Rain whispered against the glass panes of the high library windows, casting soft ripples of shadow across the marble floor. Auren Valen sat with his back straight and his hands folded, the image of composure, yet his eyes—sharp and endless as black opals—tracked every motion in the room.
His desk was cluttered with scrolls and schematic diagrams, not a single one for show. To the world, Auren was a quiet, unambitious scholar at the College of Liora, specializing in magical engineering. But beneath the gentle curve of his smile was a mind forged in fire—and sharpened by betrayal.
He had been a king once. In another life.
A monarch feared, respected, and ultimately hunted.
And now he was reborn, twenty years later, in the heart of a neutral city that traded in knowledge and neutrality. No titles, no crown, no army—just his intellect, hidden away behind the glass walls of academia.
Auren lifted his hand and scribbled a note on a parchment in fluid, coded shorthand:
Test Etherstone fusion in the east sector—must avoid Mage Guild detection.
He was building something. Slowly, carefully. Something the world wasn't ready for. Not yet.
"Valen." A sharp voice cut through the stillness.
He didn't flinch. Instead, he folded the parchment and tucked it inside his vest before looking up. A thin man with greying hair and a glimmer of self-importance in his eyes stood in the aisle between the shelves.
"Yes, Professor Harlan?" Auren asked, letting a touch of warmth soften his tone.
"Make yourself presentable. The Duskfire delegation is arriving within the hour. We're to escort them to the summit chamber. And try not to mumble this time."
Of course. The Duskfire princess. Seraphina Duskfire—the Flame of the East, some called her. Daughter of Queen Aureline, rumored to be as sharp-tongued as she was deadly. And utterly uninterested in alliances. This visit, the scholars suspected, was a show of power more than diplomacy.
Auren offered a mild smile. "Of course, Professor."
The council chamber glittered with enchanted crystal light, its domed ceiling painted with constellations that shifted and shimmered in real time. The air buzzed with tension.
Auren stood at the periphery with the other scholars, hands clasped behind his back, the image of deference.
Then she entered.
Seraphina Duskfire wore no crown, but her presence alone demanded a bow. Her crimson cloak trailed behind her like spilled wine, her armor glinted beneath silk, and her dark eyes swept the room with cool indifference. A braid of gold-threaded hair curved over one shoulder like a whip ready to strike.
Auren's gaze met hers for only a moment—and the world narrowed.
Recognition flared inside him. Not from this life.
From the last.
He had seen her before. Or someone like her. A general who had once stood across a battlefield, eyes blazing, sword dripping with his soldier's blood. The memory surged—a flicker of the final war, of flame and steel and screams.
She moved past him without pause.
And just like that, the memory slipped back into silence.
The summit began in formal tones—discussions of trade, neutrality treaties, magical border regulations. Auren stood behind the seated scholars, eyes drifting from speaker to speaker, absorbing everything. Patterns. Phrases. Hidden intentions.
And then the room exploded.
A burst of violet light tore through the central chandelier, shattering crystal and sending shards raining like diamond rain. Screams echoed as smoke poured through the walls, thick and acrid. Magic flared—defensive barriers, shielding runes.
Auren ducked low, already calculating.
An attack. No signature magic—meaning someone didn't want to be traced.
His eyes darted to Seraphina. She'd stood, blade in hand, shielding an aide with her body. Fire leapt to her fingers.
Another pulse of dark magic cracked through the chamber.
He moved before he thought. Slipping between panicked bodies, Auren reached her just as a jagged bolt of dark magic screamed toward them.
He raised a hand.
And whispered a name of power that hadn't been spoken in two decades.
"Vellion."
The spell flared from his palm—an ancient royal ward. The bolt shattered against his shield, sending a rippling wave of shock through the room.
The spell shouldn't exist anymore.
No one should know it.
Seraphina turned to him, eyes wide.
"What the hell was that?" she demanded, voice low.
Auren met her gaze, heart pounding. "A very old secret."
Their eyes locked, and something dangerous passed between them.
When the smoke cleared and the guards secured the chamber, the damage was evident—two scholars dead, a wall partially collapsed, and a message scrawled in blood across the floor:
"THE FLAMES OF THE OLD EMPIRE SHALL RISE."
The delegates were ushered out, but Seraphina lingered.
She turned to Auren. "You're not just a scholar."
He tilted his head slightly, as if puzzled. "I've never claimed to be."
"Your magic… That wasn't guild-taught."
"It wasn't."
Her eyes narrowed. "You knew this attack was coming?"
"No," he said quietly. "But I knew someone would try to light the match."
She stepped closer, close enough that the scent of ash and something floral clung to her cloak. "Who are you really, Valen?"
He looked at her then—truly looked. Not as the scholar he pretended to be. Not as the boy who walked among commoners with ink-stained hands.
But as the monarch he had once been. The man who had built a kingdom with cunning and lost it to betrayal.
"I'm someone who's very good at surviving," he said softly.
Her gaze lingered, unreadable. "I'll be watching you."
"I expect nothing less."
Later that night, alone in his workshop, Auren lit the rune lamps and unrolled a hidden scroll—one he had written the night he regained his memories, years ago.
At the top, in thick ink, read:
Operation Empire Phoenix.
He scratched out the first line.
Phase One: Infiltrate neutral city.
Status: Complete.
Below it, he wrote the next:
Phase Two: Forge alliance with Duskfire.
He paused.
And then added:
Complication: Seraphina Duskfire is not easily controlled. Might burn me alive.
He allowed himself a smile—small, wry, and full of trouble.
Let the world think of him as a scholar. Let Seraphina glare and circle him like a predator.
The game had begun.
And this time, he would not die on his knees.