Consciousness returned to Ivy like a cruel joke.
She woke not in pain — but in smallness.
Her limbs were short. Her body is light. The air smelled of lavender and polished stone instead of antiseptic and blood. When she lifted her hands, they were not the hands she remembered dying with.
She was five years old.
Fragments of memories that did not belong to her pressed against her mind — etiquette lessons, a vast manor, voices that spoke in command rather than comfort. Yet beneath them lived Ivy's thoughts, intact and terrified.
A girl with long silver hair and sky-blue eyes ran toward her, smiling as if the world had never known cruelty.
"Big sister!"
Ivy knew her instantly.
Claudia Cortez.
The realisation struck harder than any wound ever had: she had not survived — she had continued.
Claudia's joy was blinding, pure, undeserved. Ivy's chest tightened. She knelt instinctively, arms opening.
As long as I am here, Ivy swore silently, I will protect her. I will be the sister I never had.
She rose to embrace the child.
Claudia tripped.
The world shattered.
Hands yanked Ivy back before she could reach her. Voices thundered. Shocked gasps echoed through the hall. Her father's grip bruised her arm as he dragged her away like a criminal rather than a child.
"No— wait—!"
She was pulled into an office that smelled of authority and fear. The door slammed shut.
The slap came before the explanation.
Her mother's hand rang against her cheek, sending her to the floor. Ivy tasted blood. She barely had time to breathe before her father reached for his belt.
Her heart screamed louder than her body ever could.
"How dare you be so disrespectful?" her father demanded.
"You were going to hit me without asking why," Ivy said — no, Caldera said — her voice trembling yet steady. "So do it. Disown me."
Silence fell.
Her parents stared.
"I know you won't do it officially," she continued, fear clawing her spine even as courage held her upright. "Your reputation matters too much. But keep the appearances. I won't embarrass you. I'll obey. I'll disappear. Just don't pretend you love me."
Her father exhaled sharply. "Agreed."
Relief felt worse than pain.
"Then punish me or summon me as you wish," she said quietly. "I'll take my leave."
She turned for the door.
And found Claude standing there.
Her elder brother's eyes were wide with disbelief. His mouth opened — closed.
"Caldera… why?"
She wanted to explain. To scream the truth. To beg him to see her.
Instead, she smiled faintly, tears burning her eyes. "I refuse to become the villain of this story."
Then she walked away.
Behind her, Claudia emerged from hiding, tears spilling freely. Guilt crushed the child's tiny chest as she clung to Claude, sobbing apologies she didn't yet understand.
That night, Ivy paced her room until dizziness forced her to sit. She watched Claude train outside, sword flashing beneath moonlight.
An idea struck — terrifying, impossible.
Perfect.
---
Claude began training her the next morning.
Swordsmanship.
It was agony.
Every swing tore at muscles that were never meant for war. Every fall burned her palms raw. She was a seventeen-year-old soul trapped in a child's body, forcing herself past its breaking point because stopping meant disappearing.
She trained during the day.
She trained at night.
She fought not for glory — but for existence.
Some nights she cried alone in the greenhouse, grief choking her as memories of her former life clawed at her chest. Claude would sit beside her without a word, his presence grounding her when everything else felt unreal.
They never spoke of what happened.
They didn't need to.
Their bond formed in silence — in shared exhaustion, in tea left beside her bed, in him standing guard while she practised beneath the stars.
She was not fighting to become a knight.
She was fighting for Caldera.
For the girl whose life she had inherited.
For the sister she promised to protect.
For a future that had never been meant for her — but would be hers anyway.
And in that quiet defiance, something unbreakable began to grow.