The first thing Rune remembered about life was light. Not the harsh fire of torches in a stone hall, not the cold gleam of steel, but the soft, blinding white of a hospital lamp. He didn't remember his past—not yet. He didn't know he had once been a storm in flesh, a king named Drona feared across lands. He only knew warmth. A mother's touch. A father's laugh. The little comforts of a life he would never have dreamed of before.
Rune grew into a gentle soul. His parents used to tease him—too soft for this world, son. But they said it with pride, not disdain. He was the boy who gave his lunch away to hungry classmates, the one who sat beside the lonely child at recess, the one who picked up a stranger's bag when it fell.
Kindness flowed from him as naturally as breath.
It was this very softness that caught Mira's attention. At least, at first.
---
He first saw her at the bus stop near the college library. Her hair was tangled by the wind, dark strands curling over her cheeks, and she clutched her books like they were treasures. The world buzzed with the chaos of horns and engines, but when she looked up, Rune felt as though the sound dimmed.
He offered her his umbrella when the sky cracked with rain. She smiled, small but genuine, and for a moment Rune thought perhaps fate had finally been kind.
They shared short conversations after that. She liked books more than parties. She laughed easily, not at cruelty but at small things—a bird tripping over crumbs, a child demanding ice cream with the authority of a king. Rune thought her laugh was a sound worth protecting.
He grew hopeful.
Until Kian walked in.
---
Kian was everything Rune was not.
He strode into rooms like he owned them, his presence heavy, magnetic. He was the kind of man who drew attention without asking for it—loud laughter, reckless charm, the confidence of someone who had never been told "no." Professors disliked him, classmates feared him, but people still gathered around him like moths around flame.
Rune noticed Mira's gaze shift the first time Kian spoke to her. He teased her about the way she held her books too tightly. She laughed nervously, brushing it off. Rune saw the flicker of something in her eyes—not fear, not admiration, but fascination.
Kian pushed boundaries. He would grab her wrist when she tried to walk away. He would laugh too hard at her protests. He would lean close, his voice rough, words sharp enough to sting.
Rune's chest tightened as he watched.
But Mira… Mira excused it.
"He's not really like that," she said to her friends one afternoon, when Kian had left her nearly in tears with one of his "jokes." Rune overheard, his heart hammering.
"He just needs someone who understands him."
Another time, when Kian didn't show up for class, leaving her waiting in the rain, Mira whispered, "He has his struggles. I can help him. I can change him."
Rune wanted to scream. Why? Why would you want to?
But he said nothing. He only watched as the girl he cherished fell deeper into the gravity of someone who didn't deserve her light.
---
One evening, Rune saw them walking together. Kian shoved her playfully, harder than he intended. Mira stumbled, nearly falling onto the pavement. Rune surged forward, ready to catch her, but before he could move, Mira steadied herself.
And she laughed.
"It's fine," she said when her friend scolded Kian. "He doesn't mean it. He's rough, but he's not a bad person. People just don't see the real him."
Rune froze in the rain, his fists clenched, his nails biting into his palms. His chest burned with something he had never known before—envy, rage, helplessness all braided together.
That night, lying awake, the words slipped from his lips unbidden:
"I wish I was bad… as him."
---
The heavens shuddered.
The gods had watched Rune's life since his birth. They had seen how Drona's soul, once ruthless, now shone with innocence. They had believed his last wish in that ancient hall—"I wish I was born a good person"—had finally been granted.
But now, watching him suffer again, pity spread among them like wildfire.
"It is not fair," said one god, her voice gentle as the wind. "He has lived kindly, and yet he suffers still."
"He was cruel once," another reminded her.
"He was made cruel," the first countered. "Shaped by fate. He never had a chance to be different."
"If we gave him his memories," a third murmured, "he would understand. He would see the truth of who he is. He would not wish to be like that man again."
"But the Almighty forbids interference," the eldest god thundered. "We cannot meddle in mortal lives."
Silence followed, heavy with guilt.
Then one voice rose, trembling but firm: "Then let it be me. If one of us must die to restore his memory, I will give myself. Let my end be his beginning."
The others hesitated, but pity overcame law. They agreed.
Far from the Almighty's sight, the ritual began. A god laid himself upon the altar of eternity, his light unraveling into threads of fire. His essence burned away, pouring down into the soul of Rune.
The price was paid.
---
Rune woke in darkness.
Pain exploded behind his eyes, his chest heaving as visions assaulted him. Thrones of bone. Rivers of blood. Screams echoing across stone halls. A blade pressed against his throat. The crown falling from his hand.
The name Drona thundered through him, and he remembered.
He remembered the girl—Anaya—who had chosen another.
He remembered the farmer—Taron—who had stolen her heart.
He remembered his own wish: "I wish I was born a good person."
And he remembered the end—the sword, the silence, the pity of the gods.
Rune gasped awake, clutching his sheets, sweat pouring down his face. The world around him was silent, but his mind roared.
He remembered everything.
And in the pit of his heart, something long buried stirred again.
---
Rune looked at his reflection in the mirror the next morning. His eyes were soft, kind, but behind them he saw something else. A shadow. A storm.
The gods watched from above, hope trembling in their hearts. They believed he would use these memories as a warning, as a guide. They believed kindness would hold.
But Rune smiled, and in that smile was the echo of Drona.
He had faked weakness before. He had feigned surrender. He had even staged his own death. And now, centuries later, the gods had done exactly what he had always wanted.
They had given him back his memories.
His plan was only beginning.