Chapter 2: Echoes of the Living Dead
Zen awoke gasping, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving like he had been drowning in something deeper than water. The sky above was too wide, too quiet. No palace. No blood. Just the whispering grass of the Celestial Rift swaying under an endless sea of stars.
He sat up slowly. The weight of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Alive. Whole. Young?
He looked at his hands—no scars. The sigil of House Raelthorn still unburned on his wrist. His mind raced through memories that didn't belong in this time: Seraphine's poisoned kiss, Lyra's final words, Kaelira's eyes right before they closed forever.
"No... this isn't possible," he muttered.
But the magic in his blood pulsed like it had waited centuries to come alive again. He could feel it—stronger than before. Wiser. Sharper.
It wasn't a dream. It was a second chance.
He climbed to his feet, shaky but determined. Every breeze felt like a ghost brushing past him. The stars above shimmered as though watching.
He remembered Seraphine's voice. Cold. Final.
He remembered Lyra's betrayal—not in rage, but in reason.
And Kaelira. The only one who never raised a hand. The only one who never needed to.
Zen clenched his fist. This time, he would see the truth sooner. Hold onto what mattered longer.
This time, he would rewrite every line of fate.
Even if it burned the world.