The carriage smelled of cedar and the heavy, metallic scent of the Emperor's golden seal. For Lucius von Valerius, this scent was the smell of victory. It was the end of ten long years of war, of the constant grinding of bone and iron.
Ten years.
He had spent a decade at the Southern Line, a place where the mud was permanently stained rust-red. The trenches there were frozen deep enough to keep the dead looking exactly as they had the day they fell. He had left home as a boy and returned as the "Iron Wall"—a living legend who had conquered the unconquerable.
The Emperor's voice still echoed in his mind: "A sovereign region to rule as you see fit, Lucius. And your son... he shall be the Crown Prince's companion. Your legacy is immortal."
Legacy. It was a heavy word. Lucius leaned back against the soft velvet seats, his fingers tracing the hilt of his sword. This blade was the only companion that had never failed him. He thought of Isabella, his beautiful wife. Her letters had been his only comfort during the freezing nights on the battlefield. He thought of his son, a boy he barely knew but already loved with the fierce, protective heart of a lion.
Finally, Lucius thought, his eyes closing from the exhaustion of a ten-year marathon. Peace. I can finally be a father. I can finally be a husband.
THWACK.
The sound was sharp and violent. A crossbow bolt slammed into the carriage frame, missing his head by mere inches.
In a heartbeat, the "Father" and "Husband" vanished. The "General" took command.
Lucius didn't hesitate. He kicked the carriage door open with enough force to snap the metal hinges. His heavy boots hit the uneven forest floor before the carriage had even stopped. Through the dark trees, three figures in black tunics emerged. They moved with a disciplined, predatory grace. These weren't starving bandits; they were professional executioners.
"Who sent you? was it General Wan!!" Lucius roared. His voice was the same one that had commanded tens of thousands of soldiers. His sword cleared its scabbard with a sharp hum of cold steel.
The assassins didn't speak. They lunged.
Even though he was exhausted, Lucius was a whirlwind of death. He was the Iron Wall for a reason. He blocked a poison-coated blade aimed at his neck, sparks flying in the dim light. In one fluid motion, he stepped inside the first man's reach and delivered a slash that opened him from hip to chest.
He didn't wait for the body to hit the ground. He turned, smashing his metal-covered fist into the face of the second man. There was a sickening crack as the man's skull shattered. The third assassin hesitated, his eyes wide with fear. He was looking at a God of War—a man who seemed to control the very air around him.
But as Lucius stepped forward to finish the last man, the world suddenly tilted.
Schlick.
It was a wet, sickening sound. A sound Lucius had heard a thousand times on the battlefield, but never from this perspective.
A blade burst through the center of his chest. The tip of the sword, sticking out through his armor, was dripping with his own dark, warm blood.
Lucius's knees hit the dirt. The strength that had held the Southern Line for a decade vanished. His breath hitched, his lungs filling with a hot, metallic taste that made him gag. He looked down at the sword, then turned his head with agonizing slowness.
Standing behind him, holding the hilt with a calm grip, was a man who shared his father's eyes.
"Cedric...?" Lucius choked out, blood spraying from his lips.
His step-brother—the man he had trusted to manage his home, the man he had called "brother" with pride—didn't help him. Instead, he kicked Lucius in the chest, pinning him to the muddy earth. Cedric's "kind" face was gone. It was replaced by a mask of pure, burning hatred.
"You look surprised, Lucius," Cedric whispered. His voice was smooth and cold. He pulled the blade out of Lucius's chest and watched him bleed with clinical interest. "Did you really think I'd spend my life in your shadow? Watching you receive honors while I, the firstborn, was treated like a nobody because of my mother's low blood?"
Cedric leaned down, grabbing Lucius by his bloody hair to force him to look up. He spat in Lucius's face. "I hate you. I hate the memory of your mother. And most of all, I hate your 'nobility'."
"Isabella..." Lucius choked out, his vision beginning to blur. "My... Son..."
Cedric laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Isabella? Isabella has been in my bed since before your wedding night, Lucius. Why do you think she was so happy to send you back to the war? She couldn't stand to look at you."
He leaned closer, his voice a venomous hiss. "As for 'your' son? Why do you think he looks so much like me? He was never yours. We just needed your fame, your money and your title to give him the life he deserves. Now that you've secured a kingdom for him... you're just a loose end."
Cedric kicked Lucius hard in the ribs, breaking bone. Lucius couldn't even feel the physical pain anymore. His heart was breaking faster than his body. His entire life—every scar he had earned, every friend he had lost—had been a lie. He had been a puppet, building a kingdom for the man who was now stepping on his throat.
Cedric wiped his blade on a silk handkerchief. "Die well, brother. Your 'son' will inherit your land. I'll make sure he remembers me as his 'favorite uncle'—or perhaps, eventually, his real father."
Cedric turned and walked away, his laughter fading into the wind.
Lucius lay in the mud. He felt his life pouring out of his chest, soaking the ground he had fought so hard to protect.
