Names had weight in this world.
I learned that not from lessons or books, but from the way servants spoke—how their voices lowered at certain doors, how their backs straightened when particular footsteps echoed through the halls.
Those footsteps were steady.
Heavy.
Unhurried.
My father's.
Dinner that night was formal.
I sat in a high-backed chair far too large for my small body, cushions carefully placed so I wouldn't slip. The long table stretched endlessly, polished until it reflected the chandelier's light.
Servants stood in silence along the walls.
My mother sat beside me, composed and elegant, her violet hair tied neatly back. My father sat at the head of the table, his presence alone enough to quiet the room.
An older man stood before him, holding a thin ledger.
"The preparations are complete, my lord," he said with a deep bow. "By tomorrow evening, the announcement will have reached every major territory."
Tomorrow.
The word settled heavily in my chest.
My father nodded once.
"Good. Tomorrow, the world will know."
The world.
My mother glanced at me, her expression soft but resolved.
"It's time," she said quietly.
The man turned toward me and bowed again—this time lower.
"To think the young master has grown so well," he said. "The blood of House Atradiés runs strong."
Atradiés.
The name struck something deep inside me.
Not familiarity.
Weight.
My father finally spoke again.
"Listen carefully," he said, his gaze fixed on me—not harsh, not gentle. "Even if you do not understand everything now, remember this moment."
I met his eyes.
Grey against steel.
"I am Duke Alaric Atradiés," he said. "Lord of the northern territories and head of House Atradiés."
A duke.
So that was it.
Not close to power.
At the center of it.
My mother placed a hand on my shoulder.
"And I am Elena Atradiés," she said. "Your mother."
Then my father looked back at me.
"Tomorrow, your name will be announced to nobles, lords, and commoners alike," he continued. "It will be recorded. Observed."
The servants lowered their heads.
"Your name," he said, "is Amaniel Atradiés."
Amaniel.
The moment the name was spoken—
Something broke open in my mind.
Not a memory.
A feeling.
Cold.
Sharp.
Wrong.
A duke's son.
A public announcement.
A noble child revealed to the world.
I had read this.
My breath caught.
Not these names. Not this exact scene—but the structure.
The role.
I couldn't remember the title.
Couldn't remember the protagonist's face.
But I remembered one thing with terrifying clarity.
The duke's son was not the hero.
He was a villain.
Not the final one.
Not the most evil.
But a stepping stone.
A noble born into power who stood in the protagonist's way.
A character whose fall marked the beginning of something greater.
My hands trembled slightly.
I forced them still.
I couldn't remember how I died.
Only that I did.
Publicly.
I remembered betrayal.
Loss.
A name spoken with contempt.
And blood.
The room was still.
No one noticed the storm inside me.
They saw only a calm child, seated quietly between his parents.
But inside—
Daniel Smith felt fear for the first time since rebirth.
So this world wasn't just like a novel.
It was one.
And I wasn't the protagonist.
That night, alone in my room, I stared at the ceiling.
Daniel Smith had died nameless on a road.
Amaniel Atradiés would be announced to the world tomorrow.
A villain.
One whose story I couldn't remember—
Only that it ended badly.
"…Then I won't follow it," I thought quietly.
If the world expected me to fall—
I would make sure it didn't know how.