The castle grounds had always been a place of routine—silent footfalls of guards, the occasional fluttering of banners, and the comforting rhythm of a kingdom ticking like clockwork. But tonight, something felt off. The sky was cloudless, the moon casting an almost artificial silver glow over the cobbled stones, but the air was thick, charged, like it was holding its breath.
You knew this feeling.
Trouble was coming.
You stood by the window of your study, half-lit by a fireplace that had long since lost its warmth. The political meeting with the High Lords from the North had gone exactly as expected—tense, diplomatic, and venomous behind their courtly smiles. There was talk of "reallocating trade routes," which, in nobility-speak, meant stripping your province of income and resources. Of course, they didn't say it directly to you. They said it to the Duke. Your father.
But you'd seen the glances. They were aiming at you, the villain with power he "shouldn't have," the "dangerously strategic son." The one who wasn't supposed to survive the war ten years ago.
They feared you. Not just for your sword. But your mind.
And yet, fear makes people stupid. And stupid people do reckless things.
A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.
"Enter," you said, not turning around.
The door creaked open, and the flicker of torchlight from the hallway spilled in, revealing a hooded figure.
"Your Grace," came a woman's voice. Sharp. Controlled.
You turned, gaze narrowing. "I didn't summon anyone."
"I came uninvited," she said. "But not unwelcome, I hope."
You leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. "You're either very bold… or very desperate."
She removed her hood.
Your eyes widened. "Lady Velia."
The spy mistress of the Southern Marshlands. Feared in whispers. Disavowed by kings. Said to run an intelligence network wider than the King's own informants. Rumors said she'd faked her death five years ago.
So why was she standing in your study?
"I have information," she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "About your brother."
That got your attention. All of it.
"Speak," you said, tone tightening.
She didn't sit. She stayed near the shadows, half her face lit by firelight.
"He's being followed. Watched. Not just by court eyes. By something older."
You raised an eyebrow. "Older?"
She nodded. "Ancient magic. The kind that was sealed after the Dragon Wars. Something has reawakened. And it's watching him. Testing him."
You processed that in silence. Your brother—Kael—the kingdom's golden boy, the Hero of Light, the one with the holy mark of Serathian prophecy on his hand… was being hunted by something not of this world?
It explained some things. The way he had grown more distant. The nightmares he didn't talk about. The way his powers flared unpredictably during training. He wasn't just struggling with pressure.
He was being pulled into something far deeper.
And what did that mean for you?
The villain. His rival. His… brother.
"Why tell me this?" you asked her. "Why not go to him?"
"Because you are the only one who'll do what needs to be done," she said. "You see the world without the blinders of prophecy. If something's coming for him, it'll destroy him—or use him. Either way, the kingdom falls."
You said nothing.
She stepped closer, eyes dark.
"You've always said you'd protect him. That's what makes you dangerous. Not your sword. Not your wit. But the fact that the villain… still has a heart."
You hated how true that was.
You hated even more that she was right.
You moved toward the shelves, sliding your fingers across the worn bindings of old scrolls until you pulled one free—The Lost Sigils of Ashenmoor.
"If this magic is ancient," you said, "then we start here."
Velia gave a slight nod. "You'll need help."
"I know," you replied. "And I'll be careful who I trust."
There was a pause.
"I'll gather what I can," she said. "But we don't have much time."
As she moved to the door, you called out quietly, "Velia."
She paused.
"Thank you."
She didn't smile. But her eyes softened. "Try not to die, Villain."
And then she was gone.
You stood alone in the flickering light, heart pounding. Not from fear.
But from anticipation.
Because if this was truly something ancient… then your old enemies might not matter anymore.
A greater game was starting.
And this time, you didn't just have a role to play.
You had your own script to write.
The clash of steel reverberated through the training courtyard as my blade met the instructor's halberd. Sparks hissed in the air, and I bit back the pain running through my arm.
"You're holding back," barked Sir Renwald, his weathered face hard as granite. "Again."
I gritted my teeth and raised my sword. My breath came ragged. The morning drills were supposed to be routine—but nothing was ever routine when you were training under the former general of the Empire. He didn't believe in ease. Or breaks. Or mercy.
And truthfully, I welcomed the pain. It helped distract me from the real war raging in my mind.
The Hero.
My younger brother.
The shining beacon of hope in the Empire. Loved. Celebrated. Destined.
And me? The villain the world expected to fall.
I parried another blow, twisting to the side, and felt the edge of the blade graze my ribs.
"You're sluggish today," Renwald grunted. "You're thinking too much."
I couldn't argue with that.
Because last night, I dreamt again.
No—not dreamt. Remembered.
I remembered that I—Callius Verren—was not meant to live past Chapter 20 in the original storyline of The Sword of Dawn. My death would be epic. Tragic. And necessary for the Hero's growth.
A sacrifice. A lesson.
But I wasn't playing by the book anymore.
"You hesitate," Renwald snapped, breaking into my thoughts with a hard jab to my gut. I stumbled back, breath knocked from my lungs.
I dropped to one knee, coughing.
"Stand up."
I looked up, sweat dripping into my eyes. And I saw his expression shift just slightly. Pity? No, it was closer to... recognition.
"You're not fighting to win," he said quietly. "You're fighting like a man already buried."
I stood. "Then maybe I'm just trying to dig myself out."
Renwald stared at me for a beat, then turned away. "That will either make you dangerous—or dead."
Later that evening, I sat beneath the old yew tree behind the western tower. It had become a sort of escape for me lately. A place where the shadows didn't judge. Where I could untangle the spiraling thoughts.
