With profound sadness, we share the passing of James T. Earl, who faced his battle with cancer with courage and grace until his final moments on July 14, 2027. Though he is no longer with us, his memory will live on in the hearts of those who cherished him. James is survived by his loving Aunt Mary Wilson, cousins Karen, Talon, and Madison, and grandparents Jeanette and Douggie.

  A gifted and dedicated historian in the field of polemology, James's passion for his work left an indelible mark on his family, friends, and colleagues. Beyond his academic achievements, he will also be remembered for his zest for life — from wargaming and wildfowling to mountaineering adventures. Those close to him knew of his secret love for sugary pastries and sweets, a charming reminder of his complex and multifaceted spirit.

  While we grieve his loss, we find comfort in the belief that James is now reunited with his parents, Joan and Mia Earl, embraced in the eternal peace of heaven. A private funeral service was held at St. Mary's Catholic Church on Sunday, August 16, 2027. Details of a memorial service to honour James's life will be shared at a later time.

  In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to…

  ...

  —In Loving Memory: Excerpt from James Earl's Obituary, written and published by his surviving maternal aunt, Mary Wilson, in "The Evening Gazette", on the 30th of July, 2027. ?

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  Faywyn, 13th Moon, 11th Day, 1623 Symfora Telos

  The world came to him in pieces, fragmented and disjointed, as if waking from some fever dream. The air smelled of myrrh and vinegar, sharp and medicinal, mingling with the faint sweetness of honey. Somewhere, a bird called—a warbling trill that sounded more alien than comforting. James blinked, his vision swimming as golden light from a high window spilt across his face. A beam of sunlight, unbidden and intrusive, pierced his repose like a knight's lance, dragging him unwillingly back to the land of the living.

  Pain greeted him next, a deep ache that seemed to rise from his very bones, settling into his ribs and chest with a throbbing persistence. He groaned softly, his hand reaching for his head only to meet the coarse edge of bandages wrapped tight about his skull. His other hand clutched at the sheets beneath him, fingers curling into the coarse fabric as if seeking to anchor himself.

  A damp cloth slid across his chest, cold and startling. He gasped, his muscles tensing instinctively.

  "My lord?" a voice called softly. Hesitantly.

  He turned his head with effort, his gaze settling on a woman seated at his bedside. Her hands, still holding the cloth, trembled slightly as her brown eyes met his. She wore a simple garb, a cream linen gown beneath a modest brown tunic, her hair concealed beneath a wimple. Her face was kind, though careworn, and a smile trembled at the edges of her lips.

  "You awaken," she said, her voice a blend of relief and joy.

  James tried to speak, but his throat felt dry and rough, as if he had swallowed a fistful of sand. He coughed, a sharp, barking sound that sent fresh waves of pain through his ribs. The woman leaned forward, pressing the damp cloth gently against his forehead.

  "Easy, my lord," she murmured. "You are still weak."

  Weak. Instinctively, the word chafed at him, though he lacked the strength to protest. He turned his head slightly, his eyes sweeping the unfamiliar room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes whose spines bore no titles he could discern. A table stood nearby, its surface cluttered with unlit candles, jars of salves, and scraps of bloodied cloth. To his left, a polished copper mirror reflected the scene, though the face staring back at him, though drawn and pale, was eerily beautiful, a stranger's visage.

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  "What happened?" he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  Before the woman could answer, another voice cut through the stillness, low and steady.

  "My Lord… how fares you?"

  James turned his head toward the sound, wincing as the motion pulled at his neck. A man emerged from the shadows of the room, his figure tall and imposing. He was clad in dark attire—a tunic and arming coat of sombre brown—and his face was sharp, almost hawkish, with eyes as black as polished jet. There was something familiar in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carried himself, though James could not place it.

  "Who are you?" James managed, his voice hoarse.

  The man approached, stopping a pace from the bed. "You do not know me?" he asked, his tone measured but tinged with concern.

  "I don't know any of you," James said, his tone touched with confusion. His gaze flicked to the woman at his side, who shrank slightly under his scrutiny. "Where am I? What has happened to me?"

  The man exchanged a glance with the woman before speaking again. "You are in Faywyn, young lord. You were gravely wounded. We feared..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "We feared you might not wake."

  James's mind churned, fragments of memory surfacing only to slip away again. There had been a fight, that much he knew. Shouts, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke. Faces flashed in his mind—familiar and yet indistinct—followed by the sickening lurch of falling, and then pain, blinding and all-encompassing.

  He looked down at himself, noting the clean bandages wrapped around his torso, the faint pink of blood seeping through in places. He hissed as he tried to sit upright, the movement sending fresh jolts of agony through his side.

  "Take care," the man pleaded, stepping forward to steady him. "Your wounds are still fresh."

  James flinched away, his breath coming faster now, ragged and uneven. "Who are you?" he demanded.

  The man faltered, his expression paling. His outstretched arm hung mid-air before stiffly withdrawing. "Young lord, do you not recall?" he said at last. "It is I, Lancelot von Dragoon. Your father's viscount and sworn man."

  James blinked, his brow furrowing as the name tugged at something deep within him. He looked to the woman again. "And you?"

  "Sarah, my lord," she replied softly.

  James let out a shaky breath, wincing from the action, his hands gripping the edges of the blanket that covered him. "You call me 'lord.' Why?"

  The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered, broken only by the distant caw of a crow beyond the window. Lancelot and Sarah exchanged another glance, their expressions grave.

  Neither spoke and James opened his eyes, his gaze darting between them. "Why?" he demanded, louder this time.

  "...You are Levi von Greifenburg," Lancelot ventured worriedly. "True born son to Lord Aden of Faywyn… do you not remember even that?"

  "...No," James whispered, shaking his head. "No, that's not right."

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will the pieces of his fractured memory into place. But instead of clarity, he found only a deeper, more suffocating confusion. A memory surged within him, a void, darkness, then a wakening realization.

  "...I am not dead?" he murmured, his voice trembling.

  "Am I?"