[18th Veyra, 495 IC, Dawnsworn]
[The Imperial Corridor
The click of heels on stone struck the silence as Lady Emmelyne rounded the corner in mourning silks.
She stopped before them, bowing her head with exactly the right degree of sorrow—deep enough to show respect, shallow enough to display her neck.
"Your Highness."
As Alden watched her, a memory surfaced unbidden—Seraphina's voice from a future now erased.
"The investigation is complete, Your Majesty."
Alden looked at the crown of Emmelyne's head, pulling at the threads of the report he had heard back then, searching for every detail he could extract from that crucial testimony.
"She drugged the tea," she had added. "She accused Limon. She was the one who put him in chains. Using her father's influence, she sent the guards away from Arabella Castle. That's why they could access your..."
The memory ended in a sob that only Alden could hear.
"Please accept my greetings," Emmelyne murmured, still bent.
Alden let the silence stretch. His fingernails bit into his palms, digging for blood, but his face stayed pleasant.
"Greetings, Lady Emmelyne."
She looked up, fluttering her lashes. "I cannot imagine the weight you carry." A pause. The catch in her voice was perfectly placed. "And yet... you attended the court today. Indeed... the strength you show is truly inspiring."
Alden almost laughed. 'Had he really fallen for this once?' No—in his first life, he'd simply gone along with it. Now, it made his stomach churn. To witness her in such a complete, flawless state. Once, he had felt empathy for her, showering her with wealth as a token of his remorse for broken engagement and heartbreaks. However, she didn’t seek apologies or gold; she had only desired the throne.
Alden's features shifted and the corners of his mouth lifted.
"You flatter me, My Lady."
He held the smile for a heartbeat longer than protocol demanded, injecting it with the perfect dose of warmth. One that could be taken for grief, or gratitude, or—if she read it right—interest.
Emmelyne took the bait without hesitation.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—roses and something cloying. "Please, let me know, Your Highness. If there is anything—" her voice dropped, intimate, "anything I might do..."
Alden leaned in, his lips an inch from her ear. Her breath caught, held suspended between them.
"I will," he said quietly.
Her eyes lit up. She sank into a final curtsy and hurried down the hall, her steps light and eager.
Alden watched her go.
'Not yet.'
If she were to die now, the Empire would plunge into civil war, and he would lose his position in an instant. After all, they were unaware of her true face, only its superficial appearance, devoid of any essence.
Alden closed his eyes. 'It is better to rinse the dirt from my memory.' But as he opened his eyes, the blonde hair vanished around the corner, replaced by a bright, searing flame.
'Not again.'
His chest tightened, ribs aching against his lungs. The hallway blurred as the retreating gold strands became dancing embers. Another woman turned in the light, closing the distance until the heat of her breath brushed his lips.
She was there—closer than breath. She pressed her lips against his, tasting of sweet, warm nectar. Alden remained still. He let his chest burn, but he did not kiss back.
"Your Highness?" Limon had emerged from beneath the archway where he'd been waiting. He had waited until Lady Emmelyne vanished before sidling closer, his eyes wide with mischief. "I kept calling. You didn't hear me at all."
He lowered his voice, looking in the direction the lady had gone. "She really is beautiful, isn't she?"
Alden’s throat bobbed with each breath.
"Yes, she is..." Alden swallowed. The word came out rougher than intended.
The woman of flame remained. She watched him, her head tilted. Alden stood frozen, his gaze softening as he stared into the empty air. He whispered. "Devastatingly beautiful."
But not one belonging to his reality.
Limon's eyes went wide. "Wait. Do you actually—"
Alden bit the inside of his lip. "We have work to do, Limon."
He stepped past Limon, his hand instantly seeking the pendant at his throat. The metal seared his palm, hot enough that the phantom taste of iron flooded his mouth as he squeezed it. Though the corridor possessed the visual stillness of a tomb, to him it was deafening. He heard it all: the rustle of silk behind a tapestry, the thudding pulse of unseen watchers, and the shallow breathing of Cedric—Count Devon's son—hiding in the alcove.
It was too much. Too loud.
He focused on walking. On the sound of his own boots. On not thinking about flame-colored hair or nectar-like lips, the way marble looked when it was stained with—
Blood. In the end, everything, whether human or divine, bled and disappeared. Some left with confessions of love, while others left with curses.
"It's... suddenly so cold," Limon muttered.
Limon wrapped his arms around himself. A puff of white mist escaped his lips. Frost bloomed on the stone floor, creeping outward from Alden's boots.
