Blood was everywhere, but no one moved to help him.
He stayed seated on the throne, one hand pressed against his stomach where Marix's blade had gone in. It wasn't shock that kept him still. It was the way they were all watching — silent, steady — like this was something they'd been waiting to do for years.
Marix stood closest. His sword was still in his hand, the tip lowered but not clean. Behind him, the rest of the council stood in a half-circle. Generals, ministers, people he'd raised to power. None of them looked away.
"You could've talked to me," he said, his voice rough.
"You wouldn't listen," Marix replied.
"I would've," the king said. "You just never tried."
Marix's jaw flexed, but he didn't answer.
The queen stepped forward. No crown, no gown. Just plain clothes and that same steady look. She came close enough for him to smell the faint trace of whatever tea she'd been drinking earlier. For a moment, he thought she might change her mind.
"I did love you," she said quietly.
He stared at her, but her expression didn't break. She turned and walked away.
He laughed once — not from humor, but because it felt ridiculous that after everything, it ended like this.
Marix raised the sword again.
"I hope you're ready," the king said.
"We'll manage," Marix replied.
Then there was nothing but the flash of steel.
He woke up choking.
Cold air flooded his lungs. He rolled onto his side and coughed until his chest ached. The ground beneath him wasn't marble anymore. It was rough stone, damp enough to leave his hands wet when he pushed himself up.
He blinked a few times. The room was dim and cramped, the ceiling cracked in places. His breathing was loud here.
When he looked down at his hands, he froze. They weren't hands — not human ones. They were longer, narrower, clawed. The fingers twitched on their own.
"What the hell…"
A voice spoke directly in his head.
"Welcome back, Crownless Heir. You died. Again."
He straightened sharply, scanning the corners. No one was there.
"Sequence I: Broken Heir. Trial begins in seventy-two hours."
"Who's talking?" he demanded.
"The one giving you a second chance. Try not to waste it."
He stumbled to his feet. His balance was wrong, like his legs didn't belong to him. He took a step toward the wall for support and caught his reflection in a cracked mirror leaning against it.
The face staring back was pale, almost grey. The eyes glowed faintly. The jawline was sharper than he remembered, the teeth a little too pointed. It was him, but it wasn't.
"You changed me."
"You weren't worth reviving as you were."
His gaze flicked to the far corner, where a pile of bones sat in a heap. Some were clean. Others still had scraps of flesh.
He moved to the only door — wooden, warped, hanging by one hinge — and pushed it open. It groaned but didn't break. A hallway stretched out, lined with faded banners he almost recognized. He started walking.
The footsteps came minutes later — slow, dragging. He stopped and waited.
A man appeared at the other end. Thin. Wrapped in loose cloth. His head was bent, but when he saw the king, he stopped too.
"You shouldn't be here," the man said.
"I keep hearing that," the king replied.
The man came closer until the king could see the clouded eyes, the cracked skin.
"You're one of them," the man said. "The reborn."
The king didn't answer.
"They'll hunt you," the man continued. "No one likes the idea of someone getting a second chance."
"I'll deal with it."
The man smiled faintly, like he'd heard that before from someone else.
"There's a trial coming," he said. "You'll fail it without help."
"I don't need help."
"You will."
The man reached into his robe and took out a small stone. It pulsed with a dim light.
"Take it," he said.
The king hesitated, then did. The stone was warm.
"It'll show you something you've forgotten," the man said. "But only once."
"What's your name?"
The man shook his head. "Won't matter after tonight."
The hallway ended at a staircase that twisted upward. He climbed, one hand dragging along the wall for balance. At the top was a heavy door. He shoved it open.
Outside, the world stretched wide. The sky was a dull grey. The ground cracked and uneven. Some trees in the distance looked twisted, as though they'd grown away from something instead of toward the sun.
And far off, a city. Tall, lit with strange lights. It didn't look like his empire. It didn't look like anywhere he knew.
A gust of wind sent a piece of paper skidding across the dirt until it caught on his foot. He picked it up.
It was a wanted poster.
His old face stared back at him. Crown on his head. Robes over his shoulders. That familiar, dangerous smirk.
DEAD.
He folded it and slid it into his pocket.
The voice in his head returned.
"Trial of Echoes will begin soon."
"What is it?"
"Your death. Again. But you can change it this time."
"And if I fail?"
"You die. Properly."
He looked at the city again, then back at the door behind him.
"Fine," he said. "Let's start."
The ground beneath him shifted.
One blink and he was back in the throne room — but not exactly. The air shimmered. The faces of his council were blurred at the edges. The banners were wrong. It felt heavier here, like the room itself remembered what was about to happen.
Marix stepped forward, blade in hand. The queen stood just behind him, her gaze locked on the king. It was almost exactly as it had happened. Almost.
The voice spoke.
"Change your ending."
The king moved before Marix could reach him. His body felt lighter, faster. He kicked the steps in front of the throne and forced himself forward, aiming for the side where there was space between two guards.
One swung a spear toward him. He caught it under his arm, wrenched it free, and slammed the butt into the man's ribs. Another came from his left, but he ducked low, swept the man's legs, and took his blade.
Marix was already turning, expression tight.
"You're not him," Marix said.
The king grinned. "Close enough."
He lunged.
Steel met steel. Marix was strong, but the king wasn't playing for a long fight. He batted the sword aside and drove the hilt of his stolen blade into Marix's jaw. The general stumbled, but didn't fall.
The queen's voice cut through. "It won't matter."
"Maybe not to you," the king said. "But it will to me."
The scene shifted mid-step. The throne room faded. He was back outside, on the cracked ground, breathing hard like he'd been running.
"Interesting," the voice said. "You chose to fight."
"Was there another option?"
"Begging."
He didn't answer. He looked at the city again, then down at his claws.
Seventy-two hours.
That was all the time he had to figure out the rules.
And this time, no one was taking the throne from him.