The morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Veyldan estate, gilding the cold stone walls with slivers of gold.
Elara lay beneath the canopy of her bed, her fingers brushing the silver crescent sigil on her wrist. It pulsed faintly, weaker than ever before.
She had felt it countless times, in countless lives, but today it carried a different weight, a subtle warning.
"Your tea, Lady Elara," a soft voice said. The handmaiden, Mariel, appeared at the door, bowing slightly.
Elara's lips curved into a polite smile, smooth and unreadable. "Thank you, Mariel. You may leave it on the table."
The girl nodded, hesitating. "I… it's… unusual this morning. You seem… different."
Elara tilted her head, her eyes sharp, but calm.
"I am awake," she said softly. Not unkind, but not inviting.
Mariel blinked. "Awake?"
"Yes," Elara repeated.
She reached for the cup of tea, hands steady. "Fully aware. For once, I remember everything."
The handmaiden's expression faltered.
She had served Elara for years, or what felt like years, though Elara herself remembered lifetimes. Mariel only bowed again and slipped quietly away, leaving Elara alone with her thoughts.
Her eyes drifted to the window. Beyond the garden, the roses glistened with morning dew.
Everything seemed untouched by time, yet she knew better. The world outside moved as if she had never existed, but she remembered.
Every betrayal, every cruelty, every death.
She rose, letting the skirts of her gown flow around her feet. Her reflection caught in the tall mirror across the room. Sixteen years old, yet eyes haunted with centuries of knowing.
A whisper brushed her mind—faint, ethereal.
Elara…
Her breath caught. The voice was familiar, yet impossible: her grandfather's. King Orion Nytheris, lost to the world, vanished from memory—yet here, in the folds of her consciousness, he lingered.
She placed a hand over her heart. I remember you. I remember what you did. I remember the covenant… and the cost.
The door creaked, and a shadow fell across the floor.
"Elara," a voice called softly.
Her father, Duke Caelum, stood at the threshold. His expression is unreadable, carefully neutral.
"Elara," he said again, stepping closer. "You rise early."
"Good morning, Father," she replied, voice calm, perfectly measured.
He studied her, brow furrowing. "You've been… distant lately. Is something troubling you?"
She shook her head lightly, letting the faintest sigh escape. "I am not troubled. I am… aware."
"Aware?" he echoed. Confusion flickered across his face, though he masked it quickly.
"Yes. Fully aware," she said. "Of the past. Of… all of it."
Caelum's jaw tightened. Something in her tone unsettled him, though he couldn't name it. "All of it?"
"The cycles. The betrayals. The deaths. I remember everything, Father. Every one of my nine awakenings," says Elara in a monotone.
He stepped back slightly, the first crack in his composure. "Nine… awakenings?"
"Yes," she said softly.
Her gaze drifted to the window again. "And this time… I am awake for the last time."
A silence fell between them.
The air felt heavier, charged. Outside, the garden continued in indifferent beauty, oblivious to the weight of what had transpired within these walls for lifetimes.
"You… speak of things I cannot understand," Caelum said quietly, his voice low, almost fearful. "You were always… delicate, and now—"
"I am not delicate, Father," she interrupted gently.
"I am… deliberate." Her eyes, cold and steady, met his. "And I have no need for your protection. Not anymore."
He swallowed, nodding slowly, though unease lingered. "Very well… I will… respect your wishes."
"However, you are still my daughter, so I'm still going to protect you," he murmured.
Elara turned from him, letting the conversation end as quietly as it had begun.
She could feel the faint pulse of the sigil on her wrist, and for the first time, it felt like a signal of possibility rather than a chain.
The loops end with me, not with them. This time… I am awake.
Days stretched into weeks, the rhythm of the estate unchanging.
Elara moved through each morning with precision, her every action a mirror of countless repetitions, yet now, a subtle sharpness lingered in her gaze.
The servants noticed it first, a quiet authority in the way she corrected misplaced linens or politely but firmly reminded the kitchen staff of breakfast timings.
Seraphine, as usual, tried to provoke her.
"Elara, you seem… different today. Did you sleep poorly?" Her voice was syrupy, but her eyes betrayed concern.
Elara tilted her head slightly, her lips forming the faintest, almost imperceptible smile.
"I sleep as well as I always have," she said. The words were neutral, but the undertone hinted at a depth no one could yet understand.
In the weeks that passed, Duke Caelum noticed.
