Halfdan Skarsgård was on his lunch break when shit hit the fan.
Literally.
He'd spent the morning at the construction site double-checking steel beams for an office tower that was already two months behind schedule, two supervisors short, and one lawsuit away from collapsing under its own bureaucracy. His stomach had been growling since ten, so when the clock finally struck one, he took off his helmet, stretched his back, and headed for the food stalls by the docks.
It was one of those cold spring days where the sea stank of salt, diesel, and something halfway between decay and nostalgia. He hated it — the whole damned port — but the herring kebab stand was cheap, and payday wasn't until Friday.
He was halfway through deciding whether to risk the suspicious-looking tartar sauce when the universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided to end him.
The sound came first — a roar of tires, a screech of brakes, and the thunder of metal slamming into concrete.
Halfdan turned just in time to see a ten-ton delivery truck fishtail out of control. It was one of those slow-motion moments where adrenaline makes everything crystal clear: the truck's logo (Nordic Fisheries — Fresh from the Fjords!), the driver's panicked face, and the absurd fact that the last thing he'd ever see would be a giant painted cod smiling down at him.
Then came the impact.
Pain exploded through his body like molten iron. The world went white, then red, then dim. Somewhere far away, people screamed — distant, frantic, irrelevant.
The smell of fish hit him next, sharp and nauseating, saturating the air with the brine and rot of decay. His chest burned, his ears rang, and his thoughts flickered like dying lightbulbs.
He tried to move, but only half of him responded. The other half was crushed, pinned under the twisted remains of the truck's front bumper.
Figures crowded around him — silhouettes against the sun. Someone shouted for an ambulance. Someone else gagged.
Halfdan stared at the sky. It was too bright, too blue, the kind of day he would've called "wasted on the living."
Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky. The salt in the air mixed with iron, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if dying felt this stupid for everyone.
He tried to laugh but only coughed up blood instead. The metallic taste spread over his tongue.
"Dying sucks," he thought bitterly.
That was his last coherent thought before the world went black —
and the smell of fish followed him into the dark.
"And so, finality brings forth a new origin."
There wasn't a tunnel of light.
No angels, no flashing of life's greatest hits, no whisper of cosmic purpose. Just a heavy darkness that tasted like salt and rust.
And then—noise.
Crying.
Screaming, actually. Shrill, wet, and impossibly close. He tried to curse, but the sound that came out wasn't words. It wasn't even a voice—just a thin, infantile wail that pierced the air.
It took him a moment to realize it was his own.
Oh, you've got to be kidding me.
Blinding light burned his eyes. A face loomed over him—fair skin, light curls plastered to a sweat-slick brow, eyes too large and too human for anything divine. The woman said something he didn't understand, a cascade of vowels and consonants he couldn't place. She was crying.
Another figure entered his blurry vision: a man with sharp features, gold trim on his cloak, and the smug self-satisfaction of a man who wore his own importance like a crown.
Halfdan tried to ask, Where the hell am I? but all that came out was another pathetic squawk.
The man uttered the name with ceremonial precision, as if sealing a bargain rather than naming a son.
"Alexander," he said, and the word rolled through the room like a declaration. "Public heir to the Di Luca County." The woman echoed it softly, almost lovingly. "My son. Alexander Di Luca."
So that was that.
Reincarnation, rebirth, or maybe just a sick cosmic joke.
Halfdan Skarsgård was gone; Alexander Di Luca had taken his place.
He didn't see any god or glowing system screen welcoming him to a new world. No "Congratulations, hero!" banners. Just exhaustion, the cold sting of air on newborn skin, and the faintest trace of perfume and iron.
And somewhere behind that scent—fish.
Even here? he thought, horrified.
The universe truly had no mercy.
Years Later,
By the time Alexander could walk, he knew two things for certain:
First, this world had magic.
Second, his body despised it.
The healers called it an anomaly of the soul, his mana turning toxic the instant it circulated through his veins. They drained it daily through silver needles and murmured incantations, leaving him pale and shaking afterward.
Halfdan had died crushed under a truck; Alexander was being slowly crushed from the inside.
Progress, he supposed.
While other noble children learned to wield swords and summon sparks of flame, he spent his days indoors—reading, coughing, and listening to the ticking of the grandfather clock that ruled his sickroom. Outside his window stretched the shining capital of Draven, heart of the Grand Duchy of Cadeguardia: spires, marble, and gilded carriages. It looked beautiful from afar. Like most beautiful things, it stank of hypocrisy up close.
His parents, Count Lysandro and Countess Lucia, were rarely home. They preferred the countryside estates or the ducal court, leaving their children in the care of staff.
Contessina, his sister one year younger, was his closest companion—bright, composed, always ready with a clever quip or a new book to share.
She was the sun in his perpetual twilight.
Life, he decided, wasn't good, but it wasn't hell either. He had comfort, conversation, and time to think—too much time, maybe. Time to wonder why he'd been reborn at all, why the gods—or whatever passed for them here—had given him another shot at existence only to make him an invalid noble boy with a defective soul.
Maybe fate had a sense of humor.
If so, it was a cruel one.
Afternoons in the Di Luca mansion were a carefully orchestrated performance.
