The room was quiet.
Dim light filtered through the high-arched window, casting fractured shadows on the stone walls. Dust floated in still air. No servants. No guards. No family. Just the soft rise and fall of breath—Allen's breath, now tied to a body not his own.
He sat up slowly, wincing. His muscles ached like he'd been trampled by horses. Pain rippled down his spine. Yet, it wasn't unfamiliar. Allen had lived with worse.
But the silence unsettled him.
"Raphaël," he called, his voice raspy.
No response
He stood, stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the bed. The garments were too fine. Velvet and gold embroidery, tailored for nobility. But the room… it was bare. A noble's chambers should've been grand, warm, alive. This one felt abandoned. Forgotten.
"Raphaël!" he barked.
A gentle shimmer of light bloomed before him. The little angel appeared, floating midair with a bored expression and a glowing feather quill.
"Took you long enough," she said, crossing her arms. "How do you feel?"
"Like I've been reborn in a corpse," Allen muttered. "Tell me about this boy. I need to know what kind of life I'm stepping into. His mannerisms, his past, who he trusted"
Raphael raised a hand. "It's complicated," she said solemnly. "But… you deserve to know"
She floated toward the window, where light bathed her wings in gold. Then, with a soft sigh, she began.
"Sion Ragnar. First son of Duke John Ragnar head of the Persia Dukedom. One of the most powerful noble houses under the Clover Kingdom's crown.
But power doesn't mean happiness.
Sion's story begins with love—doomed love. His father, Duke John, once defied the crown to marry a woman not of high court, but of heart: Lady Mary. Your mother. She was kind, strong-willed, and beautiful. But she carried a curse far heavier than any spell."
Allen listened intently, frowning.
"Mary was the daughter of Count Jacob, lord of Neriah County. A man accused—rightfully or wrongfully—of treason. He was charged with conspiring to assassinate the kingdom's crown prince. Executed by royal decree.
And though Mary had no part in the crime, bloodlines are poison in politics. Her name was blackened. Her marriage to John became a scandal."
Raphaël's voice softened. "The pressure was immense. Nobles called her a traitor's seed. The king threatened to strip John of title if he didn't renounce her. And though he never publicly divorced her… his love began to rot."
Allen clenched his jaw. "He abandoned her."
"Yes," Raphaël said. "And more."
"Sion—you—was born into that silence. The firstborn. Followed by Janet, your younger sister. Two innocent children… ignored. Hated. Even by their own kin."
Allen's eyes narrowed. "And the Duke?"
"Cold. Distant. Ashamed of the blood his children carried. He allowed the knights of his estate to harass you. Mock you. Beat you. Even the servants spit when you passed."
Allen's stomach churned. Memories flooded him. But they weren't his. They were Sion's.
He saw himself—a boy, no older than nine—charging into the courtyard to shield his sister from armored fists. Crying out. Fighting back. Blood staining the stone. Laughter echoing from the guards.
"They punished you for speaking out," Raphaël continued, her voice heavy. "Even your tutors neglected you. Janet cried every night. Mary locked herself away. And John… he watched. And said nothing."
A bitter taste coated Allen's tongue. "He's not a father. He's a coward."
Raphaël nodded slowly. "Sion never stopped trying to protect them. But it was always a losing war. And one day… someone decided to make it permanent."
She paused.
"Three days ago, an assassin infiltrated the dukedom. Stabbed Sion in the gut while he trained alone in the courtyard. The guards 'didn't see anything.' The healer was 'too late.' The Duke never visited his bedside. Not even once."
Allen looked down at his hands. Not his hands Sion's. Bruised. Scarred. Forgotten.
And now—inhabited by the soul of a war-hardened king.
"Is Janet still alive?" he asked suddenly.
"Yes. But barely holding on. The servants now target her instead, assuming you're gone for good."
Allen rose to his feet fully, strength returning to him like a storm gathering at sea.
"Not anymore," he said. "Sion may have died… but I'm not him."
He stepped toward the mirror. His reflection stared back: a young man with white-silver hair, deep eyes of stormy blue, and an aura of quiet fire. Allen didn't recognize the face—but he understood the pain behind it.
"Sion Ragnar is dead," he whispered. "But the world doesn't know what's just been reborn."
Raphaël hovered beside him, her wings flickering.
"So," she said carefully, "what will you do first?"
Allen turned to her. "I'll learn how he walked. How he spoke. I'll become the boy they forgot
until they realize they should have feared him."
A smile tugged at her lips. "You really are a king."
"No," he said. "Not anymore. I'm his sword. And for Janet… and Mary… I'll burn this damned house down if I have to."
Raphaël's light dimmed slightly as she floated back, her voice low with warning.
"Then be careful, Allen. Because not everyone wants Sion Ragnar to wake up. And the first angel watches from the shadows."
Allen didn't flinch.
"Let them come."