Third Point of view
The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Virellius estate, casting golden stripes across Kael's desk. He stood at the far end of the study, one hand pressed on an ancient map, the other fidgeting with a silver ring bearing the family crest. He hadn't slept all night—not after what he saw.
A hidden dagger tucked beneath his pillow. A servant's fearful glance. And the note. Just five words:
> "You die at Winterhold."
He'd burned the message the moment he read it.
Kael didn't need a genius's intuition to know this was no joke. In the original game, Winterhold Academy was where the plot kicked off—where Kael Virellius began his descent into madness, sparking a war that consumed the empire.
Now, it was the place he was destined to die… unless he rewrote everything.
"Lord Kael?" A familiar voice pulled him back. Sir Leon Duras stood in the doorway, his silver armor polished to a mirror sheen, one hand on his sword.
Kael managed a tight nod. "What news?"
"Your uncle, Baron Leto, has arrived. He's requesting an audience… and he brought his pet mage."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "The crippled one with the tongue of poison?"
Leon smirked. "The same. Jarek of House Nolane. Rumor says he's bound himself to shadows."
Kael's heart pounded. He remembered this subplot. Baron Leto was no ordinary noble—he was one of the first to plant seeds of betrayal in Kael's mind in the game, slowly feeding him lies, twisting his loyalty away from the royal family and toward his own bloody ambitions.
Now, he was here—weeks early.
"Stall him," Kael said. "And tell Mira to bring tea to the east drawing room. I'll handle my uncle."
Leon hesitated. "Should I bring the guards?"
Kael shook his head. "No. That would only prove I'm afraid."
Leon didn't look convinced, but he obeyed, boots echoing as he turned and left.
Kael moved swiftly to the mirror, adjusting his tunic. His reflection stared back—cool, composed, and dangerous. He wasn't the trembling noble brat they expected anymore.
He was Leon Drayven. Gamer. Strategist. Survivor.
And he had no intention of dying.
---
The east drawing room smelled faintly of lilac and old parchment. Kael sat cross-legged in the armchair, wine untouched beside him. The doors opened, and Baron Leto strode in, his black-and-red cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow.
Behind him walked Jarek, his mage—pale, hunched, with dead eyes and a staff made of bone.
"Kael, dear nephew," Leto said with a grin too wide to be genuine. "You've grown sharper. I almost mistook you for your father."
"Uncle," Kael replied coolly. "And I see time hasn't dulled your love for theatrics."
Leto chuckled and sat. "You wound me."
Jarek stood silently in the corner, eyes locked on Kael like a vulture sizing up its next meal.
Kael didn't flinch.
"I won't waste your time," Leto said. "Word is you're heading to Winterhold. The Academy is crawling with wolves in sheep's robes. Political parasites. Even a bastard prince now, if I recall."
Kael raised a brow. "You mean Prince Ardyn?"
Leto's smile faltered. "Yes. Him."
Ah. So that's your angle. Leto wanted Ardyn gone—wanted Kael to make the first strike and paint himself as a traitor to the crown. Just like in the original storyline.
"Funny," Kael said, swirling the wine, "because I was thinking of befriending Ardyn. It might be... enlightening."
Leto's mask cracked.
A beat.
Then he laughed. "Sharp tongue, Kael. I like it."
Kael stood, his voice cold. "Let me be clear, Uncle. I won't be your dagger. Not now, not ever. Your shadow games end at my gate."
Jarek's eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Careful, my lord," he rasped. "The night has long fingers."
Kael stepped closer, dropping his voice. "And I have torches. Leave."
The tension snapped like a bowstring. Leto rose, face tight, and without another word, exited the room.
Kael let out a breath only after they were gone. One fire dodged. Dozens more to come.
---
Later that night, Kael sat alone in the estate's private library, poring over old tomes about arcane wards and ancestral bloodlines. If he was going to survive, he needed to learn more than politics. The game had stats. Magic. Power systems. None of which he had fully unlocked yet.
A soft knock came.
"Mira?" he called.
No answer.
He rose and opened the door. No one was there.
But something had been left behind—a small parchment scroll, sealed in wax bearing a broken crown.
Kael froze.
The Broken Crown was an assassin guild. One that, in the game, only appeared when a major noble was marked for execution.
He unsealed the scroll with trembling fingers.
> To the one called Kael Virellius,
The sins of your house reach even the underbelly of the empire. You were supposed to die at birth. Your survival is an error we intend to correct. Winterhold will be your grave.
—The Black Sun
Kael read it twice. Then again.
This wasn't in the game.
This was new.
His reincarnation was changing the timeline—and now, the world was reacting.
He wasn't just facing scripted betrayal.
He was facing the unknown.
---
The next morning, Kael called Leon Duras and Mira into the war chamber. A large table stood at the center, cluttered with maps, figures, and scrolls.
"We're accelerating our timeline," Kael announced.
Leon frowned. "Winterhold is still two weeks away."
"Exactly. And enemies are already moving. From now on, we operate like the next arrow's meant for our hearts."
Mira looked pale but nodded.
"Sir Leon," Kael continued, "double the watch. Screen every servant. Lock down the estate at dusk. Anyone entering or leaving does so with my approval."
Leon nodded sharply.
Kael turned to Mira. "I need every book on Winterhold Academy. Faculty, layout, student registry—especially anyone with political ties."
She curtsied. "Yes, my lord."
They dispersed. Kael stood over the map, eyes narrowing on the dot labeled Winterhold Academy.
So far, he had avoided death twice.
But this new threat… it wasn't part of the original game.
Which meant someone else might be playing.
---
That night, as Kael stared into the flames of his hearth, a soft voice whispered behind him:
"You shouldn't be alive."
Kael spun, blade drawn—but no one was there.
Only his reflection in the mirror, flickering.
And behind it, just for a heartbeat, a second figure, eyes glowing violet—watching.
Then gone.
Who else knows he doesn't belong? And is Kael really the only player in this deadly game?
-