Ebonreach, Year 472. The Night of the Crimson Fall.
Arin's body writhed on the throne hall's blood-slick marble, his screams choked by the blood flooding his throat. The serrated dagger in his gut tore through muscle and sinew, each twist from Elara—his twin, his betrayer—grinding bone to splinters. Her violet eyes burned with sadistic glee, her golden hair drenched in crimson, blood dripping from her chin like a grotesque mask. The poison she'd laced into his wine for months dissolved his organs, a molten fire shredding his insides, his stomach bubbling like acid.
Lira lay dead at his feet, her throat a gaping, ragged wound, her eyes frozen in terror. The servant girl, his only true friend, had thrown herself between Arin and Elara's blade, her sacrifice futile. Blood pooled around her tattered dress, her fingers still curled as if reaching for him. Lira, who'd snuck him bread during his childhood starvations, who'd whispered "You're enough" against the court's jeers—she was gone.
"You thought she could save you?" Elara's voice was a venomous hiss, her lips curling as she knelt over Lira's corpse. She drove her dagger into Lira's chest, carving with slow, deliberate strokes, mutilating her lifeless body. "Beg, Arin. Beg me to spare her." She laughed, knowing Lira was already dead, her blade squelching as it tore through flesh.
Arin's voice broke, a sob escaping. "Please… Elara, stop…" His plea was futile, his frail limbs too weak to move, the poison searing his strength away.
"Pathetic," she spat, yanking the dagger free with a spray of blood. She grabbed his hair, forcing his eyes to Lira's mangled form. "You're nothing. Always were. Every fever, every collapse? My nightshade in your water, your food, keeping you frail. I made you this weak, this worthless, so you'd never challenge me."
The royal court stood in a semicircle, their laughter a cruel chorus under torchlight. King Voren's sneer twisted his bearded face, his crown glinting as he roared with mirth. Queen Lysa's giggles pierced like needles, her jeweled hands clapping. Their brother, Dren, smirked, tossing a coin as he jeered, "Die, runt!" Nobles, cousins, servants—all mocked: "Useless!" "Weakling!" "End him!"
Elara's words cut deeper than her blade. His childhood flashed—fevers that left him bedridden, limbs too weak for training, the court's jeers as he fell. He'd blamed himself, his cursed blood. But it was her poison, her lies, her sabotage. And Lira, the one who'd cared, lay butchered for it. "You're alone," Elara whispered, plunging the dagger into his chest, the blade scraping ribs. "Die knowing they all hate you."
The court's laughter swelled, a tidal wave of scorn. Arin's trembling hand grazed the Eclipse Shard, a jagged relic stolen from the crypts. It pulsed, hot against his cooling skin. Elara didn't notice, too drunk on his pain. The Shard flared, obsidian light swallowing the hall. Time shattered.
Ebonreach, Year 460. Twelve Years Earlier.
Arin jolted awake, a scream trapped in his chest. His body was wrong—small, fragile, a ten-year-old's frame, not the twenty-two-year-old prince who'd died moments ago. He lay on a rotting cot in the tower chamber, the air thick with mildew and the coppery tang of his own blood. His arms, thin as reeds, bore fresh welts—marks from yesterday's "lesson," where Lord Torren's iron-tipped rod had split his skin for failing to summon shadow magic. His bones ached, a familiar weakness gnawing at him, now explained: Elara's nightshade, poisoning him for years.
Her betrayal consumed him: the dagger's grind, Lira's mangled body, the court's laughter. Phantom pain seared his chest, but when he clawed at it, he found only bruised skin. He pressed his tongue to his mouth, expecting the bitter tang of nightshade—but nothing. His heart raced. The poison wasn't working. Was he… immune?
A flicker in his vision halted his thoughts. Glowing words, jagged like broken obsidian, hovered before him:
Fractured Veil: Awakened. Betrayal's Echo: Active. Poison's Bane: Granted. Change nothing… or lose everything.
The words faded, replaced by a black rune pulsing on his palm, raw as a wound. It thrummed with power, but when Arin focused on it, a spike of pain lanced his skull, worse than any fever. Visions flashed—Elara carving Lira's corpse, the court's jeers. The rune pulsed, and a whisper hissed: "You're alone now."
The Veil's immunity to poison was a flicker of hope, but the pain told him it came at a cost. He was alone in his regression, the secret a blade in his heart. No one could know—not Elara, not the family who'd laughed as Lira died.
Footsteps approached—light, deliberate, Elara's. Arin's heart pounded, his trembling hands clutching the cot's frayed blanket. The door creaked open, revealing his twin: ten years old, golden braid swinging, violet eyes soft with false warmth. The eyes that had mocked him over Lira's body.
"Arin, you're awake!" Elara's voice was honeyed, a lie. She held a chunk of bread, its edges green with mold, a shimmer catching the light. "You missed breakfast. Father's furious. I saved this for you." She set the bread down, her smile venomous.
Arin stared at the bread, his throat tightening. Nightshade's shimmer—he knew it now. She'd been poisoning him, ensuring his weakness. He wanted to scream, to choke her for Lira's death, but his body was frail, trembling despite the Veil's immunity. The rune burned, and he hid his hand.
"Arin?" Elara tilted her head, her tone syrupy. "You look pale. Sick again?" She reached for him, and he flinched, slamming against the wall, pain flaring in his bruised back.
The rune throbbed, and a shadow flickered, grazing the cot with a scorched mark. The Veil's whisper hissed: "Hide it. They'll destroy you." Elara didn't notice, her gaze probing his weakness.
"I'm fine," Arin rasped, burying his rage. She couldn't know his regression, his hate.
Elara's smile turned cold. "Good. Father hates weakness." She left, brushing her hands like he was filth.
Before Arin could breathe, softer footsteps approached. The door opened, and Lira slipped in—ten years old, her brown hair messy, her eyes warm with worry. "Arin," she whispered, clutching a rag. "I heard Torren yesterday. Are you okay?" She knelt, touching his welts gently, like she had so many times before.
Arin's heart shattered. Lira, alive, her kindness real—but he saw her mangled corpse, her blood on Elara's blade. He pulled away, unable to speak. She frowned, hurt. "I brought you water," she said, offering a cup.
He stared at it, paranoid despite the Veil's immunity. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice cracking.
Lira hesitated, then left, her concern a dagger in his chest. The rune flared, and an Echo appeared—Lira's face, throat slashed, eyes hollow. The room darkened, shadows bleeding. Memories crashed: Father's whip, Mother's laughter, Elara's poison, Lira's corpse. The Echo pointed, the court's jeers echoing—"Die, weakling!"
Arin clutched his head, gasping. "Stop!" The Echo vanished, but the Veil's pain lingered. Immunity to poison was no salvation—his body was weak, his mind scarred, Lira doomed.
Boots stomped. "Prince Arin!" Lord Torren roared. "Get out here, or I'll flay you!"
Arin's eyes flicked to the scorched cot, the rune. The Veil whispered: "You're alone." His regression was a secret, a curse. As Torren's fist pounded, Arin knew: this was no second chance—it was hell.