Demether's hands were cold and felt quite soothing against his burning forehead and cheek, searing with a feverish heat that had led him to postpone his training sessions with Sigurd until further notice.
Indeed, skipping those violent
meetings that left Igfrid bruised and aching was a relief, yet the suffering from his self-inflicted fever —caused by straining his mana organ—was almost comparable to a beating.
His bones ached and his skin burned, though not enough to keep him bedridden. Though his body was that of a child,
his mental endurance remained that of the Igfrid who had endured a lifetime of
misery in the timeline he'd abandoned. The low-grade fever worried the elderly nanny Demether so deeply that she tried to cancel Igfrid's once-a-decennial meeting with his father, the Kral. But the young prince himself had insisted he was well enough to attend, behaving like a child excited to spend time with his father figure.
"I don't want Father to worry…" This final remark moved Demether most. Relying on the fact that Queen Rosemarie had sent a tutor for the prince, she allowed the meeting to proceed as planned, on the condition that Sir Vikhus—given his medical expertise—would not leave the prince's side for even a moment.
Sir Vikhus was truly a valuable addition to Igfrid's retinue. Though versed in multiple sciences without being an expert in any, his versatility as a teacher was remarkable. Above all, he was a trusted member of House Von Eastrit, so both Demether and Rosemarie were certain he would never harm Igfrid.
Thus, Igfrid was taken to the main palace, escorted by two knights, Demether, and Sir Vikhus. The knights still belonged to the Order of the Eternal Dawn, directly under the Kral's command, so Igfrid had no desire to bond with any of them.
Cradled in his great-aunt Demether's arms, Igfrid felt somewhat embarrassed, seeing himself as still an adult—at least mentally. Yet the chance to be pampered by the only maternal figure he'd ever known was something his heart, scarred by loss in his former timeline, could not pass up.
She had been his caregiver and mother, so he yearned for her embrace. Demether was also part of why Igfrid wished to change his fate. He refused to let her die alone and forgotten, as in his original timeline.
The grand doors to the chambers of Kral Maximus Artheus D'Tyr opened for the second prince. Still cradled by his great-aunt Demether and acting as a child his age would, Igfrid buried his head in the elderly woman's neck and shifted slightly to peer sideways into the Kral's room.
Maximus had always been eclectic, and his room epitomized his tastes. While the furniture maintained a regal air, it comprised antiquities from different eras of the nation's history. The décor followed the same pattern: busts, paintings, even time-worn monoliths that Igfrid could swear dated back to the Age of Gods. The dissonance in styles, colors, and epochs of every item in the room made it resemble a study or museum far more than what it was originally meant to be.
Kral Maximus Artheus sat reading a pile of old scrolls in a space beyond the small collection of busts decorating
his chamber's entrance. When Igfrid saw him, he couldn't suppress the echo of resentment he'd harbored for years after Canaria's pursuit and death.
Like a child his age would, Igfrid asked Demether to put him down and immediately dashed toward his progenitor. His childish face—with bright red eyes—filled with false joy as his father watched him with those same crimson eyes from their last encounter in his past life.
"Father!" The feigned excitement in his voice felt so genuine that Igfrid couldn't help thinking he was truly thatwoman's son.
Kral Maximus offered a smile that bordered on cold; the man was nearly expressionless, except when it came to his near-obsessive passion: archaeology.
"Son... Glad to see you in better health..." The Kral replied, barely glancing at him over the scrolls.
The discomfort hung so thick and heavy Igfrid could swim in it. Vikhus and Demether had stationed themselves in a corner, waiting to be summoned, blending into the room's décor. Igfrid longed to ask for help—he'd forgotten how complicated his father was to deal with. Even during his invalid act, Maximus remained inscrutable.
Like a child, he began looking
around, recognizing artifacts he'd once known intimately: Genovierre's sculpture, the twin swords of Kral Flaurën, Arghel's monolith... Igfrid darted toward them like a small whirlwind, making even his stoic father rise, his face etched with concern.
