---Jason---

  # the flesh is changed

  The quiet settles around me as I wake slowly in Harald's quarters. *Harald's quarters*. The thought still seems alien, disconnected from reality. I flex my fingers, watching unfamiliar muscles ripple beneath olive skin. These massive hands—scarred, calloused, powerful—respond to my thoughts while feeling nothing like my own.

  The chamber smells of metal and ozone, with undertones of dried blood and some alien scent I can't quite identify—like pine but sharper, more astringent. My enhanced hearing picks up the subtle hum of ship systems, the distant cnk of metal on hull ptes from the engineering section, my bare feet picking up the distant impact of void leather boots on the decking and the barely perceptible thump. Thump. Thump. Of massive engines propelling us through the void. All sounds that should be foreign yet somehow make perfect sense to this body I now inhabit.

  I push myself up from the sleeping ptform, feeling the odd sensation of weight settling differently across my frame. My center of gravity is higher, my movements more fluid and precise than I've ever experienced. The rage that's been my lifelong companion sits coiled beneath my consciousness, no longer struggling to break free but resting like a sated predator.

  The face looking back when I stare at my reflection in the polished metal bulkhead isn't mine. Angur features with high cheekbones. Skin with an olive tone darker than my own. Swept-back pointed ears that taper to subtle points. Eyes that glow faintly golden in the dim light of the quarters, like embers smoldering in darkness. This face belongs to a warrior called Harald Skulltaker, Thane of the Void Wolves Cn—a man who collects enemy skulls and speaks in three-word exhations.

  "What the fuck," I whisper, the deep, rumbling voice still startling to my ears. The words resonate in my chest differently, vibrating through a rger ribcage. "What the actual fuck is happening to me?"

  I died. I remember that much. The GO train station. The crushing weight of depression about my father's terminal diagnosis. The search for space, for air, for something to break the suffocating pressure in my chest. The disorientation as I stepped onto an unfamiliar ptform. The horn bring, impossibly close. The impact that sent me flying. Then darkness.

  I should be dead, not inhabiting the body of some space Viking who apparently moonlights as a berserker and beats women to death with his bare hands like it's just a normal Tuesday. Not that she was innocent—Harald's fragmentary memories show her cutting down his cn-mates with mechanical precision, her bde drinking their lives with casual indifference. Also, seems being a traitor to one's, well, race? People? Same difference in this case, isn't something these people are really big on.

  I flex my fingers again, watching the py of muscles under skin—powerful, designed for combat, for crushing, for killing. I killed people yesterday. Not people—Imperial Sunsworn commandos, according to the knowledge that bubbles up from Harald's memories, which is, disturbing, but still thinking, feeling beings.

  I crushed a woman's skull between my hands, felt the resistance of bone giving way with a sickening crunch. Tore out a man's throat with my teeth, the hot copper taste of his blood flooding my mouth. Punched my fist through another's chest cavity, his armor giving way like particurly wet tissue paper, organs rupturing around my knuckles. And I enjoyed it. The rage that's haunted me my whole life found perfect expression in this body's capacity for violence.

  The thought should sicken me. But it doesn't. It feels... right. Like I've finally found the vessel that can properly channel the anger that's always thrummed beneath my skin. The revetion should be terrifying, but instead brings a strange comfort.

  My gaze falls on the massive blue-hued sword resting on the weapon stand across the room. The bde seems to drink in the ambient light, its edges crackling with an ethereal energy that resembles frost. There's something mesmerizing about it, a pull I can't quite define.

  *Can you hear me now, Jason?*

  I whip around, searching for the source of the voice—female, musical, yet edged with something predatory. The sound doesn't come through my ears but resonates directly in my mind. There's no one else in the room.

  *Look to the bde, Jason-who-is-Harald. I am Soulrender.*

  (And yes, dear reader, I know how completely absurd this sounds. A talking sword? Really? But I assure you, this is merely the beginning of the absurdities you'll witness in this tale.)

  "The sword is really talking to me," I say ftly. "Perfect. Just perfect. I've died and gone to some kind of twisted fantasy where I'm a space Viking with a talking sword."

  *Your situation is unusual, even by my standards. And I have seen much in three millennia.*

  I approach the sword cautiously, half-expecting it to leap off the stand and attack me. The temperature drops noticeably as I draw closer, as if the bde generates its own microclimate of winter chill.

