Ebonreach, Year 460. The Tower Chamber, Dawn.
Arin lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, his body a canvas of agony after Torren's departure. Bruises bloomed across his ribs and arms, the fresh welts from the rod's strikes pulsing with every heartbeat. His breath came in ragged gasps, the air thick with the metallic tang of his own blood. Elara's words lingered in the chamber like a poison fog—"Eat your bread, brother. You'll need every bite"—her smile a dagger in his mind. The memory of her carving Lira's corpse in his first life flashed, mingling with the phantom pain of the dagger in his gut.
He pushed himself up on trembling arms, the stiffness in his joints making the movement a torture. The crumbled bread from Elara still lay on the cot, its shimmer mocking him. He reached for it, his fingers shaking, and bit into it again, expecting the familiar fire in his veins. Nothing. His stomach accepted it without protest, a strange resilience holding back the nightshade's bite. But the stiffness worsened, his knees locking as he tried to stand. Was this his regression's gift, or just a cruel illusion?
The soft footsteps from the hall grew louder, pausing at the door. Arin tensed, his heart pounding. The handle turned slowly, and the door creaked open, revealing Lira—ten years old, her brown hair disheveled, her eyes wide with concern. She slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind her, clutching a rag and a small vial of ointment. It was the same Lira who had visited him briefly moments before Torren's roar, her touch gentle on his welts, her words a fleeting comfort before she left in hurt confusion. But now she was back, her expression more determined, as if she couldn't stay away.
"Arin," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I... I came back. You looked so lost when I left." She knelt beside him, her small hands reaching for his wounds again. "Let me help. I brought this from the kitchens—it's for burns, but it'll soothe the cuts." Her touch was gentle, just as it had been in that brief moment earlier, when she'd offered water and bandaged his welts with the same rag.
Arin's world tilted. Lira, alive and whole, her throat unmarred, her dress clean of blood. But the image of her mangled body overlapped, Elara's dagger squelching as it carved. He recoiled slightly, his stiff legs giving way, and he slid down the wall, staring at her like a ghost. "You... you were here before," he rasped, his voice cracking, the brief visit from moments ago blending with the memory of her sacrifice—the way she'd thrown herself in front of Elara's blade. Tears stung his eyes, the weight of knowing her fate crushing him anew.
Lira frowned, hurt flickering across her face again, just as it had during her first visit. "Of course I was. I couldn't leave you like that. Arin, you're scaring me. You look at me like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong?" She paused, her hands hovering. "Bad dreams again?"
He wanted to tell her everything—the betrayal, her death, Elara's cruelty—but the words stuck in his throat. His regression was his secret, a burden he couldn't share. Instead, he forced a weak nod, his body protesting every movement. "Just... dreams. Thank you, Lira. For coming back." He let her apply the ointment, the cool salve easing the burn of his welts slightly. Her presence was a balm, but it cut deep, knowing her fate if he couldn't change it. The brief moment earlier, her hurt frown when he pulled away, echoed now, making her return feel even more fragile.
As she worked, another memory surfaced: Lira teaching him to dodge in the shadows of the tower, her small frame demonstrating rolls and ducks. "When they swing high, drop low," she'd said, her laughter light against the darkness. The recall steadied him, a tactical whisper in his mind. But his stiffness made even sitting up a struggle, the unexplained resilience with the bread not enough to mend his broken body.
Lira finished, her hands lingering on his arm. "You have to be careful, Arin. Elara... she watches everything. And Torren won't stop until you break." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I overheard her talking to Dren yesterday. Something about 'keeping the weak one in line.' I don't know what it means, but it scared me."
Arin's blood ran cold. Elara was already weaving her webs, her influence reaching even here. "Lira, you can't risk this," he said, his voice urgent. "If they find you helping me..."
She shook her head, her eyes fierce. "I won't stop. You're my friend, Arin. The only one who doesn't treat me like a servant." She stood, tucking the vial away. "Rest now. I'll come back tonight if I can."
As she slipped out, the door clicking shut, Arin's mind raced. Lira's return after her brief visit was a lifeline, but it raised questions. Had his regression saved her, or was this a trick? The stiffness in his joints eased slightly, but the pain remained, a reminder of Torren's beating. He had to grow stronger, to uncover the truth behind his resilience, to protect her from Elara's blade.
The day dragged on, the chamber a prison of shadows. By noon, a servant brought a meager meal—more bread, a bowl of thin gruel. Arin eyed it warily, the shimmer of nightshade faint but present. He ate, bracing for the poison's grip. Nothing. His stomach held, the resilience stronger this time, though a wave of fatigue washed over him. Memories flickered—Lira's voice, "Keep going"—bolstering his resolve.
But as dusk fell, the soft footsteps returned. Arin tensed, expecting Lira. The door opened, and a hooded figure entered, the scent of herbs replaced by something sharper—nightshade. The hood fell, revealing Dren, his older brother, his smirk a echo of the court's laughter. "Little brother," Dren said, his voice silky.
Arin's heart sank, the memory of Dren's jeers—"Die, runt!"—flashing. Dren stepped closer, a vial in his hand. "Time for your medicine."