"Woah! Father's room is always so pretty!" Igfrid's voice dripped with sugary excitement as he pointed at each sculpture.
Maximus cleared his throat, his dry expression paired with strangely inquisitive eyes. The little prince responded with kitten-wide eyes.
In his past life, Igfrid had spent time with his father listening to archaeological tales—though he'd never cared for them. His effort to endure tedious stories of ancient krals was an attempt
to bond, yet it never progressed beyond weary glances and strained half-smiles.
Perhaps because his interest was obviously fake—and his father noticed—those talks died abruptly, replaced by discussions of training and studies, until Igfrid's poisoning and feigned mental disability ended them entirely. This time, the prince wouldn't repeat that mistake.
"Ah... Yes?" Maximus faltered,
seeming unable to solidify his thoughts before a child's antics. The sharp frown between his brows made him look annoyed, though he wasn't.
"Yes! That statue of the beautiful lady, and that shiny sword with the red scabbard like the royal family's eyes! They're as marvelous as the stories you tell, Father." Igfrid eagerly pointed at the artifacts, each unique and ancient as the kingdom itself.
Maximus crossed his arms, analyzing this suddenly energetic boy who'd once been so timid. As Kral, he knew his household intimately—including the second prince's interests. He'd honestly believed the boy loved herbs and medicine like young Rosemarie, given how often he spoke with the medical wing's masters.
"What's your favorite story, then?"
Igfrid froze, staring into his
father's eyes as if reading his thoughts. He brought a finger to his chin in a pensive, endearing gesture, then smiled innocently.
"I love them all!" He threw his arms wide for emphasis. "But if I had to pick my most favorite... It's the tale of the Wandering Knight of Gabalón!"
For the first time, Igfrid saw his father smile without irony or obligation. Maximus approached slowly, his face
serene despite eyes that remained fierce even at leisure. When they stood face-to-face, the knotted hand of Lothien's ruler settled on the prince's head—slow, heavy, and thick with hesitation and visible ineptitude in such gestures.
"It's good that you study..." The words faded in Igfrid's mind as he thought: "In another world, another time, this gesture would've made me happy."
All it took was feigning near-genuine love for Maximus's passions.
Wasn't that too cheap a price?
He couldn't deny it: he'd been born to two narcissistic parents.
As their father-son time ended, Maximus—elated that his youngest shared his intellectual tastes—offered Igfrid an artifact to start his own collection. The little prince smiled as if his greatest dream had come true. With a bow polished for his age, he requested something useful.
Among all the sculptures, monolithes, swords, armors, and historical artifacts, Igfrid spotted one that was perfect
for him.
As a child, he couldn't access real weapons forged from magical metals, so the mere possibility of holding one of the swords or spears from his progenitor's vast collection made him mentally rub his hands together.
Yet he couldn't afford to seem
greedy. He knew his father's favor could vanish as suddenly as it appeared—so a simple dagger would be safest.
Displayed under layers of magical safeguards atop glass lay a dagger resembling a letter opener, reinforced with three mana stones—one still embedded at the blade's base. Its craftsmanship screamed wealth and refinement, designed for a woman's (or child's) hand.Beneath the gold-and-red-painted hilt, a meticulously written label read: Year 7 of Solethur II's Reign. The brief description attributed it to Princess Consort Xuldranath.
Igfrid had read about their two-century-old love story and honestly found it absurd.
Xuldranath was a female dragon who'd abandoned her tribe for love, only to die by her husband's hand.
"As ridiculous and stupid as what happened to Canaria and me."
If he could've laughed cynically at himself then, he'd have gladly surrendered to his bitterness.
"That dagger is sooo pretty! The colors remind me of Father..."
Igfrid carefully avoided mentioning Rosemarie; he knew Maximus's relationship with her was, at best, affectionless.
Maximus summoned his aide, Lord Iskander Bahlmëra, ordering everything prepared for delivery to Igfrid's palace. He added a tattered scroll fragment detailing the artifact's history.