Alden's hand tightened on the pendant. He forced the killing intent down, suffocating it. The heat faded. His pulse slowed.
"Keep up," he said.
The air warmed instantly. The frost melted into damp spots on the stone. Limon hurried to match his pace, confused but blessedly silent.
Alden kept his eyes forward.
[The Imperial Study
The scent of burning beeswax and old paper hung heavy in the air. The stench of stagnation. Dust, dead ink, and men too afraid to make a choice. It was the same silence that had filled the halls while his mother withered slowly. His father sat in the center of it, safe and useless.
Emperor Caelus IV sat behind a desk that functioned less like furniture and more like a barricade, piled high with scrolls. His hand hovered, the quill scratching rhythmically against parchment—a frantic noise meant to fill the void. The only other sound was the indifferent ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
"Your Majesty," the Chamberlain murmured from the doorway, bowing low. "His Highness, the Crown Prince, requests an audience. Will you receive the heir?"
Caelus IV gave a stiff, imperceptible nod.
The heavy doors swung open.
Alden entered. His steps were silent on the plush carpet, his posture as straight as a drawn blade. He stopped three paces from the desk and lowered his head in a perfect court bow.
"Your Imperial Majesty. Greetings."
The formal address, devoid of any personal warmth, cut through the silence. The Imperial aides' gazes shifted uncomfortably.
The quill stopped. Ink bled into the parchment below, ruining the decree Caelus IV had been pretending to write. The air in the room shifted. The wrongness of it hung heavy; Alden had never used that title in private before.
Caelus IV's gaze drifted lower, catching the glint of a platinum chain against the high collar. The blood-red pendant lay hidden beneath the fabric. He was likely remembering Mother clasping that shard around Alden's neck before the midwives had even finished swaddling him.
The wailing infant had silenced instantly, tiny fingers clutching the sharp crystal like a lifeline. Days later, when Caelus IV reached into the cradle to inspect it, her hand had struck his away—a harsh, feral rebuke. Like he was a stranger trying to steal something precious.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
A story Alden had later heard from him in his past life.
"I have a formal request," he said.
The quill rattled against wood as the Emperor set it down. His fingers were shaking.
"Alden. My son." The words cracked on the way out.
'Son?' Alden's mind flashed to yesterday. The empty chair at the funeral. The one his father should have been sitting in. The one he'd abandoned, leaving him to stand alone at the pyre and speak the final words over a mother who'd spent seven years dying in silence. The boy no longer existed, and Alden felt no sorrow. However, forgiving his father was a completely different matter.
"Your Majesty," Alden replied.
The formal title, final, was thrown like a slap, building a wall of protocol and ice.
Caelus IV drew a slow breath. "Go on."
He must have been confused, but Alden couldn’t care less.
"I've come to claim my inheritance," Alden said. His voice was calm. "And begin my duties as heir apparent. Immediately."
The Emperor pushed the ruined document aside and watched the ink bleed into the wood grain. "Alden. You've just lost your mother."
Alden couldn’t help but wonder if the man genuinely believed he had the right to mention his mother.
"My grief changes nothing, Your Majesty." His eyes flicked up, meeting his father's gaze. "The Empire cannot wait. Neither can I."
The Emperor's jaw tightened. Alden maintained his composure, his expression a mix of boredom and a hint of mockery.
"You're seventeen," Caelus IV said. The words came out softer than he'd intended. Almost pleading. "There's time."
"I intend to be ready, Your Majesty."
The silence between them sharpened.
Caelus IV reached for the quill again. His fingers still trembled. He pretended not to notice. "Alden... regarding the funeral—"
"There's nothing to discuss, Sire."
'You can't be disappointed in a man if you expect him to be a coward.' And yesterday's events were nothing compared to what he would do in the future. Alden cut him off. "The Emperor has duties. Your absence was... expected." He paused, his face blank. "I bear no grievances."
The tone was respectful. Proper. "Please assign me the responsibilities of the heir," Alden continued. "I'll complete them without fail."
Caelus IV closed his eyes. He remained that way for a long moment, the silence stretching taut for no reason.
When he opened his eyes, they'd hardened. "So be it. You'll begin in a week. I need time to arrange the official seal."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Alden bowed, but he didn’t turn to leave. Instead, he stood rooted to the marble.
He was unwilling to remain here for long. But he couldn’t allow these vultures to desecrate his mother’s inheritance any longer.
