Morning light spilled through the small window as Ethan pulled himself from bed. His muscles ached in unfamiliar ways–this younger body was unaccustomed to the movements his mind wanted to make. He flexed his fingers, still surprised by their smoothness, before heading downstairs.
The forge glowed orange, Owen's massive shadow dancing against the wall as he worked the metal with practiced strikes.
"Finally awake," Owen grunted without looking up. "Tools need sharpening before midday. Miller's horseshoes won't forge themselves, and Fletcher wants his delivery by sundown."
Ethan nodded and grabbed the whetstone. "I'll start with the axes."
The rhythm of the work filled the morning – metal against stone, the hiss of hot iron in water, Owen's occasional gruff instructions. But while Ethan's hands were busy, his mind raced through calculations and strategies.
He couldn't change everything at once. Small adjustments first, careful not to draw attention. The Academy, the Royal Guard, his rise through the ranks–all needed to unfold similarly enough to avoid suspicion. This time, he would watch for the signs he had missed before.
As he sharpened the axe, it slipped, nearly cutting his finger. Owen snorted from across the forge.
"Mind wandering again? That's the third time today you've nearly lost a finger."
Ethan blinked. "Sorry. Just tired."
"Hmph." Owen hammered a glowing horseshoe into shape. "Never seen you this clumsy before."
Ethan's muscles constantly betrayed him. His mind knew exactly how to complete these blacksmith tasks–he had spent years as Owen's apprentice–but this teenage body lacked the strength and coordination he had developed over decades.
The shop door creaked open, bringing a welcome distraction. A weathered farmer entered, cart wheels rattling behind him.
"Morning, Owen. Got that plow blade ready?"
As Owen handled the transaction, the farmer leaned against the doorframe, eyeing Ethan. "Heard the Academy recruiters are heading this way next week. Stopping in every village along the north road."
Ethan nearly dropped the whetstone. He had forgotten how soon the recruiters would arrive. In his first life, they had appeared without warning, testing village youths for combat aptitude. His natural talent had earned him a spot despite his common birth.
"Academy recruiters?" he asked, trying to sound merely curious.
Owen glanced over. "Aye. They come through every year looking for new blood. Mostly nobles, but occasionally a commoner catches their eye."
The farmer chuckled. "My nephew tried last year. Came home with bruised pride and a broken wrist. Those Academy guards don't go easy during testing."
After the farmer left, Ethan forced himself to focus on his tasks, but his mind kept drifting to the critical memory that had led to his downfall: the day he discovered evidence of blood rituals performed by the royal family in a hidden chamber beneath the palace. He had loyally reported his findings to King Thaddeus, believing his years of service would be respected. Three days later, he was arrested for treason.
"You're burning that metal," Owen snapped, pulling Ethan back to the present.
The afternoon dragged as Ethan mentally cataloged everyone he would meet at the Academy. Master Donovan would become his sword instructor–a gruff mentor who might become an ally if approached carefully. Maya Thornfield, the Chancellor's daughter, had helped uncover corruption in his previous life. Alexander Valerian, the fourth prince, would be his greatest rival. Lydia Hayes – her true heritage as the last descendant of the rightful royal line had only been revealed in the final days before his execution.
This time, he would recognize them all immediately.
"Need to deliver these to the fletcher," Owen said, handing Ethan a wrapped bundle. "Then we'll have dinner."
The walk through the village gave Ethan a moment to breathe. Everything looked so peaceful–so oblivious to the corruption festering at the kingdom's heart, the blood magic slowly poisoning the land.
After dinner, Ethan wiped his hands on a rag. "Mind if I get some air?"
Owen grunted, already cleaning his tools for the night. "Don't stay out late. Early start tomorrow."
The small clearing behind the forge provided perfect privacy, hidden by a stand of trees from curious eyes. Ethan picked up a fallen branch about the length of a practice sword, feeling its weight.
He moved through the basic forms that should have been instinctive after decades of training, but his body felt awkward, uncoordinated. The muscle memory simply wasn't there.
"Damn it," he muttered, repeating a simple parry that felt unnatural.
A sharp burning sensation flared in his right palm. Ethan hissed, opening his hand to see the sword-shaped scar glowing silver in the fading light.
The connection tugged at his mind–a strange sensation he had briefly felt during his execution.
Acting on instinct rather than knowledge, he focused on the scar, channeling his thoughts into it.
The air shimmered, and a sword materialized in his hand–the Kingmaker Blade.
Ethan nearly dropped it in shock. The weapon hummed with power–a perfectly balanced silver blade with a sapphire in the hilt that emitted a subtle glow. Despite his untrained body, it felt right in his hand.
He swung it experimentally, marveling at how natural it felt. The blade sliced through the air with a soft whistle, leaving a faint silver trail that quickly faded.
Testing its edge, Ethan touched it to a small branch. The blade passed through effortlessly, the cut end smoldering slightly.
With a thought, the blade vanished, leaving only the warm scar on his palm. Another thought, and it reappeared.
"Ethan! Where are you, boy?" Owen's voice called from the direction of the forge.
Quickly dismissing the blade, Ethan hurried back, his mind spinning with possibilities. The blade had followed him from his execution, somehow bonded to him through death and rebirth. With proper training to strengthen this body and access to the Academy's knowledge, he might uncover what other abilities it held.
As he approached the forge, Ethan noticed a notice nailed to the village board–an official announcement of the Academy recruitment. Owen stood before it, arms crossed.
"Thinking of trying your luck?" the blacksmith asked as Ethan joined him.
Ethan studied the royal seal at the bottom of the notice–the same seal that had marked his death warrant. "Yes," he said quietly. "I think I am."
Owen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Something's different about you lately."
Ethan's heart skipped a beat. Had he revealed too much already?