Phaeros woke up knowing something was wrong.
Not because of a sound, or a nightmare, or a sudden jolt of fear — but because of the silence inside his head.
It was too orderly.
Too controlled.
He lay still on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling, and waited for the pain to come.
It didn't.
That alone made his heart start to pound.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his hands into view.
They were young.
Unscarred.
Clean.
No trembling. No burns. No remnants of the countless wounds that should have been carved into them by now.
His breath caught.
"…So it worked."
The words escaped without thought.
His voice sounded unfamiliar — lighter, younger — yet carrying an echo of something old beneath it.
He sat up too quickly and had to steady himself. The room swayed, then settled. A small, cramped room. Wooden walls. A narrow window. A faint scent of dust and morning air.
Recognition hit him all at once.
This was his room.
From before.
Before awakening.Before power.Before loss.
A faint pressure stirred deep in his chest, like something vast turning in its sleep. He instinctively pressed a hand to his collarbone.
The mark was still there.
A thin crescent, pale against his skin.
Warm.
Not active — restrained.
Good.
That meant the regression hadn't failed.
Memory stirred in fragments. Faces without names. Screams without sound. A world collapsing inward. A weight in his hands shaped like something curved and familiar. A promise he had failed to keep.
He closed his eyes.
Not yet.
If he tried to remember everything now, his mind would fracture. He knew that from experience.
Instead, he focused on what mattered.
He was early.
Earlier than last time.
The Awakening hadn't happened yet.
A quiet knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Phae? You awake?"
His chest tightened at the voice.
"Yes," he answered, forcing steadiness.
The door opened, and Mara stepped inside, carrying folded clothes. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands already falling free. She looked tired, as she always did, but there was warmth in her eyes.
"You were tossing around all night," she said. "Bad dreams again?"
"Something like that."
She set the clothes down and adjusted his collar with practiced hands. The gesture was simple, familiar — and painfully precious.
"You know," she said gently, "you don't need to be scared. Awakening isn't a sentence. It's just… a beginning."
He swallowed.
If only she knew.
"I'll be fine," he said quietly.
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Just come back safe."
Those words struck deeper than any blade.
After she left, Phaeros remained standing long after the door closed.
Safe.
He almost laughed.
Outside, bells began to ring — low and deliberate — echoing through the district like a slow heartbeat.
The Awakening call.
He dressed in silence and stepped outside.
The streets were already alive. Families gathered. Nervous laughter mixed with whispered prayers. Children his age walked with forced confidence or pale faces.
He recognized some of them.
Too many.
Some would become heroes.
Some monsters.
Some would die screaming long before adulthood.
His chest tightened, but he forced himself to keep walking.
The plaza opened before him — wide, circular, paved with pale stone worn smooth by generations. At its center stood the Awakening Pillar, tall and ancient, etched with symbols no living scholar could read.
Power slept inside it.
Waiting.
As Phaeros stepped onto the plaza, a subtle pressure brushed against his senses.
Not pain.
Attention.
Like a gaze sliding across his skin.
He froze for half a heartbeat.
Deep within him, something stirred — vast, restrained, patient.
Not awakening.
Recognizing.
He kept his face calm, though his pulse quickened.
So it still remembers me.
The pressure lingered, then receded.
Around him, the ceremony began.
Names were called. Children stepped forward. Light flared. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Some cried in joy.
Some collapsed in shock.
Phaeros watched silently, hands at his sides.
This was where his fate had once diverged.
This was where everything had gone wrong.
A faint sensation brushed his awareness — like the outline of an object just beyond reach. Curved. Familiar. Protective.
An umbrella.
The image vanished as quickly as it came.
His lips twitched faintly.
Not yet.
When his name was finally called, it echoed through the plaza.
"Phaeros."
The sound seemed to linger longer than it should have.
He stepped forward.
For a moment, the world felt… attentive.
Not hostile.
Not welcoming.
Simply watching.
Something ancient shifted far beneath his awareness, as if amused by his return.
Phaeros lifted his chin.
Whatever awaited him beyond this moment, he would face it differently this time.
He had already seen how the story ended.
Now, he would rewrite how it began.