Casimir von Eisenrath woke to silence.
Not the screaming. Not the sound of his sister's neck snapping. Not the wet tearing of dimensional rifts opening across the sky.
Silence.
He lay still, counted his heartbeats—one, two, three, steady and young—and understood.
The ceiling above him was Kalresian oak. Expensive. Imported. He'd never noticed before. Never cared. In the cell, there had been only stone, and stone didn't care what you noticed.
He sat up with controlled precision. No rush. Rushing was for the desperate, and a true noble was never desperate. Even when time itself had bent backward to give him a second chance he didn't deserve.
His chambers were exactly as he'd left them. Clothes on the floor. Wine bottles on the desk. A broken practice sword in the corner—he couldn't remember breaking it. Couldn't remember most of the last week, truth be told. The original Casimir had been spiraling, and spiraling men didn't form coherent memories.
Good. He wouldn't miss them.
Casimir stood and walked to the mirror. The face that stared back was unmarked. Eighteen years old. Soft. Golden eyes that held nothing but youth and stupidity.
Father was right to hate this face.
He turned away before the reflection could disappoint him further.
A clock sat on the mantle. Thornwell make, probably worth more than a common soldier's yearly wages. Its face was pristine white enamel, gold hands ticking forward with mechanical certainty.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Casimir's hand moved before he could think. The clock shattered against the wall, gears and springs scattering across marble like tiny clockwork entrails.
He stared at the broken pieces. Felt nothing. The ticking had stopped. That was what mattered.
Time was the enemy. Time had taken everything—his sister, the empire, the world itself. And now time had given it all back, wrapped in the skin of his younger self, with a countdown already running.
Six months.
He didn't need a clock to feel it.
The knock came precisely when it should have. Enzo was nothing if not punctual.
"Enter."
The door opened. The head butler stood at the threshold, perfectly postured, perfectly professional. His eyes swept the room—noting the broken clock, the scattered glass—without his expression changing by even a fraction.
"Young master. You have classes at the Citadel this morning."
It wasn't a question. With Enzo, it never was. The old man would have already prepared excuses, already drafted the letter explaining young master Eisenrath's sudden illness, already arranged for whatever needed arranging to minimize the family's embarrassment.
Casimir met his eyes. Held them.
"Prepare my uniform."
Enzo paused. A fraction of a second. To anyone else, it would have been invisible. To someone who'd spent a century learning to read the micro-expressions of prison guards, it was a chasm.
"Of course, young master. Shall I—"
"My uniform. Nothing else."
"…As you wish."
The butler withdrew. Casimir turned back to the window. The Eisenrath estate sprawled below—manicured gardens, training grounds where guards ran morning drills, stables that housed horses worth more than most subspecies earned in a lifetime.
Somewhere beyond those walls, Ersatz walked in stolen skins. Somewhere in the Revolutionary Army's ranks, his sister's future executioner was already planning. Somewhere in the Imperial Bureau, in the Grand Knight Order, in the palace itself—infiltrators waited.
And no one knew. No one could know.
Because Casimir von Eisenrath, the family disappointment, the drunken waste of space who couldn't maintain a 5-Star cultivation without expensive elixirs—he knew the future. He knew how every clock in the empire was counting down to the same inevitable midnight.
The comedy of it almost made him smile.
Almost.The knock came precisely when it should have. Enzo was nothing if not punctual.
"Enter."
The door opened. The head butler stood at the threshold, perfectly postured, perfectly professional. His eyes swept the room—noting the broken clock, the scattered glass—without his expression changing by even a fraction.
"Young master. You have classes at the Citadel this morning."
It wasn't a question. With Enzo, it never was. The old man would have already prepared excuses, already drafted the letter explaining young master Eisenrath's sudden illness, already arranged for whatever needed arranging to minimize the family's embarrassment.
Casimir met his eyes. Held them.
"Prepare my uniform."
Enzo paused. A fraction of a second. To anyone else, it would have been invisible. To someone who'd spent a century learning to read the micro-expressions of prison guards, it was a chasm.
"Of course, young master. Shall I—"
"My uniform. Nothing else."
"…As you wish."
The butler withdrew. Casimir turned back to the window. The Eisenrath estate sprawled below—manicured gardens, training grounds where guards ran morning drills, stables that housed horses worth more than most subspecies earned in a lifetime.
Somewhere beyond those walls, Ersatz walked in stolen skins. Somewhere in the Revolutionary Army's ranks, his sister's future executioner was already planning. Somewhere in the Imperial Bureau, in the Grand Knight Order, in the palace itself—infiltrators waited.
And no one knew. No one could know.
Because Casimir von Eisenrath, the family disappointment, the drunken waste of space who couldn't maintain a 5-Star cultivation without expensive elixirs—he knew the future. He knew how every clock in the empire was counting down to the same inevitable midnight.
The comedy of it almost made him smile.
Almost.
Breakfast was brought to him. He ate it mechanically. Smoked trout. Fresh bread. Glazed fruit from provinces that would burn when the rifts opened.