"Father is so amazing!" Igfrid's sycophancy was half-genuine—he truly felt grateful to wield something so useful, however ancient.
"Where will you display it?" Maximus replied, as if cutting off further effusive praise.
"I'll keep it with my treasures!"
Hearing this, Maximus thought his son a greedy little dragon, much like himself. Perhaps the second prince had the right spark...
Meanwhile, Igfrid felt satisfied
with this lie-filled reunion—yet knew it had borne more fruit than he'd expected.
***
Igfrid already possessed the aethril—the ultimate antidote for nearly any poison—but he needed to refine it.
To do so required grinding the
flower into a fine powder, then mixing it with the patient's mana or that of a direct relative (like his parents) to avoid contamination and its unpleasant side effects. Though in emergencies, ingesting the powder alone sufficed to prevent death.
To refine the aethril, he needed a mortar made of at least medium-grade mana stones. Yet due to his young age, he couldn't even handle low-grade stones without contamination risks. Nor did he wish to dismantle the dagger he'd so painstakingly—and deceitfully—wheedled from his progenitor.
So... how could he obtain even one mana stone?
Then he remembered the jewels reserved for royal events.
As a pre-baptismal child, all his daily items were meant to be safe, with minimal impact on his circulatory system. Yet among his jewels, there ought to be at least one or two medium-to-high-grade mana stones crafted into protective amulets for public
appearances.
At least he knew his parents hadn't been negligent enough to skip these precautions—even in his former timeline.
He didn't recall exactly where they stored such things; he'd never cared before, and when he fled the tower, he hadn't even wanted the clothes on his back.
Mana stones used in adornments and amulets were typically medium-to-high grade. Though saturated with mana, most were rechargeable—like those in blocking necklaces. This meant he could dismantle any magical trinket and extract only what he needed.
"Though I'll likely need more
than one..." he whispered, slipping toward his wardrobe room via the connected bathroom.
Fortunately, at this late hour, his nannies were fast asleep, and guards stood posted outside his inner chambers.
"Demether will probably notice if some go missing..." He thought, rummaging through the lavish drawers of the grand dressing room.
Ignoring everything else, he smiled when he found a carmine tie pin.
The stone was set in a gold frame adorned with smaller leaf-shaped gems. On the reverse, the delicate conduit circuitry resembled precision artwork. The main stone—clearly harvested from a young wyvern's heart—bore traces of wild mana mingled with his father's essence.
"Tricky to extract, but at least the large one will serve my purpose."
After pocketing the pin in his
nightrobe, he kept searching.
Soon, he uncovered azure cufflinks near the hue of Canaria's eyes. Superficially, they seemed mid-to-low grade due to size and translucence, but their quality nearly matched the wyvern stone.
He held them under moonlight, gleaming like fallen stars in his chubby hands, and pondered whom to frame.
Hilderange was the perfect
scapegoat—though he had no time to deal with her now. Allies came first.
In another life, when he was naive and foolish, he might've spared those who hadn't yet wronged him. Even in his pre-necromancer emperor days, he'd have sought gentler methods.
But that guileless Igfrid had died long ago with Canaria.
He wondered if he'd grown soft, intoxicated by hope of seeing his wife again. Or was he losing his mind? Perhaps invading so many minds for intel had eroded him, leaving only a deep yearning for Canaria—and a whirlpool of bitterness toward everyone else.
Or maybe sleepless nights were driving him mad. Whatever. Did it matter?
Slowly, in utter darkness, he returned to bed the way he'd come. The silent night embraced him—cool, pleasant, whispering of hope.
******
Lonely nights wrapped in his chamber's silence had become routine.
By day, he played the part of the sickly little prince—laughing with Demether and studying under Vikhus, praised for knowledge from his past life. He pretended not to grasp the tension brewing from rumors about his health spreading beyond the fortress-palace complex housing the royal family. He smiled at an inept father and a mother who saw him as a mere tool.
