Chapter 2: The God and the Count's Son
Cael woke with a sharp breath, his chest heaving. His hand reached instinctively for the sword at his side—only to grab air.
He was no longer on a battlefield. No blood. No broken sword. No burning village.
Just... birdsong, sunlight, and the faint scent of warm bread.
He sat up slowly, eyes scanning his surroundings. His gaze landed on the polished mahogany wardrobe. The small writing desk. The blue banner stitched with his family's crest—a silver stag under three stars.
His jaw tightened.
"No... This can't be..."
He stood abruptly, stumbling to the window and flinging it open. Outside, the familiar courtyard of House Valemont stretched below. Servants bustled through the stone paths. His father's banner flew proudly above the tower.
"This is my room. At fifteen."
He looked down at his hands—unscarred. His body—lighter. He rushed to the corner mirror, stared into his youthful reflection.
"I was twenty-three... I died."
Behind him, a quiet voice spoke.
"Ah, you're quicker than I thought. Most people break down by now. But not you, Cael Valemont."
Cael turned sharply.
The man leaning in the windowsill wasn't a servant. Wasn't a knight. Wasn't even someone he recognized.
He had jet-black hair that shimmered faintly like an oil-slick in sunlight, and eyes like dying stars—liquid silver laced with gold. His cloak draped loosely, stitched with constellations that shimmered faintly as he moved.
"Who are you?" Cael demanded. "How do you know my name?"
The man smiled—not kindly, not warmly, but like someone watching an experiment unfold.
"Call me Atticus. I suppose I'm your... travel companion."
Cael stepped back, eyes narrowing. "You're not human."
Atticus grinned, flashing canines too sharp to be normal. "Nope. Not even close."
He walked into the room like he owned it, brushing his fingers across a book on Cael's shelf. "You died fighting a man cloaked in black fire. Noble ending. Heroic. Wasteful."
Cael's fists clenched. "I remember. He destroyed my village. Killed my brother. I was the last one standing."
"And then you fell," Atticus said casually, plopping into a chair. "But I was watching. You entertained me. So I rewound time—just for you."
Cael froze. "You turned back time?"
"To the day everything began going wrong," Atticus said. "You're still you. All your memories. All your strength. But no one else remembers."
Cael stared at him. "Why?"
Atticus smiled.
"Because this world is broken, and fixing it looks boring. But watching you try? That might be fun."