The square reeked of iron.
Not the clean iron of forge and hammer, but the cloying, rotten tang of blood dried on wood. The stench clung to the gallows, soaked into the scaffold planks, and curled in the nostrils of every man, woman, and child who had come to watch the heir's end.
They gathered in their thousands, packed shoulder to shoulder in the capital's execution grounds. Merchants had closed their stalls, priests had abandoned their prayers, beggars had crawled from their holes—all to see the fall of the Crown Prince who would never be king.
Above them, banners rippled, scarlet and black, the sigil of the empire fluttering high. Soldiers in polished mail lined the stage, shields interlocked, spears grounded. The Empire's justice would not be interrupted.
And in the center of that bloody theater, he knelt.
Chains bound his wrists before him, heavy links biting into skin rubbed raw. His clothes—once embroidered silks fit for court—were torn and filthy, stiff with grime. His hair clung in greasy strands to his brow, his lips split from beatings, his face hollow with hunger.
The people jeered.
"Traitor!" one spat, flinging a rotten vegetable that burst wetly against his shoulder.
"Crownless Lucian!" screamed another, voice breaking with glee.
"The gods curse the Ardelion line!" shrieked a crone, clawed fingers shaking toward him.
The mob's venom should have cut him deeper than any blade, for these were the people who once bowed before him. Once sang his name. Once called him their future. Now, they gnashed like hounds at the scent of a carcass.
And yet… he smiled.
Not wide. Not mad. But a faint, razor-thin curve of lips, so out of place upon a man awaiting the axe that it rippled through the crowd like a chill wind.
The herald, robed in crimson and gold, stepped forward with pomp. He unrolled a scroll and declared in ringing tones, "By the decree of His Imperial Majesty, by the will of the noble council, by the voice of the people, you are condemned, Lucian Ardelion, Crownless Pretender, false heir of ashes, to die this day for your crimes against the Empire."
His crimes.
Lucian almost laughed aloud.
Crimes? His only crime had been blindness. Blindness to the whispers at court. Blindness to the smiles too wide, the bows too shallow, the honeyed tongues that dripped poison into his father's ear.
Blindness to the dagger poised above his family's throat.
The herald's voice droned on, reciting betrayals crafted from lies, victories turned into accusations, loyalty twisted into ambition. And the crowd drank it eagerly, desperate for spectacle, eager to trample yesterday's idol beneath their heels.
When the charges ended, the herald sneered, "You are granted final words, though you deserve none. Speak, Lucian Ardelion, and let all hear your shame before you are silenced."
A hush fell.
Every head craned forward, waiting for pleas, for weeping, for the pitiful begging that would mark him as broken.
Instead, he raised his head.
Blood-matted hair parted from his eyes—eyes that gleamed with cold fire, not despair.
"Final words?" His voice rasped, hoarse from weeks in chains, yet it carried. "Not words. A promise."
He leaned forward, lips curling wider, and though it was but a whisper, those closest heard it well.
"I will return."
Gasps rippled. Murmurs surged. Some scoffed—madness! Others felt their guts twist with a chill they could not name.
The executioner stepped up, axe resting across his broad shoulders. His face was a mask, his arms thick as oaken beams. He placed the block before Lucian and pressed him down until his cheek lay against the scarred wood, sticky with old stains.
The crowd roared, chanting for blood, for justice, for death.
The axe lifted.
For a heartbeat, all sound vanished from Lucian's ears. He no longer heard the mob, the herald, even the creak of the scaffold. Only the silence of memory—the laughter of siblings long dead, the call of a father who never trusted him enough, the shriek of betrayal as his house burned.
He smiled again, lips shaping a vow only he could hear.
Next time… I weave the web, not stumble in it.
The herald's voice cut sharp above the din: "Remember this day! Remember the name Lucian Ardelion, who betrayed crown and kin!"
Lucian's lips curved higher. Remember it well, he thought. For when I return, it will not be as a memory, but as your reckoning.
The axe fell.
A white-hot line of fire split him in two—then nothing.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
At first, there was nothing but silence.
No crowd. No scaffold. No pain. Only void.
He floated in it, unmoored, as if the world had cast him off. Was this death? Oblivion? He waited for the gods' judgment, for flame or paradise, for anything.
Instead, whispers stirred in the dark.
They coiled around him, threads of memory: the hiss of conspirators in palace halls, the mocking laughter of rivals, the sob of his brother before his throat was cut.
The voices grew until they howled like a storm, tearing through him, ripping every wound open anew.
He screamed—though there was no mouth to scream with.
And then, like a blade parting flesh, light pierced the void.
He gasped awake.
Air scorched his lungs as though he'd surfaced from drowning. His chest heaved, his throat raw, his hands flying to his neck—whole. No gash. No blood. No executioner's axe.
He blinked against sunlight.
Sunlight streaming across… familiar walls.
He sat upright, trembling. His gaze darted around the chamber: polished wooden floors, shelves lined with books and trinkets, the old desk scarred with ink stains. A boy's chamber. His chamber.
"No…" he whispered.
He stumbled to the mirror. A pale face stared back—smooth skin unmarked by years of war, hair still dark and full, eyes not yet sunken with despair. Not the hollow wreck of the condemned man… but the boy of fifteen he had once been.
His breath hitched. His hand trembled against the glass.
"I… I'm back?"
Memories crashed into him, jagged and merciless—the blade, the scaffold, the betrayal. And yet here he stood, years younger, with the stench of death still fresh in his mind.
At first, he laughed. A harsh, ragged sound, half hysteria, half disbelief.
Then his laughter broke into sobs he could not contain.
He pressed his forehead to the mirror, teeth gritted.
"Fifteen. Gods damn you all, fifteen."
He clenched his fists until nails drew blood.
"This time," he swore, voice low, "I won't walk blind. I won't forgive. And I will never, never kneel again."
The door burst open.
A boy of twelve, cheeks still round with youth, darted in. "Brother? Are you awake? You've been asleep forever!"
Lucian froze. His chest tightened so sharply it hurt.
Because he knew that voice. Knew the boy. Knew the way his lifeless body had been dragged from the river in that other life.
Alive. His brother was alive.
He swallowed hard, mastering his face, forcing composure.
"I'm fine," he said softly.
But inside, his oath carved itself deeper, searing into his bones.
Not this time. Not him. Not any of mine. I'll bury the vipers before they ever bare fangs.
And so began the second life of Lucian Ardelion—no longer blind, no longer naive . Scarred by memory, sharpened by death, and given one final chance.