Cael gasped.
His lungs burned—not from blood or battle, but from the sudden shock of breathing.
Alive.
The word slammed into him harder than any sword ever had.
He jolted upright, sucking in air like a drowning man.
His eyes flew open to—
Light.
Golden sunlight spilled across his vision, warming his face. The air was calm. Quiet. Not scorched with fire or choked with smoke. Just… soft.
He was in a room.
A bed.
Sheets tangled around his limbs.
A breeze brushed in from an open window, the scent of pine trees and morning dew filling the air.
And—
"Wha…?"
His voice cracked. Raw. Disbelieving.
He stared at his hands—clean. Whole. Not covered in blood.
He touched his chest.
No wound.
No armor.
No sword stabbed through his ribs.
Only the steady beat of a heart that should no longer be beating.
Cael stumbled out of bed. His legs buckled. He grabbed the edge of the wooden desk nearby, holding himself up.
It couldn't be.
It shouldn't be.
But it was.
This was—
His old dorm room.
At the Royal Academy of Highguard.
He turned slowly, scanning every detail like a man clinging to a memory about to fade.
The small stone fireplace.The bookshelf cluttered with scrolls and magic tomes.The cracked ceiling tile above his bed.The little painting of the countryside a noble girl gave him during their second year.Even the faint scratch on the floor by the wardrobe—from the time Leon swung his sword indoors like an idiot.
He moved to the mirror.
Stared at the face staring back.
Younger.Sharper.Alive.
His dark hair was shorter, not yet grown long from field campaigns. His skin lacked the scars of war. His eyes—once dull and worn—were still wide, still hopeful.
He turned to the chair near the window.
Folded neatly over it—
His old uniform.
The black-and-gold of a third-year battle-mage student.
On top of it sat his academy badge.
The inscription caught his eye.
"Year 856 of the Concordian Era."
His heart stopped.
Three weeks before the Southern Campaign.Three weeks before the final battle at Ravelin.Three weeks before… he died.
His knees gave way, and he sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
His mind raced.
"Okay. Okay. Think. Think, damn it."
The academy.
Leon had just passed the trials to be officially recognized as the Chosen Heir of the Sword.
The kingdom was preparing for war with the Empire of Wyrnfall.
The prophecy had just been decoded. The council had started sending him—the "Chosen"—on sanctioned missions.
And Cael?
Cael had stood beside him. Like always.
The loyal right hand.
The tactician. The defender. The pawn.
And three weeks from now—
He would die. Again.
He needed proof.
Hard proof.
He yanked up his shirt and stared at his ribs.
Where the lance had pierced him—where the fatal wound had carved his life in two—there was nothing.
Just smooth skin.
No scar.
No pain.
He stood and rushed to the small wooden drawer beneath his desk.
Pulled it open with trembling hands.
Inside—
A silver pendant.
A small, polished crystal set into a heart-shaped locket. Etched on the back: "For C.A. — Until we meet again."
He gripped it like it might vanish.
"Fiora…"
The girl who gave this to him had died on the second day of battle.
Blasted apart by a wyvern firebomb.
She was alive now.
She hadn't even left the capital yet.
His breathing quickened.
Sweat gathered at his brow.
Panic surged in his throat—
And then—
He sat in stillness.
The sheets beneath him were rough cotton, threaded by the school's laundry mages.
The scent of ink and dried parchment lingered from the books and scrolls lining the wooden shelves.
Outside, he could hear birds.
Birds.
Not war horns. Not dying men screaming. Not the groan of steel being driven through flesh.
His fingers curled into the mattress. His body ached—not from wounds, but from the long, grueling sparring matches of academy life. A soreness earned from training, not dying.
He turned his face to the window again.
The light wasn't hellfire.
It was morning.
Soft. Golden. Real.
"This isn't a dream."
He let out a slow breath. It shuddered through him.
"This is real."
Cael Ardyn—age 19, third-year tactical student at the Royal Academy of Highguard—was alive.
And the world… hadn't ended yet.
Not even started.
He rose.
Washed his face in the basin. Dressed in the uniform—black coat, silver trim, the insignia of his class stitched over the heart.
It was strange. The coat felt heavier than he remembered.
Or maybe he was heavier now.
He opened the door to the corridor and stepped into a world still innocent.
The hallway was bright, filled with chatter and footsteps. Young mages and warriors bustled past—boys and girls full of fire and hunger, carrying books, blades, and baked goods from the mess hall.
