The name leaves my lips like a memory I never made.

"Eos," I whisper again. That feeling when something lingers on the tip of your tongue, so close you taste it, yet it slips away the second you try to grasp it.

I step forward, the dust falling faster, my body compelled again to move forward. But not like before. Not like when I was inside Aston's body; be it in the bar or as a hanged corpse, his guilt-ridden face, his missing eye. His pathetic, drooling sobs, as all he believed had crumbled into dust.

This time, I walk willingly. My shoulders tense, spine stiff, but the motion is mine. Just one step from the table now, maybe thirty feet long in total. I press my hand against the surface.

Red.

Suddenly, my body erupts in color. Not flames nor pain, just a transformation. It begins at my fingernails; tiny spike-like points crawling over my skin. Not beasts, not parasites. Just the color red.

My nails vanish and veins fade. My hair is gone, and wrinkles erased, as if my body is being painted over with layers of scarlet. Thick, solid, and dry.

I run my hands over my arms. No wetness, just smooth, red flesh. I look down, noticing the scarless body, the featureless skin. My nipples, my navel. Gone. All gone. Just red, dawn-red. Scarlet.

My thoughts ignite.

"Eos! Goddess of dawn. Of hope. Of blood. Of red!"

But the name only raises more questions. Why the hell do I know this now? I didn't even know it when I told Gene my name was Eos. I hadn't thought about Greek mythology in years, if ever. But here it is. Now, clear as fucking day.

Still, none of this answers anything.

I glance down at my right arm, then mutter, "My goddamn right arm is intact."

And my voice sounds unlike mine. Raw and deep, kind of distorted, as if having a bad connection, even though the words are clear. More questions. No answers.

I begin walking along the table, trailing my hand over its surface. It's smooth and hard. Decorated with symbols—pupilless eyes, embedded in some kind of repeating pattern. A shiver crawls up my spine thinking about it; however, I don't know why.

Then my fingers hit something. A crystal, clear, and polished. It's positioned directly in front of the first throne on the right row.

There are eleven seats in total: five on each side, one at the head embracing itself with wings.

I barely have time to process it before everything shifts again. The already overwhelming red burns brighter, then becomes incandescent. Radiant. Red like light itself, bordering on white. It consumes everything, every particle, and every corner of this place.

Skyred. It blinds me like a sun, but one I have never seen before.

The crystal hums, moreover, pulses like blood in the tact of my heart. Wind bursts from it, blistering hot, licking over my skin like fire. I barely have time to react before I'm thrown again—no, not physically. My body is gone. I'm trapped. Again.

…

My hands rest motionless. Numb, but they are present and real.

The room is dark, not void-dark, just dim. But my first instinct is panic. Am I back in the void?

No. This is different. I can feel my body, and I can feel emotions.

Anger and fear. Crushing, suffocating fear. Pain rises as this body—not mine—moves its legs. I groan silently, but this body's mouth releases a sound; a whimper, a growl, and finally a choked cry.

Water pours down this face. Tears. Salt on a dry tongue. It's all real and tangible. Grief I've known before, like back on the ships, when I was imprisoned with the others. With my brother.

But I'm not in control. Not unlike that red palace, but like back in Aston's body again.

I am just a presence now, a mere ghost in the shell. Watching through someone else's eyes, hearing through someone else's ears. Feeling everything, but hearing nothing from the mind that owns this body.

Suddenly, my head slumps forward, chin pressed against my own chest. It feels wrong—terrifying—but the strangest part is how quickly I accept it. This place, this body.

I don't even question it as deeply as I should. It takes only ten slow, measured breaths, and I begin to feel… synchronized, as if I belong here. As if I belong to this body, just like I did with Aston, the Hanged Man.