Three days after I woke in this world, I was summoned to the estate's private training yard.
Not for a duel.Not for fun.Not even because anyone thought I could swing a sword.
It was a formality.
Noble boys were expected to learn how to wield a blade, no matter how "frail" or "bookish" they might be. Caelum—the original one—was apparently both. The type that passed out after two swings and needed smelling salts to wake up.
But I wasn't him.Not anymore.
"Keep your stance steady, young master," the instructor barked.
He was a boulder of a man with a voice that could shake glass and eyes that looked at me like I was already a disappointment. His name was Sir Verlan—retired knight, scarred jaw, very little patience.
"I am steady," I grunted, trying not to wobble under the weight of the practice sword.
He scoffed. "Your blade's listing left. Straighten your spine."
I adjusted.
"Now swing."
I did.
It felt awful.
Not because of the pain, but because the movement was wrong. Stiff. Robotic. Like I was puppeting someone else's body.
Again. And again. And again.
By the thirtieth swing, my arms felt like jelly.
By the fiftieth, my breath was coming in wheezes.
But something strange happened around the sixtieth.
I started to remember.
Not memories of this world—but muscle memory. Instinct. As if some part of Caelum's body still remembered what it used to be good at.
I adjusted my grip. My stance. Let the rhythm of motion take over.
Sir Verlan grunted.
"…Better."
Was that a compliment? Maybe. A noble boy in the shadows of a cursed estate had to take what he could get.
After training, I stumbled back to my room.
The staff said nothing, but I noticed the way their eyes lingered. The way whispers followed my steps.
"Lady Elowen smiled again today."
"They say the boy touched her."
"Without gloves?"
"He should be ill by now…"
The rumors were spreading.
Which meant one thing: I was becoming a variable.
Something the world hadn't accounted for.
That afternoon, Elowen found me.
She didn't knock. Just pushed open my door and walked in, bare feet silent on the stone floor. Her hair was still slightly damp—someone had tried to braid it, but she'd clearly undone it halfway through.
"You're hurt," she said, looking at the bruises on my arm.
"I'm fine," I replied, trying to sit up straighter. "Training."
"They're making you fight?"
"No, no—just practice. They want me to be a proper noble."
She snorted. "You're not."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"I mean that in a good way."
She stepped closer and sat at the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her. She was holding something.
A cloth. Dipped in water.
She pressed it gently to my arm.
I winced. "Ow—cold!"
"Good," she said softly. "You deserve it."
"You really know how to comfort a guy."
Her fingers lingered a moment longer than they needed to. Then she pulled back.
"…You're strange," she whispered. "But not bad."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it."
That evening, I was called to the study.
A tutor waited inside. Greying hair, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. He introduced himself as Master Halwen, and for the next two hours, he tried to teach me about noble lineages and kingdom politics.
I retained about 30% of it.
What stuck with me more was something he said halfway through:
"You'll want to avoid drawing attention to yourself, Master Caelum. The less remarkable you are, the safer you'll be in the long run."
"…Why?"
"Because this world doesn't like things that don't follow the script."
I froze.
"Script?"
He looked up slowly, blinking.
"I meant traditions."
But I wasn't sure that's what he'd meant.
That night, the dreams came again.
This time, it wasn't a book.
It was a throne room.Golden. Blinding.And at its center stood a boy with eyes like suns.
The hero.
The real protagonist of the novel.
He was older than me—maybe fifteen. His hand gripped a sword that burned with light. And at his feet… was Elowen. Broken. Bloody. Eyes blank and glowing as magic spilled from her.
And me?
I was nowhere.
Dead, probably.
I woke up drenched in sweat.
The vision was fading, but a whisper clung to the edges of my mind.
Steal his fate.
I didn't know where the voice came from.
But something in my chest stirred. Like a gear turning in a machine I hadn't known existed.
The next morning, something even stranger happened.
As I walked into the hallway near the west wing, the same place Elowen had drawn her creatures, I found a group of servants scrubbing the wall furiously.
"What happened?" I asked.
A younger maid flinched.
"Nothing, young master. Just… Lady Morwenna said it had to be cleaned."
I looked down.
The charcoal was gone. The art, erased.
Elowen's drawing—vanished like it had never mattered.
My fists clenched.
I found her in the garden again.
She didn't smile when she saw me.
"They took it," she said flatly.
"I know."
"I thought—just once—maybe they'd let it stay."
She plucked at the grass, shredding blades between her fingers.
"…Mother says drawing is for people who don't have anything better to do. That I should learn to be still. Silent."
"That's not living."
"It's surviving."
"Not for long," I said quietly.
She looked at me.
Her violet eyes shimmered, catching the sunlight.
"What does that mean?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know yet.
All I knew was this:This world had written her as a villain.It had written me as a footnote.
But if that voice was real… if that stirring inside me was the beginning of something—
Then I'd rewrite the story myself.
Page by page.Fate by fate.
Starting with hers.