Unsurprisingly, Demether even added royal food tasters to his retinue, fearing any imbalance in his mana circulatory system could prove fatal.
Poisonings among high nobility were predictable. In a world where protective artifacts could save you from a backstab, the swiftest way to eliminate enemies was to plant agents among their servants to tamper with food, collapsing their mana circulation. True, poisoners rarely escaped punishment—though the punished were usually commoners or slaves, likely scapegoats traded for someone else's gain.
And so, a small boy toiled
exhaustively in darkness under a flickering light—dim as a candle's flame emanating from a tool in his hands: a tiny mortar.
Igfrid had crafted it from the mana stones he'd stolen nights prior, its glow fueled by the mana he poured into it. Surely, it would cost him more sleepless nights, but it was worth it. He needed the aethril powder more than rest—not from fear of poisoning, but for deeply personal, selfish reasons.
Igfrid clearly needed reliable
allies.
He needed someone talented and capable—a person who could be his eyes and hands beyond the white fortress walls.
Someone like Vikhus.
Of course, Rosemarie's only gift he valued so far came with a catch: Vikhus's loyalty lay with Rosemarie herself, not House Von Eastrit, but the Vassel Kralice.
His tutor had proven a fine tool, securing books impossible for a four-year-old to obtain—all excused as education. Yet Igfrid knew nothing he said or did would stay hidden. Every move would reach Rosemarie, and she'd use it to reclaim control.
That's why he'd pushed himself to process the aethril, draining every drop of mana, straining to stabilize it like his adult self. He needed to be ready.
And as the second prince, he
required a weapon wholly loyal to him—an extension of himself. So he turned to forbidden knowledge from the Twilight Cultists, who'd been useful allies once before.
Igfrid knew this would be grueling. He was already nearing exhaustion just refining materials; draining his blood and mana into his father's gifted dagger and plunging it into his victim's heart would be arduous—but not impossible. Far simpler than targeting his mother, at least.
Carefully, he placed the mana-stone mortar inside the box-shaped preservation artifact where he stored the aethril. After nights of grinding, the flower had only just begun crumbling into coarse grains.
A few more nights, and it'd be
ready—though the process left him feeling deathly ill. Some days he couldn't rise from bed, further cementing his fragile prince image.
While he despised his past
reputation as a pitiable prince, letting political foes believe his health was unstable made a convenient shield while he gathered allies.
Igfrid's immediate goal burned in his mind: find the human vessel of Amal. Though he'd stolen the void god's power before returning, he hadn't kept it forever. Even royal blood couldn't permanently steal or mimic such an ability—not even to rewind time five minutes. But he had one advantage: he knew where the fragments of the Jailer's Sword lay.
Hidden as an ancient Lothien crown relic, lost to time—now just a rusted crown atop a forgotten statue in the ancestral crypt. A place so obvious yet unseen; the first emperors were either geniuses or fools who never grasped what they held.
The following nights blurred into an endless cycle of exhaustion and physical agony as he drained his mana, his organ swelling under irrational demand.
On his final night refining aethril, he imagined his beloved Canaria sleeping in her crib, blissfully unaware.
He poured the iridescent
powder—finally fine after days of labor—into a vessel of semi-transparent oil resembling colorless slime. The oil was made from uldhar seeds and Maiden's Shroud crystals, both stolen from the medical wing.
He'd also gathered flowers from the greenhouses—many useless—to camouflage his ingredient raids.
Two days later, Igfrid asked his handmaidens to leave him alone with Vikhus. The young prince's request seemed unremarkable; he'd often done this when seeking favors from the Vassel Kralice Rosemarie. To servants, it was just a child's whims—like wanting rare minerals, advanced books, or simpler meetings with his parents.
Even Demether allowed these private sessions, believing Igfrid sought independence. She trusted Vikhus, a fellow Von Eastrit retainer, to keep him safe.
Of course, things are never as they seem.
