The scent of parchment and polished oak filled Lucien's lungs.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Not the silence of death, nor the aftermath of slaughter—but the peaceful hum of a nobleman's study. A fire crackled gently in the hearth, its warmth brushing against his face like a ghost. No blood. No screams. No Vivienne. No Roselyn. No prince with a bow aimed at his heart.
Lucien Valecrest opened his eyes.
He was seated—no, slouched—at his old desk, boots propped on the edge, a half-finished glass of dark wine at his fingertips. Dust danced in the morning light streaming through tall windows. A quill lay forgotten beside a draft of land tax exemptions he hadn't read in over a decade.
But he remembered this moment.
"What…?" he murmured.
He rubbed his head, a headache pulsing behind his eyes, tearing through the fog of memory. His clothes were soft, fresh—clean and bloodless, unfamiliar after so long soaked in violence.
Lucien let out a low grunt as he turned his head. Morning sunlight poured in, dappling the wooden floors with shifting patterns. Birds sang, high and cheerful, their melody far too serene for a man who had just died.
"What the…"
He pushed himself up—but his legs faltered, and he tripped. The world tilted.
"Wood…?" he muttered as his palms smacked the hardwood oak, solid and warm beneath his hands. Not the cold marble of a palace soaked in war. He blinked, lifting his eyes toward the tall window.
There it was—the tree outside his estate. The same one he used to read beneath before the war. Before the betrayal. Before everything.
He shook his head, forcing himself upright, rubbing his eyes hard. The room swam into focus. His room. His estate. Everything exactly as it had been—before it all fell.
"How…"
A knock rang on the door. Mahogany—rich, carved, flawless. Just as he remembered it. The door matched the rest of his chambers, a perfect blend of luxury and restraint. A room fit for a duke, not a fugitive.
"My lord, a messenger from Duke Brent has arrived," came a voice—familiar, distant, like an echo from a life he thought lost.
Lucien sighed and sank back into his chair, his mind reeling.
Was it… all a bad dream?
But the knock came again—sharper this time, more urgent.
"My lord, are you okay?"
He stared at the door, heart hammering, breath caught in his throat. That door. That day. This moment.
The beginning of the end.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest.
No blood. No arrow. Just the solid thud of a heart still beating beneath his tunic.
"...My lord?"
Lucien exhaled slowly.
Not yet rage. Not yet vengeance.
This time... he had time.
"Send him in…" he said, breathless, as his chest rose and fell with heavy panting, his thoughts still spiraling.
But behind his eyes, something stirred. A flicker.
Not madness. Not yet.
But purpose.
A few seconds passed, then his door creaked open.
A familiar sight stepped into view—one Lucien hadn't expected to see so soon.
His first kill.
His first taste of rage.
Presley.
The messenger waddled in with self-important flair. Corpulent, with a patchy moustache perched awkwardly above thin lips, his half-balding head gleamed beneath the morning sun. His round face was set in an expression of smug satisfaction—arrogance carved into every wrinkle. Pride clung to him like perfume too heavily worn.
"Took you long enough…" Presley sneered, brushing invisible dust from his tunic.
Lucien bit his lower lip until he tasted copper, his jaw tightening as that old fury surged within him—sharp, immediate, visceral.
He forced his hand away from the hilt of a blade that wasn't there.
"Anyways, I'll not waste a second sooner," Presley went on, oblivious. "My great liege asked that you evacuate your premises."
He smiled as if he were offering a favor.
"You have five days to prepare to leave, as per my liege's orders."
Presley spoke the words like a decree from the heavens, and without so much as a glance for permission, dropped into the chair opposite Lucien's desk. The leather creaked beneath his weight. He leaned back, smug, assured—emboldened by whatever inside information he believed he held.
Lucien didn't move. Didn't blink.
"I see…" he said softly, voice low as a whisper, barely audible over the quiet crackle of the hearth.
"Hmm…? Did you say something, Lord Lucien…?"
Presley asked, eyebrows raised, his tone condescending. His words dripped with mock courtesy, as though addressing a relic—a man stripped of his power and dignity. After all, Lucien was about to lose everything. Again.
Lucien laughed.
Not loudly—but darkly, low in his throat, like the first rumble of a storm.
Then he raised his head and met Presley's eyes. Crimson. Cold. Focused.
The firelight caught in them, deepening the red into something almost feral.
Lucien's hand twitched, the old, unquenchable fury rising in his chest. The urge to rip Presley's throat out, to make him pay for every humiliation—every ounce of respect he lost—was like a fire in his veins. But he kept his face neutral. Cold.
"Five days?" Lucien's voice was low, dangerous. His eyes were locked on Presley, but his smile betrayed a shift inside him—something darker, more deliberate.
"Perhaps you'd care to explain the details?"
There it was—beneath his calm voice, the shift in air.
A spark.
New motivation.
New determination.
A new path unfolding at his feet.
His mind raced, a thousand thoughts flashing. Was it possible? Had he truly returned? Or was this just a new prison? A chance to relive his failures? He had no answers, only uncertainty.
But one thing was clear: if he had to relive this moment, he'd make it count.