Part 1 — The Forgotten Corpse
A sharp, copper tang filled Auren's nostrils as consciousness clawed its way into him.
Why… does everything ache?
He tried to move. Pain lashed across his chest like a whip. His ribs cracked. A cough escaped his lips, wet and thick—blood. He tasted metal and something fouler.
Still alive.
The realization came slow. So did the memories—what little of them remained.
He lay on cold stone. A prison? No, too quiet for that. The air stank of mildew and rot, of a tomb long forgotten.
His fingers twitched. Broken nails scraped against hardened earth, rough with dried blood. His breath came shallow, labored, but each inhale confirmed it: he was no longer dead.
A light flickered somewhere above. Pale, weak—moonlight slipping through broken tiles in the ceiling. Shadows stretched across cracked pillars and shattered statues. Ivy strangled what remained of them.
Where the hell am I?
He blinked and pushed himself upright, arms trembling. His body was wrong—too lean, too young. The limbs were familiar, yet… not his.
When he looked down, it hit him.
This wasn't his body.
His hands—pale, bony, and small—belonged to a youth. His chest was wrapped in filthy bandages, fresh blood seeping through. Scars trailed his arms, old and recent. His black hair was matted with sweat and dirt.
Auren stared at his reflection in a puddle beside him.
The face that stared back was not the one he had died with.
This boy had hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, and a ragged scar across his collarbone. But the eyes… ah, those eyes glimmered with starlight—his soul.
He remembered.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough.
He had died a god.
Once called the Midnight Sovereign, he'd commanded stormfire with a thought, bent empires to his will, and bathed in the moans of queens who gave up thrones for one more night beneath him.
He had torn out hearts with whispers.
He had cursed gods with a smirk.
And yet—someone had killed him.
A betrayal. A memory buried in fog.
The last thing he recalled was a kiss. Sweet. Poisoned. Familiar.
Then the cold.
Then… nothing.
Now?
He was reborn. Weak. Mortal. Forgotten.
Auren staggered to his feet and gripped a vine-covered column for balance.
Footsteps echoed in the distance.
He stiffened, ears straining. The steps were soft—graceful even. Not a soldier. Not a brute.
No. These were the steps of someone delicate.
Feminine.
He slid behind a crumbled statue just as the figure entered.
A torch flared to life.
Auren's breath caught.
She was tall, cloaked in silver and blue, her moon-pale hair braided with frost-dust crystals. Her ears were long—elven. Her eyes glowed with power.
And hatred.
"This is the place the humans buried him?" she muttered, brushing a hand over the altar. Her voice was elegant, precise. Deadly.
"No wonder they forgot their prince. This tomb reeks of failure."
Auren froze.
Prince…?
The elf turned, revealing more of her flawless face—high cheekbones, icy lips, and a narrow mark of nobility inked in silver just below her left eye.
She wasn't alone.
Another figure entered, this one clad in knight's armor.
"Lady Lyrielle, we shouldn't linger," the knight said. "If the exile is alive, he won't last long without care."
Lyrielle scoffed. "Let the bastard rot. The only thing Auren Valemir ever ruled was a bottle of wine and his father's disappointment."
Auren's blood went cold.
This body… belonged to a disgraced prince?
And that name—Auren Valemir—was now his own.
But why did her voice sound so personal?
He narrowed his eyes, staying hidden.
Lyrielle moved closer to the altar, placing something atop it.
A necklace.
Gold, delicate, with a crystal teardrop pendant.
"I owe you nothing," she whispered, a tremor in her voice. "But I'll give you this."
The elf turned and walked away, the torchlight casting shadows behind her.
When she was gone, Auren stepped from hiding and approached the altar.
The necklace shimmered.
He picked it up, and as his fingers closed around it, memories surged through him—not from his past life, but this one.
Flashes of laughter. Her smile. Her lips on his.
Then…
A blade through his back.
Her hand on the hilt.
His body went cold again.
She had kissed him the night she stabbed him.
Part 2 — The Kiss of Treason
The pendant pulsed in his hand.
Auren staggered back as images flooded his mind—fragmented memories bleeding from the body's past life into his.
It wasn't just betrayal.
It was intimate.
Lyrielle hadn't just known this body—she had desired it. Kissed him beneath starlight in the gardens of Winterglen Palace. Whispered secrets in Elvish against his throat. Laughed when no one else did.
She had loved him.
And then she'd thrust a dagger between his ribs.
Why?
That answer still eluded him. But rage did not wait for clarity. It boiled, fresh and scalding, down his spine.
Auren clenched the necklace and stepped away from the altar.
No time to linger in sentiment.
He was alive.
And he would make them all remember that.
Part 3 — The Memory of Power
Outside the tomb, the cold bit deep. Snow coated the ground in a fine white sheet, untouched except for a single trail of footprints.