The food had no taste. Food hadn't had taste since the cell.
Enzo returned as he finished. The uniform was laid across the butler's arm—black and silver, the Citadel's crowned sword over fortress crest pristine on the chest.
"Young master. The letter from your father. Would you like me to—"
"No."
Casimir stood. Took the uniform. Met Enzo's eyes again with the cold directness that had taken him thirty years of imprisonment to perfect.
"I know what it says."
"Young master, I only thought—"
"Six months. Winter's end. Grand Knight Order selection." Casimir's voice was flat. Factual. A noble stating truths, not pleading for sympathy. "If I fail, I'm removed from the family registry. Father will attend personally to watch me not be chosen. It will be the most public humiliation House Eisenrath has suffered in three generations."
Enzo said nothing. What could he say?
Casimir began dressing. The uniform fit perfectly. It always had. The original Casimir just hadn't worn it with any dignity.
"He sent you to deliver it instead of coming himself." Not a question. "Do you know why?"
"Young master—"
"Because I'm not worth his time. He expects me to fail. Has already accepted it."
He fastened the last button. Adjusted the collar. Looked at himself in the mirror again—and this time, the uniform changed something. Made the softness look less like weakness, more like potential not yet hardened.
It would do.
"So I won't fail."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Cold. Absolute.
Enzo stared at him. The old butler's face was carefully neutral, but Casimir caught it—the calculation, the assessment, the question forming behind decades of professional discretion.
Who are you?
Good question. Casimir wasn't entirely sure himself.
"I need information," he said, turning away from the mirror. "A wizard who might give me a recommendation despite my reputation. A knight in the Grand Order who cares more about skill than family history. You've served this house for decades. You know who they are."
"Young master, even if such people exist—"
"They do. And you know their names." Casimir's golden eyes fixed on Enzo with the weight of certainty. "Tell me."
It wasn't a request.
Enzo exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice carried the care of a man choosing words that couldn't be taken back.
"Professor Aldric Thorne. Teaches advanced mana theory at the Citadel. Seven-Star wizard, former battle-mage. He… takes on difficult students."
Translation: students who were failures with powerful parents.
"And the knight?"
"Commander Severin Blackwood. Your sister trains under him." Enzo's expression suggested this was a terrible idea. "He's unconventional. Doesn't care about politics or names. Only skill."
Perfect.
Casimir walked toward the door, then paused. Something on the side table caught his eye—a pocket watch. Gold casing. Engraved with the Eisenrath crest. Probably a gift from some sycophant hoping to curry favor.
His hand moved. The watch sailed across the room and impacted the same wall where the clock had died. It cracked but didn't break completely. The mechanism inside kept ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Casimir stared at it. At the golden hands still moving forward, indifferent to being shattered.
Time didn't care if you broke it. It kept going anyway.
"Young master?" Enzo's voice was carefully neutral. "Is everything… all right?"
"Remove every timepiece from my chambers."
"I'm sorry, young master, I don't—"
"Every clock. Every watch. Every mechanism that marks time." Casimir's voice didn't rise. Didn't need to. A noble didn't shout. "I don't want to see them."
Enzo's expression cracked—confusion, concern. "Young master, may I ask why—"
"No."
The word was final. Cold. The tone of someone who'd learned authority in a place where weakness meant death.
Enzo straightened. Bowed slightly. "As you wish, young master."
Casimir left before the conversation could continue. He had a reputation to rebuild, an apocalypse to prevent, and a sister whose execution date was already written in a future only he remembered.
The estate's entrance hall was empty this early. His footsteps echoed on marble as he walked toward the main doors. No servants. No witnesses. Just him and the weight of a hundred years pressing down on shoulders that were far too young to carry it.
Outside, the carriage waited. Black lacquer and silver trim, the Eisenrath crest emblazoned on the door. The driver sat ready, reins in hand, carefully not looking at Casimir as he approached.
Everyone knew the young master's reputation. Everyone knew to expect nothing.
Let them expect nothing. Made it easier when he became something else.
Casimir climbed into the carriage without assistance. Settled into velvet seats that cost more than most people's homes. The door closed. Through the window, he watched the estate recede as the horses started forward.
Somewhere in the city ahead, Professor Thorne was preparing lessons. Commander Blackwood was training his knights. Elise was probably already at the Citadel, excelling at everything Casimir had failed.
And somewhere—in the palace, in the Bureau, in the Revolutionary Army's ranks—Ersatz walked in stolen skins, counting down to the empire's fall with every heartbeat that sounded wrong to ears that had learned to hear it.
Six months.
No. Less than that now. Time never stopped subtracting.
Casimir closed his eyes and let the carriage rock him forward. Toward the Citadel. Toward redemption or destruction.
Toward whatever waited at the end of a second chance he'd paid for with a century of screaming.
The carriage didn't have a clock. That was something, at least.
Small mercies.Breakfast was brought to him. He ate it mechanically. Smoked trout. Fresh bread. Glazed fruit from provinces that would burn when the rifts opened.