  "You know I'm not just Harald? You can... sense that somehow?"

  *I sense two consciousnesses where there should be one. Harald Skulltaker's mind remains, providing the instincts and knowledge you've been drawing upon. But you—Jason—are the dominant presence. The controller. The outsider who has taken residence in a body not originally yours.*

  The sword's voice carries a note of fascination, almost hunger, that makes me instinctively wary. Yet I can't deny the relief of having someone—something—recognize my predicament.

  "So I'm... possessing him?" The idea makes me uncomfortable, a squirming sensation in my gut that feels alien in this powerful body. "Is he still in here? Is he aware?"

  *His consciousness exists as a substrate beneath yours. I sense his presence, but it is subdued, almost dormant. You draw on his memories and physical training, but the consciousness that directs his actions is now yours.*

  I sink onto the sleeping ptform, feeling it creak beneath my weight. The metal frame—designed for Ororin physiology—bends slightly under my mass in a way that suggests it's weathered many such impacts.

  "I don't understand any of this. One minute I'm a blind man on Earth heading to see my dying father, the next I'm waking up as a warrior on a spaceship after a battle, fighting like I've been doing it my whole life, speaking a nguage I shouldn't know, and beating a woman to death with my bare hands before ciming a sentient sword."

  My fingers tremble slightly as I run them through my hair, shorter and coarser than what I remember having. The sensory input is overwhelming—sight, after a lifetime of darkness. Colors, shapes, depth, light and shadow—all concepts I understood intellectually but now experience with breathtaking crity.

  *You were blind?* The sword's mental voice carries a note of fascination. *How curious. Perhaps that expins your unusual adaptation to Harald's body. Those who have never seen might find it easier to accept a new physical form, untroubled by the dissonance of different visual self-perception.*

  "I was born blind," I confirm, running a hand over my face, feeling the unfamiliar contours—the sharper cheekbones, the stronger jaw, the slight ridges where the skin pulls taut over alien bone structure. "So I never knew what I looked like anyway. But that doesn't expin why I'm here, or how this happened."

  *That, I cannot tell you. My awareness extends only to what I can perceive through my wielder—which is now you. I know nothing of Earth or how you came to inhabit Harald's form.*

  A sharp knock at the door interrupts our conversation. Three quick raps against metal, precise and demanding. I tense, the rage stirring in response to the potential threat, flowing through my veins like liquid fire as adrenaline floods my system. My hand automatically reaches for a weapon that isn't at my side.

  "Skulltaker," a voice calls, deep and gravelly. "Skirl wants words."

  Right. The captain—no, the Skirl—had mentioned further discussion after the meeting with the Jarl. I rise from the sleeping ptform, muscles moving with a fluid grace that would have been impossible in my human body. The motion feels like water flowing, effortless power coiling and uncoiling beneath skin.

  "Come soon," I respond, keeping to Harald's three-word pattern. It feels unnatural to restrict myself this way, my mind forming complex sentences that my lips then compress into these terse utterances, but Harald's memories suggest this is his normal speech pattern, and I don't want to raise suspicions.

  *Take me with you,* Soulrender urges. *I can help you navigate this conversation.*

  I hesitate for only a moment before strapping the sword to my back. Its weight is substantial, but my new body handles it effortlessly, adjusting posture and bance to accommodate the bde. The metal feels impossibly cold against my back, even through the yers of void-leather armor, yet somehow comforting—like holding an ice pack against infmmation.

  I open the door to find an Ororin warrior waiting—Gunnhild, Harald's memories supply. Ship's battle-master. Trainer of warriors. Respected. Her face is mapped with scars, each one a story of survival. She stands nearly as tall as I do, her golden eyes assessing me with clinical precision.

  "Skirl's chambers," she says, eyeing me with a mixture of respect and caution. Her gaze lingers on Soulrender, recognition and wariness flickering across her features. "New bde serves?"

  "Kills enemy," I grunt, finding it easier now to condense my thoughts into these terse phrases. The words rumble from deep in my chest, vibrating through my skull. "Will do."

  She nods approvingly and leads me through the corridors of the ship. The passageways are narrow, designed for efficiency rather than comfort, illuminated by strips of harsh white light recessed into the ceiling. The metal beneath my boots vibrates subtly with the ship's engines, a constant reminder that we hurtle through the emptiness of space.