"Is there something else?" Caelus IV asked. His voice was gone soft.
"The Seal of the Inner Palace."
Alden's eyes fixed on a point just above his father's head. Not quite looking at him.
"It's been in the Secretariat's care for seven years. Since Mother fell asleep."
No tremor broke his voice; no crack appeared in his mask.
"I wish to reclaim it." Alden stepped forward, still not meeting his father's eyes. "The Inner Palace, the treasury, the arts, the Royal Harem—all of it. I'll handle them as her son, alongside my duties as Crown Prince."
For a moment, Caelus IV only stared.
"That would be excessive, Crown Prince."
Caelus IV’s posture stiffened as another voice spoke up.
"Your Highness."
Aldric Corlen, a senior Imperial Advisor, rose from his seat along the chamber wall and approached with a bow. He inclined deeply to the Emperor before turning a polite, strained smile toward Alden.
"Your zeal is commendable. Truly." The smile never reached his eyes. "But you're not yet of age. The Inner Court is... delicate. Intricate. Bureaucracy has a way of chewing up even experienced men."
He gestured at the towers of files on the Emperor's desk. Mountains of parchment. Years of accumulated tedium.
"We've managed these duties without error for seven years. There's no need to rush into—"
"And who decided that?"
The voice came from the right.
Callum Beaumont rose from his position near the window and stepped forward. He offered no smile. Adjusting his monocle, he inspected Aldric with a flat, clinical stare.
"We are merely proxies, Aldric. Caretakers. Do not forget that." He turned to face Alden. "And he is the sole heir."
Callum pivoted toward the Emperor and bowed—a sharp, rigid angle, distinct from Aldric's fluid motion.
"Your Majesty. The Decree of Caelus I is explicit. Upon an Empress's passing, jurisdiction falls to the Crown or the Heir Apparent." He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "I believe it would be wise to grant the request."
"But he is a child." Aldric's voice pitched up, the smooth cadence fracturing. He gestured frantically at Alden. "He is seventeen, Callum. The court is fragile. One misstep—"
"Enough."
The room went still. Alden observed the unfolding drama with a sense of idle amusement.
Caelus IV raised his head. The movement was slow, dragging against the weight of his exhaustion. His gaze swept the chamber, passing over the advisors to rest on Alden.
He stared at his son. Alden held the look, his posture rigid, refusing to blink.
The Emperor broke the connection and turned his head to the empty space at his right hand.
"What do you think, Magnus?"
The Emperor's voice dropped. "You oversee his education. Is he capable?"
A middle-aged, dull copper-haired man emerged from where he'd been standing by the bookshelf, observing quietly. He wore a pleasant, open smile—but it didn't reach his eyes.
Magnus Millano. Grand Master of the Imperial Academy. The man who'd spent the last decade pouring knowledge into Alden's skull.
He bowed first to the Emperor, then to the heir. Proper form. Perfect distance, before offering his assessment with measured patience.
"Your Majesty, I'm confident in my teaching." He paused, let the words settle. "However, my belief shouldn't dictate the decision of early assignment."
His tone dropped lower. "Why not see for yourself? A test you deem suitable would convince the court. And the heir."
Aldric Corlen's mouth snapped shut. His gaze dropped to the files stacked before the Emperor. Callum Beaumont adjusted his monocle, studying Alden's face with something that might have been apology.
Magnus simply waited for the Emperor's response. Alden observed the three individuals in silence. He shared a history with them, though he had largely forgotten the details. An intelligence network would be necessary to fill those gaps.
The Emperor leaned back in his chair. "Very well." The leather creaked under his weight. He tapped one finger against the armrest.
"I find the Grand Master's suggestion logical." His eyes locked on Alden. "But remember, Crown Prince. The Inner Court isn't a classroom. Mistakes can't be erased with fresh parchment. You won't get a second chance."
He reached down, pulled a file from the bottom of a precarious stack, and slid it across the desk. The motion sent a small avalanche of paper cascading to the floor. No one moved to pick it up.
"The accident at Rosewick."
Alden’s eyes flicked to the folder for a mere moment. The incident was of such considerable significance that it hadn't been entirely forgotten. He paused, recalling only one thing—the injustice of the verdict—a stark reminder of the unfairness of the law in his past life.
The Emperor's voice echoed. "Silver Star claims sabotage. The Alchemists' Conclave claims negligence." He picked up his quill, dipped it into the inkwell. The black liquid dripped back into the pot. "They've been bickering for weeks. Reconstruction is stalled. Families are homeless. And I'm tired of hearing about it."
