My room was just as I remembered. A closet overflowing with clothes. A large black and white bed.
Shelves of books I had never read. Swords hung along the walls, each one resting in perfect alignment.
And above my desk, my mirror, smudged with streaks of blood. I sat down in my chair and studied myself carefully.
I was eighteen. Five years had passed since the death of my parents, the late queen and king of this kingdom.
Anstalionah had been destined to be ruled by me and the woman they chose to be my bride.
Mirabel Barbovasasti. A high-ranking noble from a coastal border city. She had accepted the arrangement gratefully.
She found medicine to ease my condition and had taken it upon herself to train me.
I slowly raised my hand and rubbed oil from my drawer onto the bruise forming on my cheek.
My powers allowed me to heal others, to revert wounds and mend broken flesh, but never myself. I had tried countless times while hunted, but it never worked.
And yet here I was. Transported back in time. Resurrected. Absurd. Truly absurd.
Hearing voices wasn't exactly a sign of sanity either. I had never been entirely stable mentally.
[Nicholas was a foolish man. He fed himself lies to cope.]
Ignoring the harsh remark from within, I realized that my resurrection was only the beginning.
I had been a terrible prince, unruly and reckless. But under Mirabel's guidance, I had been tamed. Made into a healer.
I even worked for the Golden Authority, allowing them into the kingdom and overseeing the construction of their church.
All of that had happened once already in this life.
Now, I had the opportunity to live it again, differently. I hadn't yet revealed my abilities publicly, only to Mirabel.
And while the Golden Authority already had a base in the capital, I could now monitor them directly.
[Nicholas was going to change his fate. His destined death would be rewritten.]
I exhaled slowly, letting the air carry the weight from my chest. The only unpleasant part of this reset was that I was still somewhat of a prick.
For example, forcing Mirabel to share a room with me.
I glanced at the bed. A pink pillow rested among the otherwise monochrome bedding.
She loved pink and red, the color of roses. Roses untouched by me, of course.
I had walked this room in another life. The exact grain of wood beneath my feet, the scent of lavender oil in the dresser, even the scratch on the corner of the mirror.
Yet now, every familiar detail felt subtly foreign. I wasn't merely back. I was changed.
Something inside me had broken, healed, and reformed into something colder, sharper, more dangerous.
It wasn't as though Mirabel could ever hate me. She loved me, deeply. But she was… unpredictable.
While I had been a brat, she had been something else entirely, unpredictable and fierce.
I sensed her presence and turned toward the door. The doorknob twisted, and she entered, tying her long hair into a bun as she looked down at me.
"Nick, I was really worried back there. You seem different," she said. "Are you under a mind spell?"
I struggled to hold back a laugh. "No, my love. I've simply decided I need to be a good king."
She stared blankly for a moment, then walked past me and flopped onto the bed. "Sorry about the bruises."
I waved her off. "I said not to go easy on me. My body needs to adapt anyway."
Telling her the truth would do no good. If anything, she'd believe me, and that could be far worse.
I sighed and glanced out the window. The sun was setting, and as moonlight filled the room, her eyes shifted. She winced and closed them for a few seconds. Mirabel was strange.
Sometimes, though not always, at night, she transformed completely. It rarely happened during the day. But once, it had, and everyone had seen it.
Her hair turned a deep crimson. She grabbed my shirt. "Don't ever let yourself get pushed around!"
She lifted me into the air. "I'm your lover. I'm not supposed to hit you."
She turned and dropped me back into my seat, and I adjusted my shirt.
She began undoing her top, tugging the buttons free.
"And stop looking at me. I don't like it."
[Nicholas and Mirabel were a strange couple, as they were both completely and utterly insane.]
While I had been controlling, lazy, and bratty, Mirabel had a split personality. In this state, she was harsh and unyielding.
She tossed her bra into my lap and pulled the covers around herself. I quickly averted my gaze.
"Don't bother me. I'm going to sleep. And make sure you give that to the maids."
I sighed, glancing at the clothing on the floor. Picking it up, I added it to a small laundry pile in the closet.
The first thing I needed to do was find a way to halt these erratic mood swings. Sometimes, they struck even while she was flirting with me.
While I resisted most of her late-night provocations, if the situation escalated, she could make me do things I would normally never consider.
I had ordered her to share my bed before I truly understood what she was going through.
I had thought it would bring us closer. What a fool fifteen-year-old me had been.
I had justified her dependence, her breakdowns. I told myself it was love, a love born in chaos, but love nonetheless.
Now I wondered if it had only been fear of loneliness. Perhaps I had forced her to orbit me because I was too afraid of fading into irrelevance.
I looked back at her sleeping form. She snored softly. Normally, she would be forcing me to rub her feet or feed her in bed.
Sometimes, she demanded to be held so tightly it felt like my bones might snap.
Once, I hadn't woken up afterward. It had taken her almost an entire month to stop apologizing.
Walking softly, I lifted the covers and gently set a towel aside. Then I retrieved another towel from the closet, carrying it quietly out of the room.
A few lingering guards and maids looked at me with confusion, though they bowed silently.
Likely due to our reputation, they assumed we were together in ways that flouted the church's expectations.
Despite how often I denied it, I really was just an innocent fool. Then again, I couldn't exactly blame them.
I returned to the room, careful not to wake her, and wiped the blood from her legs with the damp towel. I was gentle, precise, careful not to disturb her further.
Once cleaned, I tucked her back under the covers and stepped into the adjoining restroom.
I hung the towel and paused, surveying the room. My memory was hazy, unsure if we kept extra garments here.
Perhaps after I had switched rooms in my previous life. I had died at twenty-eight… so yes, it had been a while.
This was the year everything changed.
I took one last look around, loosened my shoulders, and began to step out. But there she was, sitting on the bed, undoing her bun while groaning.
She locked eyes with me, then slowly smiled as she rose. The blanket fell from her shoulders as my gaze snapped shut.
"Please cover yourself," I said quickly. "Then maybe head back to sleep?"
I heard nothing. Against my better judgment, I opened my eyes. She was right in front of me, staring.
"You've changed," she said softly. "But I think it came from some moment of clarity. You're no longer your old self."
I chuckled. "You caught on quick. I have changed, and it's for the better."
Her hair fell across her chest just enough that my eyes could finally behave.
"So, will you stop being mean to me when you're like this now? I'm not some brat, not anymore."
She tilted her head, thinking. "You've done nothing of decent value yet."
She pressed her palm against my chest. "Make sure you take your meds."
Then she turned and jumped back into bed, almost instantly falling asleep again.
Sometimes I was amazed at how quickly she could do that, and also at how deeply caring she could be.
[Nicholas saw the cracks in her mask, the fragility he once mistook for strength. But this time, he wouldn't let that be her cage.]
The first thing I needed to change was the assassination attempt. Tonight was the night.
Back then, she had protected me but had been gravely injured. The attacker had used poison and curses. Magic had never been her strong suit.
As a result, she had been sick for a long time. Many problems stemmed from that.
I sighed as I slipped into bed beside her. Looking at her peaceful, sleeping face, I gently ran my fingers across her cheek.
"My little miracle. Don't you wish to see me sing?" I whispered.
[Nicholas was growing a hatred for his previous actions. He would vow to change it all.]
Last time, I had been too passive. I had trusted fate, trusted people, trusted that good intentions were enough. They weren't. Intentions didn't stop knives. And now I knew better.