Ivan stood still amidst the ruin he had created. The stench of blood hung thick in the air, warm and metallic, clinging to his skin. Bodies lay in heaps—some twisted in pain, some still clutching weapons. Men who had screamed, begged, fought, and failed. He barely heard anything now. Just the silence after a storm.
But then—he did hear something.
A scream.
A child's scream. A woman's sob. A dying man's final gasp.
His breath hitched.
The vision came over him like a wave, merciless and sudden.
He was sixteen again.
The grand halls of the palace were drenched in red. The very place that had raised him, trained him, caged him—was burning. Fire crackled in the distance. Servants ran. His sword dripped as he walked, barefoot, over the corpses of his kin. Eyes wide open. Lifeless. Unblinking. The blood soaked through his clothes, warm and sticky.
There had been no mercy that night.
The throne room had echoed with the cries of betrayal. He remembered how he hadn't even flinched.