The food had no taste. Food hadn't had taste since the cell.
Enzo returned as he finished. The uniform was laid across the butler's arm—black and silver, the Citadel's crowned sword over fortress crest pristine on the chest.
"Young master. The letter from your father. Would you like me to—"
"No."
Casimir stood. Took the uniform. Met Enzo's eyes again with the cold directness that had taken him thirty years of imprisonment to perfect.
"I know what it says."
"Young master, I only thought—"
"Six months. Winter's end. Grand Knight Order selection." Casimir's voice was flat. Factual. A noble stating truths, not pleading for sympathy. "If I fail, I'm removed from the family registry. Father will attend personally to watch me not be chosen. It will be the most public humiliation House Eisenrath has suffered in three generations."
Enzo said nothing. What could he say?
Casimir began dressing. The uniform fit perfectly. It always had. The original Casimir just hadn't worn it with any dignity.
"He sent you to deliver it instead of coming himself." Not a question. "Do you know why?"
"Young master—"
"Because I'm not worth his time. He expects me to fail. Has already accepted it."
He fastened the last button. Adjusted the collar. Looked at himself in the mirror again—and this time, the uniform changed something. Made the softness look less like weakness, more like potential not yet hardened.
It would do.
"So I won't fail."
The words hung in the air. Simple. Cold. Absolute.
Enzo stared at him. The old butler's face was carefully neutral, but Casimir caught it—the calculation, the assessment, the question forming behind decades of professional discretion.
Who are you?
Good question. Casimir wasn't entirely sure himself.
"I need information," he said, turning away from the mirror. "A wizard who might give me a recommendation despite my reputation. A knight in the Grand Order who cares more about skill than family history. You've served this house for decades. You know who they are."
"Young master, even if such people exist—"
"They do. And you know their names." Casimir's golden eyes fixed on Enzo with the weight of certainty. "Tell me."
It wasn't a request.
Enzo exhaled slowly. When he spoke, his voice carried the care of a man choosing words that couldn't be taken back.
"Professor Aldric Thorne. Teaches advanced mana theory at the Citadel. Seven-Star wizard, former battle-mage. He… takes on difficult students."
Translation: students who were failures with powerful parents.
"And the knight?"
"Commander Severin Blackwood. Your sister trains under him." Enzo's expression suggested this was a terrible idea. "He's unconventional. Doesn't care about politics or names. Only skill."
Perfect.
Casimir walked toward the door, then paused. Something on the side table caught his eye—a pocket watch. Gold casing. Engraved with the Eisenrath crest. Probably a gift from some sycophant hoping to curry favor.
His hand moved. The watch sailed across the room and impacted the same wall where the clock had died. It cracked but didn't break completely. The mechanism inside kept ticking.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Casimir stared at it. At the golden hands still moving forward, indifferent to being shattered.
Time didn't care if you broke it. It kept going anyway.
"Young master?" Enzo's voice was carefully neutral. "Is everything… all right?"
"Remove every timepiece from my chambers."
"I'm sorry, young master, I don't—"
"Every clock. Every watch. Every mechanism that marks time." Casimir's voice didn't rise. Didn't need to. A noble didn't shout. "I don't want to see them."
Enzo's expression cracked—confusion, concern. "Young master, may I ask why—"
"No."
The word was final. Cold. The tone of someone who'd learned authority in a place where weakness meant death.
Enzo straightened. Bowed slightly. "As you wish, young master."
Casimir left before the conversation could continue. He had a reputation to rebuild, an apocalypse to prevent, and a sister whose execution date was already written in a future only he remembered.
The estate's entrance hall was empty this early. His footsteps echoed on marble as he walked toward the main doors. No servants. No witnesses. Just him and the weight of a hundred years pressing down on shoulders that were far too young to carry it.
Outside, the carriage waited. Black lacquer and silver trim, the Eisenrath crest emblazoned on the door. The driver sat ready, reins in hand, carefully not looking at Casimir as he approached.
Everyone knew the young master's reputation. Everyone knew to expect nothing.
Let them expect nothing. Made it easier when he became something else.
Casimir climbed into the carriage without assistance. Settled into velvet seats that cost more than most people's homes. The door closed. Through the window, he watched the estate recede as the horses started forward.
Somewhere in the city ahead, Professor Thorne was preparing lessons. Commander Blackwood was training his knights. Elise was probably already at the Citadel, excelling at everything Casimir had failed.
And somewhere—in the palace, in the Bureau, in the Revolutionary Army's ranks—Ersatz walked in stolen skins, counting down to the empire's fall with every heartbeat that sounded wrong to ears that had learned to hear it.
Six months.
No. Less than that now. Time never stopped subtracting.
Casimir closed his eyes and let the carriage rock him forward. Toward the Citadel. Toward redemption or destruction.
Toward whatever waited at the end of a second chance he'd paid for with a century of screaming.
The carriage didn't have a clock. That was something, at least.
Small mercies.