The capital burned like a dying god.
Crimson smoke curled above the marble towers, staining the heavens as if the sky itself bled. The once-proud banners of the empire, stitched with gold thread and holy sigils, tore apart in the wind. Every sound — collapsing stone, screaming men, the crackle of burning prayer-scrolls — blended into a single voice of judgment.
Ardan Vale stood atop the citadel battlements, blood dripping from his gauntleted fingers. The flames below painted his armor in molten gold and rust-red, colors that once meant glory. Now, they looked like blood and failure.
"General Vale!" a voice echoed from the courtyard. "The east wall's fallen!"
Of course it had. The east wall, the west gate, the very heart of the empire — all collapsing like ribs around a dying beast. His soldiers, his men, his legacy — scattered, betrayed, slaughtering one another in confusion.
He had served this empire for twenty years. Led its armies, crowned its prince, built its power brick by brick — only to watch it crumble under his name.
Treason. That was the word carved into every wall, whispered through every corridor.
They'd called him a traitor.Condemned by the council he had protected.Branded by the prince he'd raised like his own son.
The irony was bitter enough to choke on. He hadn't even fought the charge at first — he'd believed in reason, in due process, in justice. But justice had been the first thing to burn.
He'd escaped the gallows not through faith, but through chaos — through the same blood he'd once sworn to prevent.
Now, as the empire's heart burned beneath him, he realized how blind he had been. He'd fought for banners that meant nothing, for lords who fed on loyalty and spat it back as betrayal.
And worst of all — he'd believed that duty could make him human.
"Ardan!"
The voice cut through the roar of fire. He turned, startled, and there she was.
Lyra was running across the shattered courtyard, her silver hair streaked with soot and blood. Her light armor was cracked, a gash darkening her side, but she moved with the stubborn grace of a warrior who refused to fall before her captain.
Her eyes — those pale, storm-lit eyes — met his, fierce and alive.
"Lyra…"
She staggered but didn't stop, pressing one hand to her wound. "You can't stay here. They're coming. You have to move."
He laughed under his breath, dry and broken. "Run? From what? My own fucking mistakes?"
She reached him and grabbed his wrist, her touch warm despite the cold air. "Don't do this. Don't let them decide how your story ends."
He looked down at her hand. The blood on her fingers was dark against his armor. "There's no story left."
"There is if you're still breathing," she snapped. "And I don't plan to lose you too."
Below, the gates exploded inward. A wave of armored soldiers flooded the courtyard, shields raised, swords gleaming red in the firelight. At their front stood the prince — gilded, immaculate, and trembling with hatred.
"Ardan Vale!" the prince roared. "For the murder of your comrades and treason against the crown — you will die a traitor's death!"
Lyra stepped forward, sword raised. Her stance was shaky, but her eyes didn't waver."Stay back," she shouted. "He's not your enemy!"
"Move aside, Knight Lyra!" the prince commanded, voice like steel. "Or share his grave."
She didn't move. The silence between them was brief — just long enough for Ardan to see the flicker of disbelief in the prince's face, then the final hardening of resolve.
"Kill them both."
The soldiers surged forward.
Ardan tried to push her aside, but Lyra was faster. She met the first two with clean, perfect strikes — a throat cut, a gut pierced. Sparks flew as steel met steel. She fought like a storm, desperate and beautiful, the rhythm of her breathing ragged but determined.
But there were too many.
One blade slipped past her guard.
The sound it made when it went through her stomach was wet, soft, final.
Her sword fell from her fingers. She gasped, eyes wide, body trembling.
"Lyra!"
Ardan caught her before she hit the stone, lowering her gently to the ground. His hands pressed against the wound, but blood poured out between his fingers, hot and unstoppable.
"Stay with me," he said, voice shaking. "You hear me? Stay with me."
She smiled faintly. "You… never did listen."
"Don't talk," he ordered, desperate. "You're going to be fine. I'll—"
"There's no one left," she whispered, eyes unfocused. "Not anymore."
Her hand, trembling, rose to his cheek. The touch was feather-light. "You never saw me, did you? Not really."
He froze.
"I loved you," she breathed. "Even when you forgot how to be human."
Her hand slipped away.
Something inside him — the last human part — cracked open.
The prince approached slowly, his sword gleaming. "End this," he told his men. But Ardan didn't move. Didn't flinch. He knelt there, staring at Lyra's face as though he could memorize every line before the fire consumed her.
The sword pierced his back, slid through his chest.He barely felt it.
The pain was nothing compared to the emptiness spreading through him.
The prince twisted the blade. "Die with your arrogance, old man."
"Arrogance?" Ardan rasped. "No… clarity."
He looked up one last time, eyes burning through the smoke. "Congratulations, Your Majesty. You've killed the last man who ever gave a damn about your throne."
The prince ripped the sword free. Ardan collapsed beside Lyra's body, his blood mixing with hers. The flames devoured the sky, and the world went dark.
When Ardan opened his eyes again, there was no fire. No screaming. Only silence.
The air was cool. Clean. There was birdsong somewhere outside a window.
He blinked at the wooden beams overhead — unfamiliar yet hauntingly known. The scent of parchment and oil lamps filled the room. Slowly, realization crept in.
The Academy of Varenhold.
His old dormitory.
He sat up sharply, the linen sheets rough beneath his hands. His pulse hammered. He looked down — his hands were smooth, unscarred. The callouses of decades of war were gone.
He stumbled to the mirror. The reflection staring back wasn't the grizzled general who'd died in the flames. It was a boy — sixteen, lean, sharp-eyed, his face untouched by time or guilt.
It couldn't be real.
He'd felt the blade. He'd seen Lyra die. He'd heard the crack of his own ribs as the sword went through him.
And yet — here he was. Breathing. Whole. Alive.
His breath caught. Lyra.
If he was here, now… then she was alive somewhere. Not a corpse in the ashes — but living, smiling, unscarred by the betrayal to come.
A faint laugh escaped him — quiet at first, then trembling with disbelief. It wasn't joy. It was something far older, deeper. A dangerous kind of hope.
The gods, fate, whatever cruel power had done this — they'd thrown him back to the beginning.
He could stop it all.Or he could rebuild it on his own terms.
He thought of the empire — that rotten, beautiful carcass of ambition and lies. The council that betrayed him. The prince who killed him. The woman who died for him.
A second chance was not a gift. It was a debt — and debts demanded payment.
He flexed his hand, feeling the pulse of youth under his skin."I see," he muttered. "Sixteen again. The gods have a twisted sense of humor."
He looked out the window. Morning light washed the courtyard, students laughing, birds fluttering. It was so bright it almost hurt.
So peaceful it was obscene.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scent of ink and spring air filled his lungs. It should have comforted him. It didn't.
The peace felt like mockery.
In the distance, the bells of the academy rang for morning class — the same bells he once rushed to as a naïve boy who thought honor was enough to change the world.
He wasn't that boy anymore.
He opened his eyes, calm now. Focused.
"This time," he whispered, "I'll take everything — and give nothing for free."
He stood, straightened his uniform, and faced the door. His mind, heavy with thirty-six years of memory, settled into a body that hadn't yet made its first mistake.
The empire had betrayed him once.Lyra had died for him once.
He would not repeat either tragedy.
Outside, the world was just beginning another ordinary day.Inside, a boy who had already died once began his empire anew.