The warm glow of chandeliers flickered across the grand dining hall, casting golden hues on polished marble and finely woven tapestries. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifted through the air, a luxurious aroma that contrasted sharply with the cold, metallic stench of blood still fresh in his memory.
Oliver sat stiffly at the long, lavishly decorated table, surrounded by half-brothers and sisters who barely acknowledged his presence except to bully him. Not until the first tear slid down his cheek, and then another. Although it was light, he could not stop the continuous downpour.
After all, this sight was one he never thought he would see again.
It was one of those memories he had kept tight in his heart.
Silence fell. Those at the banquet table all looked at him like he was either weird or too fragile. Such gazes, he never thought he'd appreciate seeing them again, even if it had a hint of mockery underneath.
Then came the first chuckle. And another. Until the entire banquet hall was filled mocking laughter directed at him.
"Why is he crying? Did the little prince finally realize he's useless?" One of his stepbrothers smirked, swirling his goblet of wine.
Another joined in, tapping a spoon against his plate. "Maybe he's sad that our father will never favor him, because he lacks the ability to awaken a favorable bloodline...such trash!"
The words were harsh, but they barely registered in Oliver's head. He was more focused on the wonder before him.
His hands trembled as he stared at them. They were young, smooth, untouched by time or torture. He could move his fingers freely, without the pain of broken joints. His breath hitched as he felt his face. There was no sagging skin, no sunken cheeks.
Through the reflection of the lightly decorated silver goblet before him he could see his face. A child's face.
He had returned. He had gone back in time.
The tears fell even faster now, unbidden. The memories of slavery, of pain, of dying old even though he had been young, and of dying used up in those heaven forsaken demon dungeons, had all of it truly been undone?
"Enough of this nonsense." A voice ordered.
The voice was soft yet firm, carrying a warmth he had not heard in years. Oliver looked up sharply, his vision blurred. A familiar figure had stood up at the table. It was a girl with strikingly similar features to his own, save for the strength in her deep-set eyes. His elder sister, Velma von Rich
"Leave him alone," she said, leveling a glare at their half-siblings. "Mocking Oliver makes you no better than Sulkings."
Oliver's father, Richie Von Rich had many wives, but Velma was the only other sibling Oliver had from his rumored dead mother, and the only one that always came to his aid.
Then again, the royal family of Kingdom Tyrell was huge, and most bonds especially amongst siblings were very competitive in nature.
Oliver had no control over the way his body responded next. Even if he did, he coul only allow himself to be taken by this flood of emotions.
The moment he saw her—the moment he saw Velma 'alive'—his chair scraped against the floor. He stood so suddenly that it tipped over. Without a word, he turned and ran, ignoring the stunned expressions of the nobles, ignoring the whispers, ignoring the laughter that followed him.
The cool night air hit him as he stepped onto the balcony, the sounds of the banquet muffled behind heavy velvet drapes. His hands gripped the railing, body trembling as more waves of emotion crashed over him.
"It's real," he whispered. "I... I'm really here. The staff really sent me back. Its true what that old slave said. The Rich royal family that I come from do carry King Solomon's Bloodline."
It now made sense that his blood had been so valued. If information of this were to reach the outside world, it would cause a big problem.
The late King Solomon the Wise, was the most treasured legend in all existence. His bloodline was no joking matter.
A soft rustling that came from behind Oliver, suddenly made him stiffen. Then, a gentle hand touched his shoulder.
"Oliver?"
Her voice. Soft and caring as it was, sent a shiver down his spine.
Oliver shut his eyes as a fresh wave of pain tore through him. 'I killed you.' he thought to himself.
In the past life, he had been the reason for her unfortunate death.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
His throat tightened. He hastily wiped his face, forcing a hollow chuckle. "Y-Yeah. I'm fine. Just—"
Before he could finish, she had already pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in warmth he thought he had lost forever. She stroked his hair like she always used to, humming softly under her breath.
"You're too soft," she murmured. "You always let them get to you."
No. That wasn't it. He wasn't crying because of them.
He was crying because he had seen her corpse with his own eyes. Because he had heard her screams before they were silenced forever. Because the guilt of knowing that he was the reason for her death was crushing him from the inside out. Because the image of her lifeless face still hunted his dreams and every breath.
The sheer guilt he had lived with was like trying to sleep with a boulder on one's chest.
However, a shadow suddenly loomed over them, and Oliver's blood turned to ice.
"Your sister spoils you too much, boy."
The voice was smooth, yet there was a quiet malice underneath. Oliver's fingers twitched as he recognized the man who had just stepped onto the balcony. It was the nobleman who had asked for his sister's hand in marriage, Sir fen Bolton of the Bolton Noble family.
He was of such power in the kingdom that he could even afford to refer to Oliver who was a prince as 'boy'.
A traitor. A noble spy of the Somara empire. One of the men who paved the way for the fall of kingdom Tyrell, and the Rich Royal family.
For a moment, Oliver forgot how to breathe. He had spent his past life trusting this man. He had smiled, oblivious to the poison lurking beneath that polished demeanor. And now, seeing him again, knowing what he truly was...
His hands clenched into fists.
"Is something the matter?" Sir Bolton asked, tilting his head. His gaze was unreadable, but Oliver could feel it. It was a quiet scrutiny, a predator watching for weakness.
Oliver swallowed down his silently rising anger. He couldn't afford to act suspiciously. Not yet.
He forced himself to look away, shaking his head. "No. I was just overwhelmed."
Sir Bolton hummed, unconvinced. "You'd best recover. Tonight is an important night, after all. Your father, the crowned prince is taking another wife, but this time around, she is a noble of the Somaran Empire. They would be arriving soon, and you do not want to leave them with a bad impression."
Oliver stiffened. Tonight. His mind raced.
The banquet ends in three hours. At exactly midnight, the first signs of the Tyrell kingdom's downfall will begin. One that the Somara empire was bringing with them.
The clock inside chimed.
Three hours left.
Oliver's fingers trembled at his side, but this time, it wasn't from just anger.
It was from urgency...