The sky above him was cracked.
Not literally — but that was how it felt.
The clouds were split open like broken glass, and behind them, the sunset bled through in streaks of crimson and gold.
The battlefield stretched endlessly beneath that dying light, littered with shattered armor, broken blades, and the still bodies of those who had once followed him.
Cael Winters lay among them. His chest rose and fell in shallow gasps, each breath a struggle.
He could taste iron on his tongue and feel warmth leaking from the jagged wound below his ribs.
His hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword, but it was gone — lost somewhere amid the corpses of his comrades.
The wind moved weakly, carrying with it the stench of blood and burnt flesh.
A laugh escaped him. It was dry and humorless, barely more than a wheeze.
"So this is it… huh…"
His voice cracked, almost lost to the wind.
He turned his head — slowly, painfully — and looked around. There was no one left.
The men who had fought beside him for years… the mages, the knights, the squires who had once looked at him with admiration and trust.
Every single one of them lay silent.
Dead.
The word echoed in his skull, louder than any roar.
"If only… I'd been stronger…"
He could still remember their faces before the final charge — the desperate resolve in their eyes, the way they'd stood even when they knew the odds were hopeless.
He'd led them. Promised them victory.
But what had he given them?
A massacre.
A faint tremor went through his fingers.
"If I hadn't wasted my years… if I'd trained harder instead of chasing comfort…"
The words rasped from his throat like a confession.
"If I wasn't such a coward back then… maybe… maybe they'd still—"
He stopped himself. The pain in his chest flared, but it wasn't from his wound. It was the old pain — the kind that came from memory.
His family's faces surfaced in his mind — his father's calm authority, his mother's soft smile, his sister's laugh.
All of them had vanished in the Monster Tide, years ago. And he had survived — by running.
He'd told himself that he survived so he could protect others. That he'd grow strong enough to prevent such a tragedy again.
But even now, lying here among the dead, the truth gnawed at him.
He hadn't changed. He'd just found new people to fail.
Cael's lips curled into a bitter smile.
"What a joke."
His vision blurred. The edges of the world dimmed, but in that dimness, a shadow moved.
Footsteps crunched against the scorched earth — slow, deliberate, heavy. Cael forced his eyes upward, blinking against the dust.
And then he saw it.
The creature that had ended everything.
It stood tall, easily twice his height, its entire body covered in snow-white fur matted with streaks of red.
Two golden eyes glowed from its beastlike face, intelligent and calm — too calm. In its clawed hand was a sword of black steel, still dripping human blood.
The monster looked down at him. When it spoke, its voice was deep and resonant, like a growl buried beneath words.
"Human… you fought well."
Cael's breath caught. The creature's tone wasn't mocking — it was genuine.
"A great battle," the beast continued.
"You were a worthy opponent. But it is a pity…"
The monster raised its sword, the crimson-stained blade catching the last light of dusk.
"…that you have to die here."
Cael's lips parted, but no sound came out. He wanted to say something — a curse, a prayer, a plea — but his voice had left him.
The blade fell.
And the world turned black.
✧✧✧
There was no pain.
No agony, no fear. Only… silence.
It was strange.
For a moment, he thought this must be death.
But then, he realized something odd — his body didn't hurt anymore.
The crushing fatigue, the burning wounds, the cold — all of it was gone.
It felt… peaceful. Like floating in a dream.
'So this is… the end?' he thought vaguely.
The darkness around him was soft, almost comforting. He couldn't see or hear anything, but somehow he knew — he still existed.
'Is this the void?'
His thoughts echoed faintly, as if swallowed by endless distance.
But then, something shifted.
A faint sensation — the weight of his limbs, the texture beneath his fingers.
'Wait…'
He tried to move his hand.
And it moved.
Confusion struck like lightning. He tried again — his fingers twitched, then flexed.
He felt a surface beneath them. Smooth. Solid.
'What…?'
His heart — if it still beat — began to race. Slowly, carefully, Cael opened his eyes.
Light spilled in — soft, warm light that stung his vision. He blinked, once, twice… and then froze.
Above him wasn't a dark void or the bloodstained sky of the battlefield.
It was a ceiling.
A familiar one — white plaster trimmed with carved wooden beams, a faintly ornate chandelier hanging above, its crystal droplets scattering sunlight across the room.
He turned his head.
The space around him was wide and elegant in a modest noble's way — polished oak furniture, deep green drapes framing a tall window.
A tall wardrobe stood by the wall beside a full-length mirror, and near the window sat a sturdy mahogany desk stacked with unopened books and half-finished letters.
It was refined, comfortable — not ostentatious like a duke's mansion, but unmistakably noble.
He knew this place.
He knew it too well.
Cael bolted upright, his breath catching in his throat.
