Alaric Valenor stood beneath a dying sky.
The sun sank slowly beyond the horizon, its last light spilling across the heavens in crimson and gold, as though the world itself bled in silence.
Smoke drifted over the battlefield, heavy with the scent of iron and ash, and the earth beneath his feet was soaked with blood—some of it his own.
Steel pierced his abdomen.
The blade jutted from his body, unmoving, cold, yet alive with pain. Blood slid down its edge and fell in slow, steady drops to the ground below.
Each breath burned. Each heartbeat threatened to be his last.
Still, he did not fall.
His head lifted.
Memories surged unbidden—stone halls warmed by firelight, familiar laughter echoing through corridors, the gentle sternness of a father, the quiet strength of a mother.
Faces rose before his eyes, vivid and cruel in their clarity, only to be torn away by the memory of screams and steel.
His family.
Erased.
This land had torn itself apart for an imperial crown, a war waged by kings and dukes drunk on ambition. And in that struggle, House Valenor—mere barons, insignificant in the eyes of the empire—had been crushed without mercy.
Grief washed over him, deep and suffocating.
Then it twisted.
Beneath the sorrow burned something darker, sharper—a hunger that clawed at his soul.
A thirst for vengeance so fierce it eclipsed pain itself. Tears traced silent paths down his face, yet his eyes burned with an unyielding resolve.
His strength finally failed him.
Alaric sank to his knees, the sword still lodged within his body, the ground welcoming his blood without judgment.
The noise of battle faded, replaced by the pounding of his heart and the roar of memories that refused to let him rest.
Faces filled his vision one last time.
He tried to rise.
Darkness swallowed the effort.
His body leaned forward, collapsing into the soil as the sun vanished completely from the sky.
Shadows stretched across the battlefield, long and indifferent, and the world moved on as Alaric Valenor lay lifeless among the dead.
A sound reached him.
Soft.
Distant.
Then another.
Breath returned to lungs that should not have breathed again.
Slowly, his eyes opened.
The battlefield was gone.
Warm light filled the room, gentle and unfamiliar. Silence replaced war. Confusion wrapped around his mind as he lifted his hands—and froze.
They were small.
Too small.
His heart thundered as he stumbled toward a mirror.
The reflection staring back at him was not a dying man, but a child—young, fragile, with eyes far older than the body they inhabited.
Understanding bloomed like lightning.
A broken laugh escaped his lips.
The past had loosened its grip.
This was not death.
This was return.
Then his expression hardened, the softness vanishing from his gaze.
"In this life," he whispered, voice steady despite the storm within,
"I will save my family."
The words settled into his bones.
"And I will have my revenge."
To change fate, he knew one truth above all else—he must become strong. Strong enough that no crown, no army, no empire could ever erase his bloodline again.
The air shifted.
A faint blue glow gathered before his eyes, subtle and unreal, as though reality itself had thinned. Symbols formed, not written but remembered, and a presence stirred—silent, watching.
A question surfaced within his mind.
Alaric did not hesitate.
He accepted.
The light sank into him, unseen by the world, undeniable within. Something awakened, quiet and patient, as if it had been waiting for this moment across lifetimes.
The room fell silent once more.
Outside, the night passed peacefully.
No one noticed the child that night—
yet the fall of an empire had already begun