As he lay in his own blood, his body growing numb, the last thing he heard was the sound of his brother and wife moaning on their wedding night.
His world shattered.
His eyelids fluttered, his vision blurring, but his ears, they did not fail him. The rhythmic sounds of betrayal rang louder than the rushing blood in his head. His fingers twitched weakly, but his strength was gone.
His consciousness drifted away, swallowed by the endless void. His heart gave one last, desperate beat.
And then it stopped.
—
In the stillness of death, something stirred.
Within the chest pocket of his bloodied robes, the necklace pulsed faintly.
A soft red glow, barely noticeable, flickered for the briefest moment. The space around it twisted subtly, the very air warping at its presence.
Then
The light dimmed once more.
He felt everything and nothing at once.
It was as if his very being had unraveled, stretched across existence itself, weightless and infinite. He had no form, no body, only a consciousness drifting in an endless abyss, neither alive nor dead.
And then
Click.
A faint sound.
Click. Click.
It came again, sharper this time, like the grinding of metal against metal. A chain dragging across stone.
His senses snapped back like a whip.
A heavy weight pulled at his wrists. His vision was dark, blurred, but it was there. Shapes. Movement. His breathing was ragged, uneven, his body cold.
He blinked.
Chains.
Thick, rusted iron shackled his wrists, the coarse metal biting into his skin. A matching set bound his ankles, their weight unbearable, sinking him deeper into the rough, uneven ground beneath him.
His breath hitched.
What's happening? he thought, his pulse pounding in his ears.
He lifted his hands, foreign hands.
The skin was rough, dirt-caked, his fingers thinner than he remembered. He flexed them, the motion stiff and unnatural. These were not his hands.
His stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
I was supposed to be dead.
His breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at his hands. These were not his hands.
His fingers, once strong and calloused from years of wielding a sword, were now thinner, rougher, caked with dirt and old scars. His skin, once kissed by the golden light of his palace halls, was now ghostly pale beneath layers of grime. His wrists ached beneath the biting weight of thick, rusted chains.
What's happening? he murmured, his voice hoarse, almost unrecognizable. His gaze fell to the heavy shackles binding him, the cold iron digging into his skin like a cruel brand of servitude.
His thoughts swirled in confusion, but before he could grasp a single answer—
CRACK!
A searing pain tore across his back. His body jerked forward as the force of the impact sent shockwaves through his spine. He sucked in a sharp breath, his vision blurring for a second.
"Keep moving," a rough voice ordered.
He turned his head, his eyes locking onto the figure standing behind him. A soldier. His armor was crude, his expression devoid of sympathy. In his hand, he held a long, coiled whip, the tip stained dark with blood, his blood.
The soldier's grip tightened as he lifted the whip again.
But before it could strike, he took a shaky step forward. His body protested, the fresh wound on his back screaming with pain, but he ignored it.
He walked.
Only then did the soldier lower his weapon, his sneer lingering before he turned his attention elsewhere.
As he moved, his mind raced to piece together his reality. The dim cavernous walls, the distant clang of pickaxes striking stone, the scent of sweat and despair hanging in the thick, damp air, it was undeniable.
He was a slave.
But how?
His fingers brushed against his throat, searching. Then….
A chain. A pendant.
His breath hitched as his fingertips traced the shape of a necklace. It was old, the chain dulled with age, but at its center rested a crystal.
A red crystal.
The necklace.
The one I made… for Eliza—
His throat tightened, the name catching like a thorn in his chest.
For her.
He had spent a year purifying that crystal, perfecting it, ensuring it was no longer corrupted. It had been meant for her, for the woman he…
His stomach churned.
But now, now the crystal was dim.
The once-radiant glow, the way it used to wrap the very air around it in a subtle distortion—it was all gone.
The realization struck him like a blade to the gut.
The crystal had been used.
It reincarnated me.
His grip tightened around the dull crystal as he lifted his gaze.
A long line of slaves in chains stretched before him, their figures slouched, their bodies battered by exhaustion. Bare feet dragged against the cold stone floor, their shackles rattling with each sluggish step.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and despair.
He turned his head slightly, looking behind him. More of them. Rows upon rows of prisoners, bound together like cattle to the slaughter.
But then, a pair of eyes met his.
A young girl, perhaps sixteen, with tangled red hair and a face smudged with dirt. Unlike the others, whose eyes were hollow and lifeless, hers held something different. Recognition? Curiosity? Fear?
Whatever it was, he didn't care.
He tore his gaze away, ignoring her, and faced forward once more.
His mind churned with bitter realization.
His brother must have started the war.
That was the only explanation.
The northern kingdoms had been growing restless, uniting under a single banner, their thirst for conquest insatiable. He had refused to strike first, unwilling to bathe the land in unnecessary bloodshed.
But now, now his brother had done what he would not.
And to fuel that war, they needed crystals.
Crystals that lay deep within the mines, their power worth more than gold, their corruption ignored in the name of greed.
Which meant
More slaves.
The weak, the conquered, the unfortunate forced into servitude, their lives exchanged for weapons, for blood, for war.
A sharp rage bubbled in his chest, but he swallowed it down.
That bastard.
He clenched his fists.
There was no point in seething over the past.
What mattered now was getting out of here.
His sharp gaze swept his surroundings, searching for any weakness, any opening.
Nothing.
Just walls of rock, jagged and unyielding. And worse, he wasn't just bound. He was linked to every other prisoner, the heavy chains locking them all together.
If he made a move now, he'd drag everyone down with him.
He exhaled slowly, pushing down his frustration.
Fine.
For now, he would play alon
g.
He would wait.
See where they were taking them.
And when the time was right.
He would act.