Ardyn Veyra awoke to the sound of birdsong.
It was not the shrieking of carrion crows over corpses, nor the clash of steel in battle. The air carried no scent of blood, only the faint fragrance of earth, hay, and woodsmoke. For a moment, he lay still, staring at the low, cracked ceiling above him, his mind sluggish, trying to piece together where he was—and why he was still breathing.
Then memory struck.
The battlefield. The betrayal. Darius Kaelthorn's sword plunging through his chest. His vow: I will return.
And then—nothing but burning void, until now.
Ardyn pushed himself upright with trembling hands. But they weren't the hands he remembered—no scars, no calluses, no hardened muscle from years of war. These were small, soft, the hands of a boy. His body was frail, almost weightless.
He stumbled to a cracked mirror propped against the wall. A boy of perhaps twelve stared back—thin frame, pale skin, and messy black hair that fell into silver eyes far too sharp, far too knowing for a child.
"…Reincarnation," Ardyn whispered, the word foreign yet undeniable.
Fragments of another life trickled into his mind: the boy's name, Ardyn Veyra. Son of Joren Veyra, a minor knight who'd fallen years ago in border skirmishes. A family stripped of nobility, reduced to living as peasants in a forgotten village. The boy himself had died only yesterday, burning with fever until his fragile heart gave out.
But fate—or perhaps something far darker—had chosen this body as the vessel for Kael Draven's soul.
Ardyn clenched his fists, and the air trembled faintly around him. The power surging in his veins was staggering—more than he had ever wielded, even at the height of his past life. Not just his old strength, but something greater. A divine essence thrummed within him, like molten fire chained in mortal flesh.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"This world… doesn't know the storm it has invited."
The door creaked open, breaking his thoughts.
"Elira?" His voice caught strangely as he spoke.
A woman hurried in—a woman with tired hands, patched clothes, and eyes red from sleepless nights. She froze when she saw him sitting upright, then rushed forward, pressing a cool hand to his forehead.
"Ardyn!" Relief flooded her face. "Your fever… it's gone. You're awake."
He blinked at her touch. Elira Veyra. His new mother. Her warmth was real, grounding, yet it struck something in him that Kael Draven had long forgotten—something softer than conquest, gentler than ambition.
"…Mother," he said slowly. The word felt strange on his tongue, but her smile at hearing it pierced deeper than any blade.
Tears welled in her eyes as she pulled him into her arms. "Thank the spirits. You've been given a second chance."
Second chance.
If only she knew.
As Ardyn rested his head against her shoulder, his silver eyes burned with hidden fire. This chance would not be wasted. He would rise again—higher than before. And when the day came, the gods, the betrayer, and the world itself would kneel.