He woke up choking on the taste of blood-only there was no blood.
He panted, a jolt in his chest, a dull throb behind his ribs like something had caved in. Then came the phantom sensation in his mouth-warm, metallic, clinging to his tongue as if it had never left.
Riel's eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was a deep navy, painted with constellations in gold leaf. It shimmered faintly in the early morning light spilling through parted velvet curtains.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at a sky he hadn't seen in years.
This room.
This bed.
This life.
He lurched upright. The silk sheets tangled around his legs felt too heavy, too soft, too familiar. He stared at his hands-smaller, smoother, untouched by war or grief.
No...
His legs moved before his thoughts could catch up. He stumbled, disoriented, but caught himself quickly. He could feel pain all over his body whenever he moved, but he paid no attention to it.
Across the vast room-past obsidian pillars and carved shelves full of books he once resented-stood the tall mirror inlaid with silver wolves. He approached it cautiously, as if it might vanish.
There he was.
Eleven years old again.
The boy in the mirror had the same dark eyes-deep blue, sharp and stormy-but they looked too large in a face that hadn't yet hardened. His hair was jet black, falling in soft, tousled as always. His body was too narrow, his jaw too soft, and his frame still held the awkwardness of youth. Gone was the scar beneath his right ear, close to his jawline-the one earned at sixteen during a border skirmish. Gone was the weight of a thousand choices.
His fingers moved to touch the glass, as if trying to confirm it. He could feel the pain again as he lifted his arms. A constant reminder that this was real, not a dream.
His whisper cracked in the silence.
"Riley..."
A knock shattered the stillness.
Riel flinched.
"Young Master Riel," came a muffled voice beyond the door. "Your morning routine begins in fifteen minutes. Shall I assist you in preparing?"
His throat constricted. His first instinct was silence.
Then, after a breath:
"...Come in."
The voice that emerged was unfamiliar. Higher. Younger. Thin with disbelief.
The door creaked open to reveal an old butler-Francx-precisely as Riel remembered: tall, greying, with an expression carved from stone. He didn't flinch at the change in Riel's demeanor. Why would he? To him, the boy standing here was exactly where he belonged.
Riel let Francx dress him. Tunic, belt, formal boots. He moved like a puppet, his mind miles away.
Fifteen minutes later, Riel stood alone in the Desillix training yard.
No partners. No spectators. Just stone beneath his feet, cold wind, and a single instructor. What was his name again? Gill? Bill? Riel couldn't care less.
He had several instructors-all average, many just in it for the money. Traditionally, the heir was taught by the current head of the house and the head knight. But neither had the time, so Riel ended up with whoever was available.
Only one man had ever truly earned his respect.
Shrynx.
If this was indeed his eleven-year-old self, then the smug-looking instructor before him would be replaced soon enough.
Riel took the wooden sword in his right hand. It felt light. Too light.
His grip faltered-no calluses, no muscle memory in this body. But his instincts surged forward, older than the bones that carried them. He remembered the pivots, the stances, the breath patterns. He could see every motion before he made it.
By the third set, he was already cutting cleaner than he should. The instructor's expression tightened.
"You've improved," the man muttered, as if he cared.
Riel didn't answer. He already knew. This body was young and soft-but the soul inside it was not.
A quick rinse followed-the sharp scent of mint soap lingering as he changed into formal wear. The uniform fit perfectly. Of course it did. Everything in this house always did.
His reflection in the vanity was composed once again. A Desillix must always appear composed.
But when he sat alone at the long obsidian dining table, the weight returned.
The morning meal was extravagant. Silver platters of cured meats, pastries glazed with citrus, hot black tea poured precisely to the mark. Everything was beautiful. Precise. Soulless.
Riel barely touched it.
Every bite was tasteless. Every texture felt wrong. He sat in a silence so thick he could hear the tick of the wall clock and the faint clink of utensils as unseen servants moved like shadows behind him.
He stared across the table at the empty seat. The one that had always been empty.
It still was.
By midmorning, the tutors arrived like ghosts from a life long past. Each wore stiff collars and tighter expressions, oblivious to the change in the boy before them. They lectured on imperial history, military theory, diplomatic protocol, noble etiquette, and more.
Riel answered every question without hesitation. Not because he studied-he hadn't. Not this version of him.
He remembered.
He remembered all the important history-even that which hadn't happened yet. The siege at Kalversin, the great war with Azakian, the infamous rebellion, and the tragedy of that particular night.
One lecturer asked him about the royal and important nobles lineage. Riel answered without needing to think. He remembered not just their names and positions, but their faces, their schemes, and their future twisted betrayals.
To them, he was brilliant.
But they didn't know he was haunted.
None of their lessons, no matter how thorough, told him what he needed most.
Where is she?
Lunch was served in the east veranda. A gentler space, bathed in sunlight and blooming with potted lavender. The sound of distant carriage wheels and market bells floated in on the breeze.
But still-he was alone.
No father. No siblings. No idle chatter of nobles.
Just roasted duck and honeyed carrots arranged with ridiculous symmetry.
He chewed mechanically, eyes unfocused. The scent of spice from the capital streets stirred something deeper in him-an echo of a different time. A simpler one. When Riley had dragged him through crowded alleys to chase stolen bread. When her laughter had warmed the coldest parts of him.
He didn't want duck.
He wanted her.
The afternoon brought endurance training-a routine designed to weed out weakness.
He ran laps until his vision blurred. Climbed stone walls meant to blister bare hands. Lifted iron weights that made his elbows scream.
And he didn't stop.
Because pain meant he was alive.
Because he had once collapsed in her arms, trembling, dying-and he couldn't forget her face.
Because this time, maybe, just maybe, he had a chance to change it.
The bath afterward was the only quiet reward the Desillix estate ever offered.
Steam rose like smoke from the marble pool, coiling around his arms and neck. He slid in until the water hugged his chin. Muscles eased. His thoughts didn't.
The ceiling above the bath was painted with silver wolves and curling leaves, caught mid-hunt under a midnight sky. He stared up, barely breathing.
The surface of the water rippled with his reflection-young, foreign, hollow.
Was this really a second chance?
Or just another form of punishment?
He didn't know.
But he would find out.
Dinner passed much like breakfast.
Gilded plates. Perfect arrangements. Silence.
No one asked how he felt. No one questioned the shift in his demeanor. If anything, they preferred it-quiet, obedient, efficient.
He said nothing.
There was nothing left to say.
When Riel finally returned to his chambers, the sky outside had bled into deep indigo. The capital shimmered beyond the glass-lanterns and mana-lights flickering like stars reborn.
He stood before the mirror again.
The same child stared back.
But inside him was a man who had fought, failed, and loved too deeply to let it all go.
To walk these halls again. To kneel to this name. To be forged by the same expectations that had nearly broken him.
It was a slow-burning hell.
But now...
Now he remembered.
And this time, he wasn't here to become a duke.
Or a general.
Or a weapon.
He was here for her.
He would find her.
And he would not fail her this time.