The first thing he noticed was the scent of beeswax and rain-dampened stone.. It was a smell he had not breathed for seven years or something,not since the day they had dragged him from these halls—his father's ring still warm on his finger, his mother's last whisper clinging to his ear..
Zephyr Wyverndale's eyes snapped open.
The world resolved not into the damp, blood-soaked walls of the dungeon, but into the opulent gloom of his bedchamber. Heavy velvet drapes, embroidered with the silver dragons of his house, were partially drawn, revealing a slate-grey dawn beyond the leaded glass. The bed beneath him was vast, soft, a bastion of down and silk. It was a bed he had last slept in the night before his world ended.The open windows revealed snow covered mountains which were just behind the castle, under him below was the rest of the castle the guards marching participating in drills the maids working and talking the gardener tending to the flora around the estate despite the events that had transpired just a few days ago. His parent's death and their subsequent funeral.
His parents, the Duke Adonis Wyverndale and Duchess Vanessa Wyverndale, lay in state in the cathedral mausoleum, their lives stolen not by the mysterious unidentified illness the court physicians had declared, but by a meticulously administered poisoning carried out through the hands of the inhumane abyss worshippers. He knew that, not in this life but in his last life. He had learned the truth in the coldest way possible: from the lips of his uncle, Alistair, as Zephyr lay chained and bloodied in the dungeon that had once belonged to his family..
""A regrettable tragedy," Uncle Alistair had said, not a shred of sorrow on his features. "But the duchy needs strong leadership. You, dear boy, are not ready. Sign the stewardship documents—it is for the good of our house."."
And he, grief-shattered, trusting, and so unbearably naive, had signed everything away. He had handed the viper the keys to the treasury and the leash of the guard. The banishment had come within the hour. The assassination order a week after that, in a rain-swept alley of a foreign city, a cultist's dagger finding his kidney with practiced ease.
Memories of betrayal and agony seared behind his eyes. Closing them only made the visions burn brighter. The cold seep of the mud. The metal-like taste of his own blood mixed with his tears and dirt. Alistair's triumphant smirk superimposed over the cultist's dead-eyed stare.
He was dead. He should have been dead.
And yet, here he was. Back to his twenty-two years old self. The day just after his parents' funeral .
A raw, ragged sound tore from his throat, half sob, half laugh. It was impossible, unreal even. A final, cruel trick of his dying mind making him feel worse about himself than he already did. He pinched the flesh of his forearm, hard enough to bruise. The pain was sharp, immediate, real. This was no dream. This was… a regression. A second chance. A weapon forged in the fires of his own folly.
The grief, a bottomless chasm that had consumed him for years, was still there, a black hole in his chest. But now, something else pulsed around its event horizon: a cold, fury. It was rage, true rage, the one that needed blood to be calmed down. He would mourn later as he knows his father would want him fixing things rather than breaking down and mourning his death. Now, he would wage war on those who decided to rob him of everything.
A soft knock came at the door. "Young master?" It was Gerold, the aged steward. His true steward, a man of unwavering loyalty who had been 'retired' by Alistair the same day Zephyr was banished. "Your highness sorry for the intrusion but the count of vermont your uncle is here. He wishes to speak with you about the… transition of affairs."
Zephyr's blood went from ice to fire in an instant. The vulture has finally come to pick the carcass. He drew a single, steadying breath calming his raging heart, mastering the tremor in his hands, schooling his features into a mask of numb, grieving exhaustion. The boy he had been would be exactly this: shattered, compliant.
"Let him enter," he called, his voice hoarse but deliberately weak.
"As you say my lord". Gerold bowed and left the room.
A few moments later the door opened and Gerold stepped in, his face a web of concern. Behind him loomed Alistair von Gremmere . The man was every inch the noble lord: impeccably dressed in sombre black, his beard trimmed to a precise point, his eyes the colour of shallow water. They were already scanning the room, assessing, calculating, claiming.
"Zephyr, my boy," Alistair said, his voice a syrupy simulacrum of sympathy. "How are you holding up? A terrible burden for such young shoulders. You must not worry yourself with the tedious complexities of the estate. I am here to bear that weight for you. I have the papers prepared. We can sign them now, and you can focus on healing."
The words, the emotions and the manner in which he said them were the same as they were in his last life, the same things that had doomed him. Zephyr kept his gaze downcast, fixed on the letter that he had received from the royal palace
"No," he said in a low but assured voice which for a moment shocked both his uncle and Gerold who was at the door.