"They don't know."
Their voices were high. Light.
A girl was laughing with her friends, tossing her braided hair over her shoulder.
A boy was chasing another down the stairs, shouting something about a borrowed staff.
"They have no idea what's coming."
Cael walked through them.
Not unseen—but unnoticed.
A few nodded in passing.
Most didn't.
One student, a noble's son from the western province, brushed against his shoulder and didn't even apologize.
"Watch it, Ardyn," the boy muttered with casual disdain, then kept walking.
Cael's lip curled, but he said nothing.
That one would die in the Siege of Ashport. Burned alive in the command tent because he ignored Cael's tactical warning.
He was one of the first to sneer at Cael… and one of the first to scream for him when it all fell apart.
"Funny," Cael whispered to himself. "None of them see it yet."
He stepped out into the open courtyard.
The sun was high now, casting long golden lines across the academy grounds.
The training fields beyond were dotted with sparring students. Professors strolled by with robes flapping in the breeze, chuckling over dissertations and elemental rune configurations.
Cael's boots echoed on the cobblestone as he passed beneath the main archway.
And there—near the fountain—he saw him.
Leon.
The Hero.
The golden boy.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with tousled chestnut hair that caught the sunlight like a halo.
Surrounded by his usual crowd—fellow prodigies, nobles, girls with bright eyes and nervous giggles.
He was smiling. Laughing. Tossing an apple to one of the knights-in-training. He said something Cael couldn't hear, but it made everyone burst into laughter.
The laughter cut through Cael like a blade.
He stopped walking.
Watched from the shadow of the arch.
"That's him."
"That's the one I died for."
"Again. And again. And again."
"And he doesn't even know."
Leon looked so carefree.
So confident.
So stupid.
Cael's hands trembled at his sides, and not from fear.
Bitterness boiled beneath his ribs like acid.
"They don't know yet."
"That I'll die for him."
"That I always die for him."
And when the songs are sung and the stories are told, they won't even whisper my name.
He turned away.
Walked slowly back toward the eastern wing—his dormitory—his mind raging.
He clenched his fists.
His breath came in low, quiet bursts.
The edge of the rage was still fresh. Still raw. Still bright.
But underneath it—focus.
"Not this time."
"Not again."
He opened the door to his room and closed it softly behind him.
Then he sat.
Closed his eyes.
And began to remember.
"Thirty lives."
"Thirty deaths."
He could recall them now. All of them. Every cycle the thread had imprinted into his soul.
Some were short. Some were long. One ended before the war even began, when a thief slit his throat in an alley.
But most…
Most ended the same way.
Protecting Leon.
Dying for Leon.
Being the shield. The sacrifice. The pawn.
His memories swirled like a cyclone behind his eyes.
He remembered where the army was ambushed.
He remembered who gave false intelligence to the council.
He remembered which fortress Leon charged into without backup—and which soldier betrayed them from within.
He remembered when the barrier spell failed, and whose hesitation caused it.
He remembered Fiora's last scream.
He remembered the corruption blooming in Leon's heart. The light twisting into arrogance. The power warping the prophecy into dogma.
And most of all…
He remembered when his body hit the ground, bleeding out in the mud, while Leon stood untouched.
"If I can remember it…"
"…I can change it."
He stood again.
Taller.
Straighter.
Colder.
"This time, I'm not a pawn."
He turned to the mirror again.
Not just to see himself.
But to meet the eyes of the man he would become.
The one who wouldn't die for anyone.
Not the hero.
Not the story.
Not the world.
And then—
He heard it.
Not a sound, not quite.
A sensation in the bones of his mind. A whisper without breath.
"Rewrite available."
His breath hitched.
"What—?"
Suddenly, the air shimmered.
Just at the edge of his vision.
A flicker. Like something trying to overlay itself on reality. Like a ghost trying to claw into the living world.
And then—it snapped into focus.
A translucent screen. Faintly red. Glitchy. Like it was stitched together from threads that didn't belong in this world.
It hovered in front of him, pulsing faintly.
> Fate Thread: CAEL ARDYN
> Status: Active
> Predicted Death: 21 Days
[ ] Use First Rewrite
He staggered back a half-step.
His heart thundered.
"What the hell is this…?"
The interface remained, hovering.
Unmoving.
Silent.
But watching.