, weight centered, hands coming up. Ready.
Then he saw his arms.
Thin. Brown. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. No muscle. No scars. Just smooth skin and the kind of bony wrists you got when you didn't eat enough.
What the hell.
"I said get up."
A boot slammed into his ribs. The pain was sharp and immediate and real. Arlen gasped, curled in on himself. His body knew how to take a hit. His mind was still three steps behind, trying to figure out why he had a body at all.
He'd died.
He remembered that part. The ambush. The arrows. One through his throat. He'd gone down in the red dirt outside Vask, choking on his own blood, and his last thought had been that he'd never paid Mira back for that bottle of whiskey.
So why was he here.
And where the hell was here.
He forced his eyes open. Dust. Tents. A line of people in chains. A camp. No—worse. A slave camp. The kind he'd raided twice during the northern campaigns. The smell hit him next. Sweat, piss, old blood. Smoke from a cook fire somewhere.
"Last chance, boy."
Arlen looked up. The man standing over him was big. Shaved head, leather vest, whip coiled at his hip. Overseer. The type who liked his work.
Arlen's mouth moved on its own. "I'm up. I'm up."
The voice wasn't his. Too young. Too raspy. He touched his throat. No scar. No arrow wound. Just smooth skin and a pulse that beat too fast.
The overseer grunted. "Water line. Move."
Arlen stood. His legs shook. Not from fear. From hunger. This body was starving. He could feel it now, the hollow ache in his gut, the way his vision swam when he stood too fast. He took a step. Then another. The sand under his feet was hot enough to blister.
He wasn't wearing shoes.
None of them were.
The line shuffled forward. Twenty, maybe thirty people. All young. All thin. All with the same dead look in their eyes. Arlen fell in at the back. His brain was working now, sorting through the impossible.
He'd died. He'd woken up. Different body. Slave camp. No answers.
Fine.
First rule of survival: figure out where you are. Second rule: figure out how to get out.
He scanned the camp. Three tents. A wagon. Guards at the perimeter, two of them, both armed. A fire pit in the center. The mountains in the distance were wrong. Too sharp. Too red. He didn't recognize them.
The line stopped. A trough. Someone shoved a tin cup into his hand. Arlen dipped it into the water and drank. It tasted like rust and dust. He didn't care. His throat was raw.
"You."
Arlen looked up. A girl. Thirteen, maybe. Scars on her arms. She was staring at him.
"You new?" she asked.
Arlen nodded.
"Where'd they get you?"
"I don't know."
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know."
"No."
She looked him up and down. Then she leaned in, voice dropping. "You got the mark?"
"What mark."
"On your wrist. The—" She stopped. Her eyes went wide. "Shit."
Arlen looked down. His left wrist. There, just under the skin, a faint shimmer. Gold. Like someone had painted a line of it under the surface. He turned his arm. The shimmer moved with him.
What the hell was that.
The girl backed up. Fast. "You're dead," she whispered. "You're supposed to be dead."
"What are you talking about."
But she was already gone, disappearing into the crowd.
Arlen stared at his wrist. The gold was faint. Barely visible. But it was there. He touched it. The moment his fingers brushed the skin, the world tilted.
He wasn't in the camp anymore.
He was standing in the desert. Night. Stars overhead. And bodies. Dozens of them. Burning. The smell of scorched flesh filled his nose. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Just stood there, watching the flames.
A voice. Close. Hoarse.
"Kash."
Arlen spun. A man. No—a corpse. Half his face burned away. He was reaching for Arlen, fingers blackened and cracked.
"Kash," the corpse said again. "You came back."
Arlen tried to speak. Couldn't. The corpse smiled. Or tried to. Its lips were gone.
"They killed us all," it whispered. "Every last one. And they'll kill you too."
The vision snapped.
Arlen was back in the camp. On his knees. Gasping. His hands were buried in the sand. The gold in his wrist was glowing now, bright enough to see even in the sunlight.
Someone grabbed his arm. Yanked him up. The overseer. His face was pale.
"Where'd you come from," the overseer demanded.
"I don't—"
"Where."
Arlen didn't answer. Couldn't. His brain was still stuck on the vision. The bodies. The voice. Kash. That was his name. His real name. But the corpse had known it.
How.
The overseer shoved him toward the wagon. "Get him in the cage. Now."
Two guards grabbed Arlen by the arms. He didn't fight. Couldn't. His legs wouldn't work. They dragged him to a wooden cage on the back of the wagon and threw him inside. The door slammed shut.
Arlen sat in the corner, breathing hard. His wrist still glowed. Faint now. Fading.
The overseer was talking to someone. A man in a long coat. Gray hair. Expensive boots. The man looked at Arlen. Then at the overseer.
"You're sure," the man said.
The overseer nodded. "Look at his wrist."
The man stepped closer. His eyes were cold. Calculating. He stared at Arlen for a long moment. Then he smiled.
"I'll pay triple," he said. "But I want him tonight."
The overseer grinned. "Done."
The man in the coat turned and walked away. The overseer followed. Arlen watched them go. His heart was pounding. His wrist still tingled where the gold had glowed.
He didn't know what that mark meant. Didn't know why the girl had looked at him like he was a ghost. Didn't know who the man in the coat was.
But he knew one thing.
He was in trouble.
And he had no idea how to get out of it.