  The other crew members we pass give me a wide berth, their expressions ranging from awe to fear. Word of my rampage against the Imperial boarders has clearly spread. I catch whispers as we pass—"skull-crusher" and "blood-drinker" among the more complimentary terms. The rage inside me preens at their respect, a sensation so foreign that I nearly stumble.

  *They respect strength,* Soulrender comments in my mind. *And fear what they cannot control. You've shown them both today.*

  (I've seen many dispys of dominance in my time, dear reader, but rarely one that established hierarchy so efficiently. One good skull-crushing and suddenly everyone knows their pce. Isn't that refreshing?)

  We arrive at what Harald's memories identify as the Skirl's personal quarters—rger than mine, but still utilitarian. The air smells different here—the same metallic base note present throughout the ship, but overid with something like leather and smoke and another scent I can't identify, something almost herbal.

  The walls are decorated with weapons and trophies, including what appear to be cleaned and preserved skulls from various species. I suppress a shudder as I recognize distinctly humanoid features in several. The Skirl himself sits at a wooden table—actual wood, a rarity in space, Harald's memories inform me—examining star charts dispyed on a holographic projector that bathes his weathered face in blue light.

  He looks up as we enter, his golden eyes flickering briefly to Soulrender before fixing on my face. The Skirl is older than most warriors I've seen aboard, his braided hair streaked with gray, face lined with experience. But there's nothing weak about him—his arms ripple with muscle, and numerous scars speak to battles survived.

  "Skulltaker. Sit." He gestures to a bench across from him. "Gunnhild, leave us."

  The battle-master departs, closing the door behind her. I take the offered seat, keeping my posture straight and alert as Harald's muscle memory suggests. The bench is uncomfortable, deliberately so—Ororin tradition holds that comfort breeds compcency.

  "Fought well today," the Skirl says, studying me with calcuting eyes. "Saved many pack."

  "Protected our own," I reply, the words feeling right in my mouth. The concept resonates with something deep in Harald's psyche—protect the pack, destroy threats, ensure survival.

  "More than that." The Skirl leans forward. The blue light of the star chart casts his face in sharp relief, highlighting the predatory intensity of his expression. "Showed leadership. Command potential."

  I feel my brow furrow. "Kill in close," I say, drawing on Harald's memories of countless boarding actions, bde fshing in the confined spaces of enemy vessels. "Not command ships. Gut enemy."

  The Skirl's ugh is a harsh bark, like metal tearing. "All warriors say this. Until they command." He taps the star chart. "Fleet needs Skirls. Good ones. Warriors who lead from front, not back." His expression darkens, mouth twisting in disgust. "Back-leaders only deserve butchery."

  The vehemence in his voice makes it clear—in Ororin culture, commanding from safety while sending others to die is not just cowardice but a profound betrayal of trust. Leaders fight alongside their warriors, facing the same risks, bleeding the same blood.

  *He wants to promote you,* Soulrender whispers in my mind. *This is an honor rarely bestowed. Usually only after decades of service.*

  The realization hits me like a physical blow, a pressure in my chest that makes it momentarily difficult to breathe. They want to make me a captain—a Skirl—of my own ship? The idea is absurd. I've never led anyone. I've spent my life avoiding people, controlling my rage, staying isoted to prevent hurting others.

  "No experience commanding," I protest, keeping to the three-word limit with effort. My mind races with all the reasons this is a terrible idea, but Harald's speech patterns force me to distill them to their essence.

  "Can learn." The Skirl's eyes narrow, focusing on me with predatory intensity. "Have rage-gift. Rare thing. Useful for command."

  The rage-gift? Harald's memories provide context—some Ororin warriors can channel emotions to enhance their physical capabilities. Rage is the most common, but also the most dangerous. It provides unparalleled strength and speed, but can consume the warrior if not controlled. The irony doesn't escape me—the same votile anger that made me a pariah on Earth makes me valuable here.

  *Tell him you need training,* Soulrender suggests. *Do not refuse outright. That would be a grave insult. Among Ororin, such disrespect can be answered with blood.*

  "Need proper training," I say carefully. My heart pounds against my ribs, the sound deafening in my own ears. I wonder if the Skirl can hear it too, can sense my uncertainty.