He tried to dismiss it at first, imagining it was simply the natural growth of his daughter, or perhaps the result of the meticulous routines she had always followed.
Yet her measured calm, the way she seemed to glide through her day untouched by the usual household squabbles, gnawed at him.
It was one evening, after a particularly long day buried in paperwork, that the truth of her words began to echo in his mind.
He remembered a phrase she had murmured quietly to a servant, almost to herself:
"…betrayals, cycles, deaths… I remember everything." The ledger trembled slightly under his hand.
"Everything? What is she talking about?" he whispered aloud, the sound lost in the empty office.
"Everything from where? Deaths? Betrayals? Cycles? Ninth life…?" He rubbed his temple, but the words refused to fade.
Sleep beckoned, exhaustion overwhelming him, and he finally reclined in his chair.
"Perhaps she's only tired… or testing me with riddles I do not understand," he muttered. The office smelled faintly of parchment and candle wax as his eyes closed.
Duke Caelum found himself running.
The corridors twisted endlessly, each turn unfamiliar yet somehow familiar, walls shifting, ceilings elongating, windows stretching to impossible heights.
He ran with a pounding heart, the echo of his shoes lost in the hollow spaces.
At the end of one corridor, a door loomed, slightly ajar. Compelled, he pushed it open.
Inside, the grand ballroom of the Veyldan estate stretched before him, glittering under crystal chandeliers. But the celebration was frozen in a single, terrible moment.
There she was, Elara.
Pale, trembling, collapsing to the floor after sipping wine from a delicate glass. Gasps filled the air, but they were muted in the dreamlike haze. The attendees froze mid-motion, their expressions a mixture of shock and horror.
And there, just beyond her fallen form, the Crown Prince stood. Adrienne's face was unreadable, calm in a way that sent a chill through Caelum's chest. He did not move to help. He simply observed.
Then, impossibly, Caelum saw himself. Another version of himself, running toward the collapsed body of his daughter, frantic and anxious.
A shiver ran through him. Why am I… running? I'm already here, watching… yet… I'm running?
Elara's eyes lifted, meeting his, sharp and piercing, as if she could see through the corridors, through the doors, through the layers of time. Her voice reached him, clear and cold:
"Father…"
The word echoed through the twisted corridors as he jolted awake.
He was back in his office, heart hammering, papers scattered, candle flickering low.
Sweat clung to his brow, and his throat felt dry. For a long moment, he could not speak. He could not fully remember the dream, but the aching feeling lingered.
The sunlight filtered gently through the tall windows of the office, painting rectangles of gold on the polished floor.
The clock ticked softly, and the faint sound of footsteps approached, his assistant, tapping lightly at the door.
"Breakfast is ready, Your Grace. The butler says it's all prepared," the young aide said.
Caelum nodded absently, still trying to remember the full details of his dream.
He straightened his jacket and walked toward the dining area, bypassing the usual rituals of preparation. The morning air was calm, quiet, almost too still.
As he entered the room, Isolde's sharp eyes met his immediately.
"You haven't changed yet? Where did you sleep last night?" she said, her tone half teasing, half accusatory.
Before Caelum could answer, his gaze fell on the table.
Seraphine was already seated, fidgeting slightly with her silverware, while Elara sat across from her, eating peacefully, deliberately, as if the world outside her plate did not exist.
A shiver ran down his spine. Something about her calmness, the serene detachment was new. Something had changed.
He moved to the table, clearing his throat, trying to bridge the invisible distance.
"Elara," he began carefully, his voice softer than usual. "Are you… alright? Did you sleep well?"
She looked up at him, eyes steady, expression neutral. She tilted her head slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Yes, Father. I slept well," she replied.
The word hit him, simple, composed, and yet somehow heavier than any of her previous mornings.
There was no softness, no plea for attention, no trace of the child who had once sought his recognition.
Just… calm.
Neutral.
Unreachable.
Caelum swallowed hard, heart tightening, and tried again. "You… you seem different today. Is something bothering you?"
Elara merely set her fork down for a moment, then returned to her meal, her voice bland and uninflected.
"No, Father. Nothing is bothering me."
The shiver ran deeper this time. This was not the Elara he had known, obedient, anxious for approval, desperate for affection.
This was someone else entirely. And for the first time in years, Duke Caelum felt the unmistakable stir of fear mixed with awe: something his daughter had shifted, and he could not yet understand why.