Servants moved like clockwork, trays and teapots gliding across marble floors. Curtains filtered sunlight into gold dust that never touched anything real. Even laughter had an echo here — refined, distant, rehearsed.
Alexander preferred the library.
It was quiet, it smelled like old paper and lemon oil, and best of all, nobody cared if he coughed up half a lung there.
Contessina usually joined him, settling across from him with her back perfectly straight, dark curls pinned with an elegance that made every governess beam with pride. Her handwriting was delicate but precise, like a blade hidden in lace.
At twelve, she was already terrifyingly competent.
At thirteen, even Alexander had problems keeping up.
"Brother," she said, glancing over the top of her book, "you've been staring at the same page for ten minutes."
He blinked. "I'm reading between the lines."
She rolled her eyes — a rare break in her perfect composure. "If you read any slower, the ink will dry into dust."
Before he could retort, the door burst open and the embodiment of uninvited energy skipped in.
"Brother!"
Lucrezia — all sunshine and ribbons — flung the door open, blue eyes bright and voice as sweet as poison. She was nine, pretty enough to make bards start composing preemptive ballads, and blissfully unaware of how cruel innocence could sound.
"You're reading again? Honestly, you'll never be a real man if you don't learn to swing a sword!"
Alexander smiled faintly. "If swinging swords made one a man, I'd be happy to stay a scholar."
"See?" she said, turning to Contessina with triumphant childish logic. "He admits it!"
Contessina's expression hardened. "Lucrezia, that's not proper. Apologize."
"Why? I didn't say anything wrong!" the girl pouted, looking to her other brother, who was following her, for backup.
And Giovanni, of course, obliged.
At eleven, he was all swagger and confidence — a knight-in-training who had already broken two wooden practice swords and several hearts among the maids. He lounged by the doorway in his training tunic, smirking.
"She's right, Tess. He won't get far if he keeps hiding behind books."
Alexander sighed. "Ah, yes, the mighty Giovanni Di Luca, slayer of dust bunnies and breaker of chairs. My hero."
Giovanni grinned, taking it as a compliment. Lucrezia giggled. Contessina pinched the bridge of her nose.
The argument dissolved the way most Di Luca quarrels did — in exasperated silence. Contessina's glare could have frozen magma, Giovanni's pride couldn't admit defeat, and Alexander just wanted to read in peace.
It might have ended there, if not for the knock.
A polite, almost nervous rhythm.
Tom, the head butler, stepped in — tall, composed, and with the patience of a man who had served this family far too long.
"Master Alexander, Lady Contessina, young Lord Giovanni, Lady Lucrezia," he said, bowing. "Their Excellencies have returned from their journey… and they are not alone."
Four pairs of eyes turned toward him.
"Not alone?" Contessina asked. "Who is with them?"
Tom hesitated.
"The Count has… brought a guest," he said carefully. "A boy."
A strange silence followed. Even Lucrezia stopped fidgeting.
Alexander caught the faintest flicker of discomfort in the butler's usually stoic face.
That alone was enough to make his stomach twist.
Tom's announcement hung in the air like a draft that found seams in even the tightest windows. Contessina rose first, smoothing her skirts until they fell in a perfect, measured line. Giovanni was already halfway to the hall by the time Alexander stood, and Lucrezia flitted after him like a ribbon pulled by a breeze.
Alexander took longer. His joints had learned the patience of pain; the world rarely moved at his pace, so he made the world wait. He set his book aside, felt the familiar fuzz around the edges of his vision diminish, and followed the others through corridors that had learned their footsteps years ago.
The Di Luca great hall was a cathedral to money: Nicarian marble, a chandelier big enough to crush a man, and a ceiling fresco of the family's mythical founder slaying some improbable serpent. The air in the great hall smelled of polish and old money. Afternoon light spilled through the stained-glass windows, scattering color across the marble like spilled jewels. Contessina stood beside Alexander on the steps, posture perfect even as the sound of approaching steps echoed off the walls.
Their parents had returned.
It happened rarely enough that even the servants whispered about it, trading rumors as though Lysandro and Lucia were foreign dignitaries rather than the people who had allegedly produced four children. The Di Luca siblings arranged themselves according to rank, as etiquette demanded: Alexander first, Contessina beside him, Giovanni sulking two steps behind, Lucrezia by his side, clutching her parasol like a banner of nobility.
The double doors swung open.
Count Lysandro entered first—tall, elegant, and carrying the particular smugness of a man who believed his bloodline improved the air around him. His dark hair had begun to gray at the temples, but the cut of his coat and the sharpness of his gaze still spoke of power. Beside him, Lucia swept in on a tide of perfume and silk, her beauty the sort that could turn gazes from kings and saints alike.
And between them walked a boy.
He couldn't have been much older than Alexander—perhaps sixteen—but the difference showed. He had sun-touched skin, golden hair that caught the light like a halo, and eyes as blue and clear as Lucia's own. His smile was measured, courtly, confident. The boy bowed with the practiced ease of someone who had been rehearsing all his life.
Lysandro's voice carried through the hall.
"Children, allow me to present Giuliano."
A ripple of silence followed. Even the servants seemed to forget how to breathe.
"My son," the Count continued, too casually.