He set the quill down with a soft click.
"Solve it. Find the truth." His voice went flat. "If it was sabotage, I will take the head. If it was negligence, I will take reparations. You have one week."
Alden reached across the table. His gloved hand closed around the file. But the Emperor had more to add.
"Let me be clear—my aides have struggled with this for weeks. Heavy political implications. Powerful interests on both sides." Caelus IV leaned forward. "Do you think you can manage this crisis?"
Alden gave him no hesitation. He couldn't afford to. While this man sat on his throne and signed papers without looking at the world outside, the enemy had already encroached upon the Empire. And his father, the Emperor, was completely unaware of the impending threat.
"I can."
Alden didn't pause to consider, nor did he ask for resources or extensions. For a heartbeat, Caelus IV's eyes flickered before settling back into scrutiny.
"Very well." He straightened in his chair. "Solve it perfectly, and the reward will be satisfactory. Everything you've requested and more. Until then, you may observe the court as usual."
He leaned forward. Let the weight of the throne press into his words.
"But if you fail to show anything..." A pause. "I might reconsider your position as heir."
The threat hung in the air. Real. Sharp. Not an idle warning.
Alden bowed. His expression remained calm, but he couldn’t help but sneer inwardly.
"Understood, Your Majesty."
He observed the Imperial aides one last time before departing.
Aldric Corlen looked away with a smile. Callum Beaumont's reaction was different. He offered a curt nod, jaw tight. Magnus Millano simply stared—something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before vanishing like smoke.
Finally Alden turned and walked toward the doors. His spine was straight. His steps were measured. He didn't look back.
Not even once.
The heavy doors swung shut with a hollow thud.
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Private Study
Alden walked to his desk—a slab of mahogany, stark and empty compared to the barricades of paper in the Emperor's study. He sat down and pulled open the drawer. His eyes fixed on the contents as his hand bypassed the official seals and reached for three thin, leather-bound folders tucked near the bottom.
He laid them out in a straight line across the polished wood.
'Callum Beaumont. Aldric Corlen. Grand Master Magnus.'
Three players. Three pieces on a board that had been set long before he'd returned to this timeline.
Alden reached for the file on the right. [Callum Beaumont].
He tapped the cover once. Recalled the monocled man with a disdainful sniff aimed at Aldric. The careful citing of law. Callum was a loyalist. Predictable. Useful in his own way.
Alden didn't open the folder. Just slid it to the far corner of the desk, out of the way. Not a threat. Not yet.
His hand moved left. [Aldric Corlen].
He flipped the cover open. Skipped past the biography—third son of a minor house, clawed his way up through charm and calculated marriages. Skipped the list of commendations—most of them bought, a few earned.
He went straight to the back. To the financial ledgers he'd had copied months ago. Years ago. Lifetimes ago, depending on how one counted.
His finger traced down the columns and stopped at a transaction dated seven years back. The same month the first symptom had appeared. The same week Empress Cassandra's hand had gone numb during a formal dinner.
Alden picked up a quill and dipped the nib into the pot of crimson ink.
He drew a thick circle around the entry. The ink pooled in the parchment fibers, spreading like blood in water.
He closed the folder and set it aside.
His eyes moved to the center file. [Grand Master Magnus].
Alden didn't open it. Just stared at the name written in bold, confident script across the leather. He tapped his gloved index finger against the cover.
The sound filled the quiet study. Rhythmic.
He left the folder exactly where it was. Center stage. Directly in his line of sight.
'Not yet,' he thought. 'But soon.'
The board was set. The pieces were in position. Some would move according to plan. Others would need... encouragement.
Alden reached for the thick grey dossier his father had given him.
[The Rosewick Incident].
He placed it on the desk and reached back into the drawer, pulling out a single sheet of blank parchment, used for official decrees and death warrants.
He picked up the quill again and wrote a single name in careful script.
[Logan Valecrest]
Beneath it, a location: [The Central Prison, Cell 204]
Alden set the quill down and stared at the name he'd just written.
In another life—Logan Valecrest would be dragged from that cell three months from today. He'd be paraded through the streets. Accused of crimes he didn't commit. Executed while the crowd cheered for justice that wasn't justice at all.
Alden stood and picked up the paper, holding it over the candle flame.
The edges curled and blackened. The name Logan Valecrest crumbled into ash, scattering across the desk.
Alden watched until nothing remained but a gray smudge on his fingertip.
