The throne room of Eryndral Keep was choked with incense and accusation. The banners of House Caelum hung above, but their weight seemed less than the cold stares of the assembled lords.
Alexander Ardyn, Duke of Caelumshire's western marches, stood at the center of the dais, chains on his wrists. His cloak had been torn from his shoulders, his family's crest ripped away.
He did not bow.
"Treason," intoned Duke Hadran Veyne, voice smooth as an executioner's blade. "Plots with the rebels, secret dealings with Serian's kingdom. The evidence is clear."
The courtiers whispered like crows. Alexander scanned their faces—greedy, fearful, relieved that someone else had fallen first. Then his eyes found his brother.
Cedric Ardyn. Standing among House Veyne's retainers, avoiding Alexander's gaze.
The betrayal cut deeper than any accusation.
"Clear evidence?" Alexander's voice was calm, even mocking. "Then show me. Or is the truth too fragile to survive daylight?"
The slap of iron-shod boots silenced him. Soldiers dragged him forward. The king himself did not speak; King Edrian Caelum slumped on his throne, pale, as if even his crown weighed too much. A puppet of his lords.
A sword was drawn. Execution—without trial, without dignity.
Alexander's last thought as the blade plunged into him was not of fear, but of bitter clarity:
So this is how the game is played. Lies for thrones. Blood for crowns.
The world went black.
---
But not empty.
A voice like laughter and thunder rippled through the void.
"You died too cleanly, little duke. Where is the chaos? Where is the scream, the fire, the ruin?"
Shards of light flickered before his eyes—moments that had not yet happened. He saw himself strike down Veyne, saw Cedric's face twisted in fear, saw cities burning, saw himself crowned in shadows. Futures? Illusions?
A figure emerged, stitched together from smoke and broken mirrors. No face, only shifting smiles.
Anarchy.
"They gave you betrayal for loyalty, silence for honor. I offer you something better: another throw of the dice."
Alexander's heart should not have been beating, yet it thundered in his chest.
"What price?" he rasped.
The smile widened, splitting like a crack in glass.
"Every wish has a price, Duke Ardyn. I'll send you back. But time is fragile, and your mind… will not return whole. Fragments. Whispers. Auras that make men love you, hate you, fear you. You will not come back the same."
The void trembled.
"Well? Will you let treachery be the last word in your story?"
Alexander closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw Cedric's betrayal again, felt the steel in his gut. His answer came without hesitation.
"…Do it."
Laughter like bells breaking filled the void.
And then Alexander opened his eyes—not in the throne room, not on a scaffold, but in the marsh road to Greymire, years before his downfall. His breath misted in the night. His hands were whole again.
But his reflection in the river showed eyes cracked with flickering fragments of futures yet to be.
He smiled. Cold. Certain.
> "This time, I won't just survive. I'll tear them apart."