The air smelled faintly of lavender and parchment — the same scent that had always lingered in his room at the barony.
He stared, wide-eyed.
'No way…'
His gaze fell to his hands — smooth, pale, uncalloused. The hands of someone who had never gripped a real sword.
'This can't be real.'
He swung his legs off the bed and stumbled toward the mirror in the corner, almost tripping on the carpet.
When his reflection met him, the air left his lungs.
A boy stood there.
Black hair slightly messy, olive-green eyes too bright and unscarred by war, fair skin untouched by hardship.
Lean, but soft around the edges — the kind of body that came from eating well and training little.
It was him.
Cael Winters, at seventeen.
"You've got to be kidding me…"
He leaned closer, inspecting every feature, every freckle. His mind spun.
"Is this… real? Did I— go back?"
For a brief moment, a ridiculous idea crossed his mind. He raised his hand and pinched his cheek — hard.
"Ow!"
The sound echoed in the quiet room. He stared at his reflection, face reddening.
"Okay… definitely not a dream."
He stood there, breathing unevenly. The disbelief refused to leave, but another thought crept in — when exactly had he returned?
He turned toward the desk near his bed. A small calendar sat atop it, marked neatly in black ink.
1st of August, 847
His heart stopped.
Four months.
Four months before the Monster Tide.
Before his family died. Before he ran like a coward.
He sank onto the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the floorboards. The enormity of it all crashed down on him like a wave.
He was back. Truly back.
Knock, knock.
The knock on the door nearly made him jump.
"Young Master, it's morning," came a soft female voice from the other side.
For a second, Cael froze — then memory clicked into place. He knew that voice.
"Enter," he said instinctively.
The door opened with a creak.
A young woman stepped in, holding a neatly folded set of clothes.
She looked about nineteen, with chestnut-brown hair that fell loosely down her back, shining softly in the morning light.
Her gentle brown eyes carried a hint of weariness, and the faint scent of soap followed her in.
Luna.
His personal maid.
She stopped at the doorway, blinking in faint surprise. "Young Master… you're already awake?"
Normally, this would have been the moment he mumbled something about five more minutes and buried himself under the blankets until she forcibly dragged him out.
But today, he just sat there, meeting her eyes.
Luna's composure faltered slightly, her brows knitting in confusion before she smoothed her expression.
Cael watched her silently for a moment. A quiet, bittersweet thought passed through his mind.
'It must've been hard… being the maid of such a useless young master.'
"Young Master?" she prompted gently.
He blinked. "Ah— yes. I'm up."
"I see." She held out the clothes in her arms. "Your attire for the day, sir. Breakfast will be served in fifteen minutes."
As she stepped forward, preparing to help him dress — as was her duty — Cael instinctively raised a hand.
"That's fine, Luna. Just… leave them on the chair. I'll dress myself."
She froze mid-step.
"...Pardon?"
"I can manage," he said, forcing a small smile. "You've got other things to do, right?"
The shock on her face was subtle but unmistakable.
In all the years she'd served him, those words had probably never left his mouth.
But to her credit, Luna quickly regained her composure, bowing slightly. "As you wish, Young Master."
She placed the clothes neatly on the chair, then turned toward the door.
Before leaving, she hesitated for the briefest moment, glancing back — her eyes questioning, curious.
Then she bowed once more and quietly left the room.
The door clicked shut.
Cael let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
For a moment, the silence felt too heavy — like the weight of time pressing down on him.
He stared at the folded clothes.
"Guess some habits will have to change."
He dressed quickly, movements sharp and precise — an old soldier's reflex in a young man's body. The shirt felt soft, unfamiliar. The boots, light and new.
When he finished, he walked to the mirror once more.
His reflection stared back — that young, foolish face he'd long buried under years of blood and regret.
He reached up and touched his cheek. The skin was smooth. Warm. Alive.
"I'm really back…" he whispered.
A long silence followed, filled only by the faint ticking of the clock on his desk.
Finally, Cael straightened his posture and looked himself in the eye. The doubt was still there — but beneath it, something else flickered.
Determination.
"I don't know who or what brought me back," he murmured quietly, his voice low but steady. "A god, a devil… it doesn't matter."
He turned toward the door, hand resting on the handle.
"This time… I'll live a life without any regret."
He opened the door.
"No matter what I have to do."
And with that, Cael Winters stepped out — not as the broken man who had died on a blood-soaked battlefield, but as the boy who had just been given a second chance.
.
.
A/N:
How was it for a first chapter?
If you like it give me a few power stones to help out this newbie authors, come on its free
This is my first novel and English is my second language. So while the writing quality may not always be top-notch, I promise the story quality is great.
This is not one of those hollow AI slop novels all over the platform. Expect:
- Loveable Characters
- Genuine Emotions
- Deep Lore & World Building
And much more.