The birds had gone silent.
I glanced around.
My hand instinctively fell to the hilt of my dagger.
And then I saw her.
Ellara.
The spy who had been watching me from afar these past weeks. I let her. I wanted to see how long she would tail me before confronting me.
Now she stood in plain sight.
Cloak drawn back. Eyes sharp as obsidian.
"You knew I was here," she said.
"Since the festival," I replied. "You've been very sloppy."
A small smirk tugged at her lips. "Or maybe I wanted you to know."
"Why?"
"Because your story no longer matches the records I've read. Your mannerisms. Your speech. Even your swordplay. You're not the same Callius Verren who murdered two dukes and laughed during their executions."
"People change."
"Villains don't. Not like this."
I said nothing.
Ellara stepped closer. "Tell me the truth. Who are you really?"
I held her gaze. For a moment, the silence stretched long.
Then I answered.
"I'm someone who shouldn't exist."
Ellara's hand didn't move to her dagger, but the tension in her stance was enough. Her voice dropped, just above a whisper.
"That's not an answer."
"No," I said, "but it's the only one you'll get for now."
We stared at each other under the moonlight. The silence crackled between us like a drawn bowstring.
"I could report this," she said finally. "Have you dragged into the king's hall for questioning."
"You won't."
"And why not?"
"Because you've been reading the records. Which means you already know what happens if Callius Verren is pushed too hard."
I took a step forward.
"The problem is," I said slowly, "you're reading the wrong story."
Her brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
I looked away, fingers brushing the rough bark of the yew tree. "This world thinks I'm the villain. That my death is inevitable. That everything I do leads to the same end—betrayal, chaos, downfall."
"But?"
"But I remember the ending. And it wasn't just my death that was inevitable. It was everyone's. My brother may win the final battle, but he loses the war. The Empire collapses. The world burns. And the so-called Hero dies alone."
Ellara's breath caught. I could see it in her eyes: doubt. Uncertainty. Hope.
"So what are you trying to do?" she asked.
"I'm trying to break the cycle. Reroute the story. Save my brother… and maybe, somehow, save myself too."
Her voice was soft. "Why?"
I didn't answer at first.
Then I said, "Because I loved him, once. Before the story made us enemies."
Two nights later, I was summoned to the royal council chamber.
A dangerous place to be for someone like me. Even more dangerous with Adrian—my younger brother—present.
He stood near the dais, surrounded by knights, priests, and scholars. His presence was… radiant. He looked stronger than I remembered. Taller. Sharper. And the sword of Aurion at his hip shimmered faintly with holy light.
"Brother," he said, voice cold.
I bowed. "Your Highness."
He flinched at that.
The High Priestess stepped forward. "Lord Callius, you've been accused of consorting with shadow agents and forging illegal pacts. We demand an explanation."
I glanced at Ellara.
She stood at the edge of the room, silent, watching. But she didn't speak. She hadn't betrayed me.
I turned back to the council.
"I've done no such thing," I said. "In fact… I've been rooting them out. Quietly. Without fanfare. Because I've seen what happens when these things grow unchecked."
"You?" one of the nobles laughed. "A former traitor? A butcher?"
I turned to Adrian. "You know I speak truth. You saw the signs too. You've felt the cracks forming in the capital."
Adrian's hand hovered over his sword. "And what would you know about saving this Empire?"
"I know the ending," I said simply. "And I know that the true threat hasn't even arrived yet."
The room fell silent.
And then Adrian spoke again—quieter this time.
"What threat?"
I looked him in the eyes. "The one that killed you in the first timeline."
The room froze. Even the candle flames seemed to hold their breath.
Adrian's expression shifted—just slightly. Not surprise. Not fear. But recognition.
He remembered something.
"What… are you talking about?" he asked, voice low, measured.
I stepped forward, eyes never leaving his.
"In the life I lived before this one, you made all the right choices," I said. "You gathered your allies. Defeated every general of the Darklands. Slayed the Demon King himself. And then—on the eve of your coronation—you were betrayed."
His jaw clenched.
"You were poisoned," I continued. "By someone inside this very room."
Gasps echoed around us.
The High Priestess stepped back. The knights gripped their hilts. But I wasn't finished.
"You died in Ellara's arms, whispering my name. Not as a curse. But a question. Because in that world, I wasn't there to stop it."
Ellara's face paled.
Adrian stared at me, his eyes searching, calculating, shaken.
"You're insane," someone muttered.
But Adrian didn't deny it.
He took one slow breath. "Then tell me… if you're trying to change fate—what happens next?"
I let my gaze drift across the room.
And then I said it.
"The Shadow Court will strike during the Eclipse."
Silence.
"That's three nights from now."
Adrian stiffened. "That soon?"
I nodded. "They've already infiltrated the palace. If you don't believe me, check the western archives. You'll find what they stole last week."
He hesitated… then turned to his guards. "Do it."
They left immediately.
No one spoke.
Then, quietly, Adrian said, "If this is a trick, Callius…"
"It's not," I replied. "You're the only family I have left. And whether you trust me or not, I'm going to save you."
He looked at me, for the first time, not as an enemy… but something else.
And then—
BOOM.
The doors to the chamber exploded inward.
A cloaked figure stood in the smoke.
Not a courtier. Not a guard.
But a Seer of the Shadow Court.
Their voice echoed like glass being shattered.
"You weren't supposed to remember, Callius. You've broken the cycle."
The guards rushed forward—but the Seer raised a hand.
And every torch in the room went dark.