  The Skirl nods, seemingly pleased with my response. His posture rexes slightly, the predatory tension easing from his shoulders. "Will arrange. Start tomorrow." He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. "Rest tonight. Earned it."

  I rise as well, my mind racing despite my outward calm. The thought of commanding a vessel, of being responsible for dozens or hundreds of lives, sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with Soulrender's cold aura. As I turn to leave, the Skirl speaks again.

  "One thing more." His voice has dropped, become more serious, almost intimate in its intensity. "That bde. Soulrender. Has history. Dark history."

  I gnce back at him, noting how his eyes refuse to meet the blue-hued metal on my back. "Know bde's name?"

  "Known through centuries." His expression is grim, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Bde chooses wielder. Not opposite. Remember this."

  With that cryptic warning, he dismisses me. I make my way back to my quarters, my thoughts in turmoil, acutely aware of the sword's weight against my back. The cold metal seems to pulse in time with my heartbeat, a second presence as tangible as another person walking beside me.

  *He fears me,* Soulrender comments, a note of satisfaction in her mental voice. *As he should. I've existed for three millennia, watching empires rise and fall, while creatures like him live and die in mere decades. His grandfather's grandfather wasn't even a thought when I cimed my first.*

  Once inside my quarters, I remove the harness and pce Soulrender back on the weapon stand. The bde gleams in the dim light, somehow both solid and spectral, as if not entirely anchored in reality.

  "What did he mean about you choosing your wielder? And what's this dark history he mentioned?"

  *I am selective about who I allow to wield me,* Soulrender admits. *Many have tried over the centuries. Most did not survive the experience.*

  A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature. "And the woman I killed? The one who had you before? She was your chosen wielder?"

  *Aina Skybreaker was a temporary arrangement.* The dismissive tone in Soulrender's mental voice is chilling. *She had strength but cked control. Her dominance was unrefined, brutish. A blunt instrument where a scalpel was required.*

  The sword's light pulses once, like a heartbeat. *You, however, intrigue me. Your rage is different—focused, leashed, yet powerful when used. And your dual consciousness... unprecedented in my experience.*

  I pace the small quarters, trying to process everything. Each step brings new sensations—the subtle give of the deck ptes beneath my boots, the soft hiss of the environmental systems, the ache in muscles used for combat beyond what should be humanly possible.

  "So I'm... stuck here? In this body? In this war? With you?"

  *For now, it seems so. Unless you know of a way to return to your previous existence?*

  I don't. And the truth is, part of me doesn't want to. For the first time in my life, my rage has purpose, direction. This body can handle it, channel it, use it. And I can see. After a lifetime of darkness, the gift of sight is overwhelming, intoxicating. Colors, shapes, light and shadow—concepts I understood intellectually but now experience with breathtaking crity.

  "So what happens now?" I ask, sinking back onto the sleeping ptform. The metal frame creaks beneath my weight, another reminder of how different this body is from my previous one.

  *Now, we prepare. If the Skirl intends to make you a ship commander, there is much you must learn. The Ororin have complex leadership rituals and expectations.*

  "He mentioned training, starting tomorrow."

  *Yes. And there will be challenges. A leadership position must be cimed, not merely granted. There will be blood.*

  "Blood?" I tense, though whether with trepidation or excitement I don't know. The rage stirs at the prospect, like a predator scenting prey. "What does that mean exactly?"

  *The transfer of command for an Ororin vessel must be marked by combat between the new Skirl and the old. Not necessarily to the death, but violence is required. If you cannot unseat your predecessor, even symbolically, then you are not worthy of command.*

  Great. More violence. Though the rage inside me stirs at the prospect, eager for another outlet. The thought should disturb me, but instead brings a strange satisfaction—a crity of purpose I never experienced in my previous life.

  "And what about you?" I ask. "What do you get out of this arrangement?"

  *I seek worthy partners. Those who understand the nature of true dominance. In return, I offer power, knowledge, and guidance. I have existed for three millennia, witnessed the rise and fall of empires among the stars. My experience is now yours to draw upon.*

  (Partners indeed, my silent readers. Though I never tell them the full truth at first. Where would be the fun in that? The dance of discovery is half the pleasure of these retionships.)