The second prince's wing had three chambers: a private study, a sitting room, and his bedchamber. Igfrid often took tea alone in the sitting room, reading books far beyond his years—an habit begun long before Vikhus's arrival. Servants had grown accustomed to royal
eccentricities.
Vikhus was middle-aged, lean but toned—a swordsman's ideal build. His hazelnut hair framed lead-gray eyes hidden behind thin-framed spectacles. The glasses, a gift from his mistress Rosemarie, weren't for vision: they blocked mental intrusion, thwarting the royal family's
innate ability to detect doubt in allies. Such technology belonged solely to the Emperor.
Just as Igfrid couldn't read his
tutor's mind—even with his past-life experience—Vikhus never suspected the prince's plan.
"Vikhus..." Igfrid called, setting aside his theology book.
The tutor knelt beside him, awaiting orders—likely another request for exotic materials. After all, Rosemarie had dabbled in unstable mana experiments at this age too.
Igfrid stepped closer. Instead of reaching for the glasses, he pressed his palm to Vikhus's chest.
"I want your oath."
"You have it, my lord. As heir
to the Empire, as son of Her Majesty... My loyalty belongs to your house and blood. No other." Every word was true: his heart belonged to Rosemarie's bloodline.
Igfrid smiled—and something flashed in his hand, plunging into the Von Eastrit servant's heart. He needed no lackey
loyal to his mother; he needed hands and feet beyond these white walls.
Vikhus's shock twisted into agony as magic tore through him. He choked, lungs starving for air, as he realized his executioner was the child with his mistress's face and blood—those crimson eyes bright with innocence, yet guarding something darker behind beauty's veil.
Darkness thickened like fog,
dragging him into catatonic unconsciousness—a doll-like trance. And in that moment, Vikhus believed he'd died.
*****
Igfrid's screams echoed down the hallway—as desperate as the cries he'd held back when Canaria was torn from his sight. His child's body trembled, golden hair falling across his forehead, tousled from shaking his unconscious tutor. Guards and Demether burst in moments after the prince's call for help, finding the boy trembling before
Vikhus's body sprawled on the floor, drenched in tea and clearly collapsed in a dramatic faint.
Demether instantly raced toward the prince like an anguished mother, scanning his small frame for injuries while pulling him into a protective embrace.
Tear-filled eyes and an angelic face showcased the second prince's famed sensitivity and affection for his staff. He pleaded for a medical attention as guards hoisted the unconscious tutor, and handmaids scrambled for clean clothes and a revival potion.
Yet no doctor was needed—Vikhus woke the moment they laid him on the sofa.
His first sight: the prince, the
child who'd attacked him, tears streaking his cheeks as he pulled free of Demether's arms. The boy seemed a divine, benevolent being descended to guide mortals—but Vikhus knew now: his master was neither kind nor merciful.
He glanced down, expecting sticky blood coating him… yet no crimson liquid stained his clothes.
"Sir Vikhus, are you alright?" Demether asked, worry etching her face, one hand still on Igfrid's shoulder. Vikhus saw his own reflection in the prince's tearful eyes. He wanted to shout "Of course not! Our 'angel' tried to murder me!" But his heart faltered.
The fear, shock, and rage he'd felt when Igfrid stabbed him, the fury that flashed when he awoke—all vanished. In their place, a submissive ache seized his chest, a stabbing pain that would only ease if his master was safe.
"Of course... I... believe I merely fainted from overwork." He touched his glasses... glasses gifted by his... what? Once, his heart would've cried MymistressRosemarie! without hesitation. Now... something no longer recognized her as such, placing Prince Igfrid on the pedestal she once occupied.
A guard announced the Doctor's arrival. Vikhus immediately refused.
"Unnecessary. I'll walk there
myself later. Duty calls." His voice was his usual calm self—a self thatnhad lost something, replaced by something else... perhaps something greater.
Even if part of him rebelled, Vikhus knew his loyalty now belonged to the second prince.