Lyrielle's.
He followed from a distance, limping, half-broken—but silent. A shadow reborn.
The trees were ancient here, their branches twisted like claws. He recognized none of the flora, none of the terrain. This wasn't the empire he once ruled.
The boy he now inhabited had been banished to the borderlands of the realm.
Forgotten.
Weak.
It fit the narrative.
A disgraced prince sent to die in exile. No funeral. No soldiers. Just silence. The perfect cover for rebirth.
He would have to rebuild. In secret. Slowly.
But Auren Valemir was no stranger to patience.
A creek whispered through the woods ahead. A small camp lay nestled between rocky ridges, protected by spell wards. He saw Lyrielle leaning near the fire, brushing snow from her shoulders. The knight was asleep, helmet resting beside him.
Auren crouched behind a thicket.
He could kill her.
He wanted to.
His fingers itched to wrap around her throat, to choke the truth out of her mouth until she confessed why she had smiled while she stabbed him.
But he didn't move.
Not yet.
Because her words echoed still: Let the bastard rot.
She didn't know he had awakened.
Let her believe that, he thought. Let her think I'm a ghost. Let her sleep soundly while the noose tightens day by day.
He would watch. Learn.
Seduce if he must.
Break her.
And when she begged for forgiveness?
He would make her scream his name—like a prayer. Or a curse.
Part 4 — The Enemy's Blood
He waited until they rode off the next morning before crawling from the woods. His body was deteriorating. His ribs shifted when he walked. Magic flickered in his soul, but barely. Like a candle in the wind.
He needed food. Shelter. A plan.
And power.
The town of Dunhollow lay five miles west, according to the memory fragments bleeding through from the body's past life. It was a mining town—poor, dangerous, lawless.
Perfect.
The tavern was named The Rusted Fang. A fitting place for men who'd lost their bite.
Auren pushed open the door, cloaked in rags, hood low. The stench of ale, sweat, and failure hit him like a wall.
He walked to the counter.
The bartender, a one-eyed brute with a cleaver strapped to his back, grunted. "You paying or bleeding?"
Auren slid the elven pendant across the bar. "Gold chain. Enchanted gem. Worth more than you make in a year."
The man's good eye widened. He snatched it up and bit the chain. "Elven work."
"Food. Drink. Room. And silence," Auren said. "No one saw me come in."
The bartender nodded slowly.
"You got a name, stranger?"
Auren smiled faintly.
"Not yet."
Part 5 — Seduction of Silence
Night fell. The tavern emptied slowly. Auren sat in the shadows near the hearth, sipping watered wine. He had eaten, washed, and bandaged his wounds.
He would survive.
But survival wasn't enough.
He needed leverage. Access to the noble houses. To the royal court. To the queen.
That meant women.
He'd seduced sorceresses and queens before. It wasn't their bodies he needed—but their loyalty. Their secrets. Their power.
He'd build his empire one lover at a time.
And the first?
She was already in his grasp.
Auren stepped out into the back alley behind the inn. Snow drifted in the moonlight. That's when he heard the scream.
A girl.
Close.
He moved fast, ignoring the pain.
Around the corner, a young woman fought off two cloaked men. One held her down. The other ripped at her dress.
"Help!" she screamed.
The attacker slapped her. "Shut up, priest-bitch—"
Auren's hand snapped forward.
Darkness exploded from his palm, slamming into the thug and pinning him to the wall with a shadowy spear through the gut.
The other spun, blade out.
Too slow.
Auren ducked low, grabbed the man's arm, and twisted. Bones cracked. He drove his knee into the thug's throat.
Silence.
Blood steamed on the snow.
The girl gasped, clutching her torn robe.
"Wh-what did you—?"
Auren stepped close.
Her skin was golden. Eyes silver with faint glyphs glowing along her cheeks.
A star-priestess.
Rare. Holy. Forbidden from physical intimacy under divine oath.
He smiled.
She stared, breathless.
"You… saved me."
"No," he said quietly. "I interrupted."
She blinked.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"…Serenya."
He leaned close, brushing a lock of hair from her face. She flinched but didn't pull away.
"You're safe now, Serenya."
Her lips trembled.
"Thank you…"
Her eyes locked on his, wide with a trembling vulnerability that tasted like possibility.
Not tonight. But soon.
She would fall.
Like the others.
One by one.
Part 6 — The Game Begins
Back in the tavern, Auren sat alone.
He now had shelter. Money. A powerful future ally. And a lead on the elven court, where Lyrielle would return.
All he needed was time.
They had cast him away. Killed him. Laughed as he fell.
Let them laugh.
Let them sleep.
Let them kiss their lovers goodnight, unaware that their doom had already risen.
And when the Midnight Sovereign stood atop their shattered thrones?
They would whisper his name again.
Not in hatred.
Not in fear.
But in desire.