The first breath burned.
Lucian Ardelion shot upright, chest heaving as though dragged from the depths of a river. His throat convulsed, hands flying to his neck. No cut. No blood. No executioner's axe.
Only smooth skin and the frantic hammering of his heart.
He gasped again, choking on air, eyes wild. Light speared his vision—sunlight, warm and golden, spilling across polished wood. Not the scaffold. Not the gallows square. Not the stink of iron and rot.
He knew this place.
With trembling hands, Lucian pushed back the sheets and stumbled to his feet. His knees wobbled, nearly buckling, but he staggered forward, reaching. His fingers traced the carved frame of the desk, the shelves lined with books, the old ink blotches on parchment stacked carelessly.
His room.
The chamber of his boyhood.
"No…" His voice cracked, weak, but the denial sounded hollow even to his ears.
He staggered toward the mirror mounted on the far wall. The boy who stared back stole the breath from his lungs.
A face unlined by age, unmarred by scars. Skin pale but smooth. Hair thick, dark, untamed. No bloodshot exhaustion in his eyes, no hollow grief carved into his features. Fifteen. Barely grown. A youth on the cusp of manhood.
He touched the glass, fingertips trembling against the reflection.
"I… I'm back."
The words left him in a rasp.
Memories surged—sharp, jagged, merciless. The roar of the mob, the bite of chains, the jeering laughter of nobles, the weight of the axe. His brother's corpse dragged from the river. His sister's lifeless eyes. His mother's pale body carried from her chamber.
And through it all, the silken whispers of Chancellor Malrik Veynar, the venom in Duke Renard Kaldros's smirk.
His stomach lurched. He bent forward, retching, though nothing came up.
When the wave passed, he pressed a hand to the mirror, chest shuddering.
"Fifteen," he whispered. "Gods damn you all… fifteen."
The laugh that broke from him was sharp and cracked, too brittle to be joy. Half hysteria, half disbelief.
Yet beneath the madness, a new clarity coiled. He was not dead. He was not dreaming. Somehow, he had been hurled backward into the body of his younger self, carrying every scar of memory with him.
Not a curse. A chance.
He drew in a ragged breath, forcing his laughter into silence. His reflection steadied—though his eyes gleamed with something the boy of fifteen had never known: cold resolve.
"This time," he swore, voice low, "I will not walk blind. I will not kneel. And I will not forgive."
The door burst open.
"Brother!"
Lucian spun.
A boy of twelve bounded into the room, his cheeks still round with youth, his golden-brown hair catching sunlight. He skidded to a halt, eyes wide with concern.
"Lucian, you're awake at last! You've been sleeping half the morning. Father was—"
The rest of the words died on Lucian's ears. His chest constricted so violently it hurt.
"Adrian…"
His younger brother stood before him—alive. Breathing. Bright-eyed and full of the same reckless energy that, in another life, had carried him laughing down to the river… only for servants to find his body washed ashore days later.
Lucian staggered toward him, almost disbelieving, as though touching him might cause the vision to dissolve. Adrian blinked.
"Brother? Are you—"
Lucian seized him in an embrace. The boy stiffened in shock.
"L-Lucian?"
His throat closed. For a moment, the Crownless Prince—the man who had died upon the scaffold—could not speak. He held Adrian tighter, the warmth of his living body burning against his chest.
Alive. His brother was alive.
He forced the storm in his heart to still. With effort, he drew back, smoothing his expression into calm. The cold mask returned.
"I'm fine," Lucian said quietly.
Adrian tilted his head, frowning. "You look pale."
"I'm simply… tired."
It was half truth, half shield. He could not—would not—reveal the weight of what had returned with him.
Adrian brightened anyway, grinning in the way only a younger brother could. "Well, then you must come eat. Mother said if you skip another meal, she'll have the maids drag you to the hall."
Lucian's chest tightened again. Mother.
He nodded, controlling his voice. "I'll come."
Adrian darted toward the door. "Hurry, then. Father has summoned the council later. The whole house will be gathered."
And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Lucian stood frozen, breath shallow.
Mother alive. Adrian alive. Elara too…
The thought nearly buckled him. His family lived again, and with them, the chance to protect what once had crumbled.
But even as warmth stirred in his chest, a darker memory wound around it like barbed wire. The mocking faces of nobles. The whispers of conspirators. The blade's fall.
They had destroyed House Ardelion once. He would not let them again.
He washed and dressed in silence, choosing plain attire rather than the gaudy silks he had once favored at this age. Vanity had blinded him then, making him a peacock for his enemies to laugh at. That boy was gone.
When he entered the dining hall, the sight stopped him cold.
At the head of the table sat Emperor Kael Ardelion, his father, stern features etched with authority. Though Kael was not yet gray, his eyes held the same distance Lucian remembered—the gaze of a ruler who trusted advisors more than his own son.
Beside him, in flowing silver robes, sat Empress Selene. Her beauty remained untouched by time, though worry lined her brow. In Lucian's first life, she had died within two years—poisoned, though the court had whispered of illness.
At the far side, laughing softly as servants filled her cup, was Elara Ardelion, his sister. Sixteen, radiant, her poise already courtly. She had been bartered in marriage to cement alliances… then silenced when she grew inconvenient.
Lucian gripped the chair before him until his knuckles whitened.
Alive. All of them.
He lowered himself into his seat with careful composure, though his insides churned.
Selene's eyes softened. "Lucian. You're pale."
He inclined his head. "A restless night."
His father snorted. "Then you should keep to your training. A prince does not afford weakness."
The old Lucian would have bristled, eager to prove himself. The boy desperate for approval, blind to the knife behind every compliment.
This Lucian only bowed his head. "Yes, Father."
Kael grunted, satisfied, and returned to his meal.
As conversation flowed around him, Lucian studied each face. Not with a boy's careless gaze, but with the eyes of a man who had seen their deaths. His chest ached, but his mind sharpened.
They will live, he swore. But to keep them safe, I must become the monster my enemies fear.
That night, when all was quiet, Lucian sat at his desk, quill poised over parchment. He mapped names across the page—Malrik Veynar, Renard Kaldros, Sylara Veynar—each letter etched with venom.
One by one, he circled them, drawing lines between. The web that had strangled his house in the first life.
But this time, he would cut the threads before they tightened.
His hand paused over one name in particular: Adrian.
He stared at it for a long time, jaw clenched.
Then, slowly, he drew a ring around it. Not of threat, but of vow.
Never again.
The candle guttered. Shadows swallowed the room.
And in the silence, Lucian Ardelion smiled—the cold smile of a boy who had once died, and now lived again, armed with memory and sharpened with vengeance.