A beat of silence followed this and after a few seconds Alistair opened his mouth to speak. "I… beg your pardon, nephew?"
Zephyr looked up, letting Alistair see the raw red around his eyes, the pallor of loss which hid years of anger and outrage behind it. "I said no, Uncle. Thank you for your… concern. But the physicians have advised complete rest for both my mind as well as my body. I am not going to make any decisions in this moment of weakness that might have impacts on this land. I need… I need time to think. To pray. To mourn ." He let his voice break on the last word, a masterful performance honed in the theatre of true anguish.
Alistair's mask slipped for a fraction of a second. A flicker of impatience, of avarice thwarted. "Zephyr, the duchy cannot simply languish. There are matters that require immediate attention. Debts to be called, rents to be collected…"
"Then you may attend to them provisionally, Uncle," Zephyr said, layering a veneer of weak gratitude over the command. "As a faithful kinsman. But all decisions, all seals, all signatures, will wait until my period of mourning and contemplation is over. I will not be rushed in my duties to my parents' memory."
He was boxing the man in with the very conventions of nobility Alistair sought to exploit. To push harder now would seem crass, even suspicious.
Alistair's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He forced a smile that did not touch his eyes. "Of course. Your devotion does you credit. I will handle matters as best I can. Rest, Zephyr. We will speak again soon."
He left with a swirl of his cloak, the air in the room chilling several degrees with his departure. Gerold looked at Lucian, a strange, new light in his old eyes. He gave a slow, deep bow, deeper than was strictly necessary. "I will see that you are not disturbed, my Lord."
Alone again, Zephyr rose from the bed. The numbness was gone, burned away by purpose. He walked to the window, looking out over the sprawling ducal capital of Ravenspire. His city. The city his uncle would sell piece by piece to the Cult of the Shattered Star for power and gold.
He had bought himself a day. Perhaps two.
It was time to plan.
He moved to his writing desk, retrieving a fresh folio of vellum and a bottle of ink. He was no longer the grieving son. He was a general surveying a battlefield from a time before the first shot was fired.
He began to write, his hand steady, his script precise.
Enemies: Uncle Alistair. His sons, Caleb and Morvan. The Cult of the Shattered Star (local chapter unknown).
Betrayals: Captain Vorlag of the Household Guard (bought with Cult gold). Lady Elara of House Croft (engagement broken on her family's orders after my 'disgrace', married Caleb). Lady Isabella of House Valerius (engagement broken, joined the Celestial Sisterhood in grief), princess lianna everdale (engagement broken, married prince of another country)
The names stung, but distantly, like old scars. His relationships had been political, but not unaffectionate. Their loss had been another layer of humiliation. He could not blame them for the choices they made under Alistair's manipulation, but their alliances were now a part of the chessboard he had to reset.
He needed allies. Not the fickle high lords of the court, who would flock to the sun of whoever held power. He needed those the world had discarded. Those with talent burning in their bellies and a hunger for vengeance that mirrored his own.
His stylus paused. One name rose from the ashes of his future memory, a legend whispered in the underworld long before she became one.
Kaelia. One day, she would become the Queen of Shadows—mistress of the continent's most formidable network of spies. A woman of ruthless intellect, whispered of in legend
And right now, she was not a queen, heck she wasn't even an assassin yet right now she was just a nameless asset, a girl trying to survive the brutality of the slave circuits somewhere in the filthy underbelly of this very city. Beaten, branded, and utterly unaware of the power that coiled within her.
He had to find her. He had to secure her. Not through force, and certainly not by revealing the impossible truth. He had to offer her a path, to become the first brick in the foundation of his new empire. She was the key to the information he would need to dismantle his uncle and the Cult piece by piece.
The decision crystallized within him, hard and sharp as a diamond. It was the first true step on his new path, the path of the anti-hero. He would protect the innocent from the coming darkness, yes. But he would harm the evil with a ruthlessness that would make them pray for mercy. He would use every tool, exploit every secret, and break every rule to ensure that the future he had lived would never come to pass.
A grim satisfaction settled over him. The game has begun.
Then, from nowhere, a voice slipped into his mind—soft, melodic, almost amused.
"Nice one."
Zephyr froze. The stylus slipped from his fingers, scoring a dark line across the vellum.
He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, his hand instinctively reaching for a dagger that was not there. The room was empty.
The voice had not been heard with his ears. It had been planted in his consciousness. It was feminine, light, almost amused.
And it was most definitely not his own.