I was a fool, he thought, a single tear mixing with the blood on his cheek. A loyal, blind fool.
As the darkness closed in, a soft rustle reached his ears. A shadow fell over him. He expected another assassin to make sure he was really dead, but the scent that reached him wasn't blood—it was the sharp, clean scent of mint and something strange, like electricity in the air.
A woman knelt beside him. He couldn't see her face, but her voice was like a melody from another world.
"How sad," she whispered. Her voice was steady and calm. "Even a war hero falls for such simple traps. If a man like you can be killed so easily..."
Lucius tried to speak, but only red foam bubbled at his lips.
"...then someone like me, so weak and fearful person doesn't have a chance to survive in this den of snakes," she continued. "I am so sorry. If there is a second chance, I hope you will not make the same choices again."
She leaned closer and Lucius felt a sharp prick in his neck—not a sword, but a tiny needle.
"Please forgive me for what I am going to do," she whispered.
Who is she... what does she mean? Lucius tried to ask, but the darkness took him. As his head fell back, he saw one last thing. There, on the woman's ankle, was a small birthmark shaped like a crescent moon.
Then, the world went black.
"Lucius? Lucius, for heaven's sake, are you napping while I'm talking about the most important issue in the world? Come on tell me honestly, which side of me looks good?"
The voice was loud, bright and impossibly familiar.
Lucius bolted upright, his hand flying to his chest. There was no hole. No blood. No freezing mud. Instead, he felt the warmth of the afternoon sun and the rough bark of an old tree against his back. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He looked around, his eyes wild.
He was in the Royal Gardens. The air smelled of roses and cut grass, not death.
"Julian?" Lucius gasped, looking for his youngest brother. No—it wasn't Julian.
Sitting on the grass beside him was a young man with blonde hair and a mischievous grin.
"Prince... Alaric?" Lucius's voice was a hoarse whisper.
"Who else?" Alaric laughed. "Did sword practice tire you out that much? You've been staring at me like you're checking if I'm a ghost. I know I'm handsome seriously, Lucius, but this is getting weird." Prince Alrice shivered making a disgusting face while teasing Lucius
Lucius didn't hear the joke. He was staring at Alaric's throat. There was no scar. In the timeline Lucius remembered, Prince Alaric—his best friend—had been murdered in a "hunting accident" 12 years before his death. That death had started the ten-year war.
"Alaric!" Lucius lunged forward, grabbing the Prince's shoulders. He frantically checked the Prince's chest, looking for wounds, for blood, for anything. "Is there any pain? Any sign of poison? Are you wearing your armor? Do you fell anything wrong?"
Alaric stared at him, confused. "Ouch! Lucius, what is wrong with you? I'm fine! We're in the capital, the sun is shining and the only thing killing me is the thought that once we are back in palace father will start his "you are eighteen and responsibilities" talk. Let go, you brute! You're going to bruise the future King!"
Lucius let go, his hands shaking. He looked at his own palms. They were calloused from training, but they didn't have the deep scars of the war. He looked at his clothes—fine, expensive linen, not the blood-stained armor he had lived in for years.
Eighteen, he realized, his breath leaving his lungs. I am eighteen years old.
The realization hit him like a punch. He hadn't just survived; he had been sent back. Back to the beginning. Before the war. Before the marriage to Isabella. Before Cedric took everything.
He looked at Alaric, who was now looking at him with worry. "Lucius, seriously. You're white as a sheet. Do I need to call a doctor?"
"No," Lucius said. His voice suddenly changed. It lost its youthful tone and became the cold, steady voice of the General who had seen thousands die. He stood up, the confusion vanishing from his face. It was replaced by a terrifying aura. "No need for the doctor. I am perfectly fine, Alaric. Better than before just in need of sleep as some prince had been speaking about his looks for ages." Prince Alaric Looked at him and scoffed.
Then suddenly, Lucius turned his gaze toward the distance, towards the capital.
Isabella is there, he thought, his heart turning into ice. And Cedric is in my father's office, smiling and plotting like a snake in the grass.
He remembered the woman's voice in the woods: I hope if there is a second chance, you will not make the same choices again.
"I won't, I promise" Lucius whispered to the wind. It was a promise and a threat.
He didn't know who the lady with the crescent moon was or why she had been there. But he knew one thing: that he had returned to the past before everything started. This time, he wouldn't be a shield for traitors to hide behind. He would be the sword that cut them down.
"Alaric," Lucius said, not looking back. "Who is the eldest daughter of the Finance Minister? The one they keep hidden away?"
Alaric blinked, surprised by the question. "The eldest? You mean the sickly one? Evelina? Why ask about her? Everyone knows her younger sister, Isabella, is the beauty of the season."
Lucius's lips curled into a cold, predatory smile.
"The 'beauty' is a weed, Alaric. One that needs to be pulled." He paused, thinking of the scent of mint and electricity. "I find myself suddenly very interested in herbs... they might look weak but do wonders if used perfectly."