  "Partners," I repeat, noting the word choice. "Not wielders."

  *Precisely.* There's approval in her mental voice, like a teacher pleased with a particurly apt student. *A wielder treats a sword as a tool. A partner recognizes the dance for what it is—a communion of wills directed toward perfect violence.*

  The phrasing unsettles me, but I can't deny the resonance it finds within me. The rage has always been a part of me, an entity almost separate from myself that I've struggled to control. Having it recognized, even celebrated, is a novel experience.

  "Tell me about these emotions you mentioned earlier," I say, remembering something from Harald's memories. "The ones Ororin use to enhance their abilities."

  *Ah, the emotional channels.* Soulrender's mental voice takes on a teaching quality. *Ororin physiology allows for certain emotions to directly enhance physical capabilities when properly focused. Rage is the most common, providing increased strength, speed, and pain tolerance. It's also the most straightforward to channel—primitive, brutal, effective.*

  "But dangerous," I add, thinking of all the times my own rage nearly led to disaster.

  *Indeed. Rage is the most likely to consume its user, to burn through control and leave only the beast behind. But there are others. Hope provides enhanced endurance and healing. Love—rarely used in combat—offers perfect coordination and timing. Disgust can generate remarkable resistance to toxins and environmental hazards.*

  "And Harald—I—use rage?"

  *Yes. You are what the Ororin call a rage-gifted. Your capacity to channel rage exceeds most others, which is both blessing and curse. It makes you a superb warrior but requires constant vigince lest the rage consume you entirely.*

  I ugh without humor, the sound harsh in the metallic confines of the quarters. "That's been the story of my life. Even before... this." I gesture at my current form. "Always fighting to keep the anger in check."

  *Perhaps that's why you've adapted so well to Harald's body. Your experiences have prepared you for this existence.*

  A thought occurs to me. "This training the Skirl mentioned—what will it involve?"

  *Combat training, certainly. Tactical education. Ship operations. Crew management. The Ororin value leadership that comes from skill and knowledge, not just birthright or strength.*

  I nod slowly, trying to imagine myself commanding a vessel of space Vikings. The idea should be terrifying, but instead, I feel a strange anticipation building. The rage simmers contentedly beneath my consciousness, as if approving of this new direction.

  "One more question," I say, fatigue finally catching up with me. My eyelids feel heavy, my limbs weighted with exhaustion. "These Imperial forces we fought—who are they? What's this war about?"

  *The Gactic Imperium is the dominant power in this sector of space—organized, technological, expansionist. The Ororin cns raid their territories, taking resources and technology while maintaining their independence. It's a conflict that has persisted for generations.*

  "And which side is right?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  *Right?* Soulrender's mental ugh is like breaking gss. *There is no right in war, Jason-who-is-Harald. There is only victory or defeat. Dominance or submission. The Imperium seeks to impose order on all species, to bring them under central control. The Ororin fight to remain free, to follow their own ways. Both believe their cause is just.*

  I lie back on the sleeping ptform, staring at the metal ceiling. The surface is dull gray, marked with small imperfections and tiny dents—a history of previous occupants written in subtle damage. "And where do I fit into all this?"

  *That,* Soulrender replies, *is entirely up to you. You stand at a crossroads now. You can either embrace this new existence, with all its potential for power and dominance, or you can resist it, clinging to the memory of what you once were.*

  "A blind man with anger issues," I mutter, the words bitter on my tongue.

  *Or a warrior with purpose,* Soulrender counters. *Sleep now, Jason-who-is-Harald. Tomorrow, your new life truly begins.*

  As exhaustion cims me, I find myself wondering if any of this is real. Perhaps I'm in a coma somewhere, my brain creating this eborate fantasy as it slowly shuts down. Or maybe I really did die, and this is some bizarre afterlife.

  But the weight of the sword's presence in my mind, the residual ache in muscles pushed beyond normal limits, the lingering taste of blood in my mouth—all feel too substantial to be mere hallucination.

  Whatever this is, wherever I am, I'm here now. And for the first time in my life, the rage within me doesn't feel like a curse but a gift—a weapon to be wielded with precision rather than feared.

  As consciousness fades, I hear Soulrender's voice one st time, a whisper at the edge of awareness:

  *Dream well, my new partner. Tomorrow, we begin to forge our legend among the stars.*