The sun was nearing its zenith, casting slender golden rays across the tiled patio just beyond the Central Palace. Seated alone beneath the trellised shade, Elysia lifted a porcelain cup of honeydew tea to her lips. The delicate aroma curled upward with the steam—but she tasted nothing.
Not today.
The sweetness, the warmth, the comfort she usually found in her favorite blend… all of it slipped past her tongue like air. Her posture remained composed, almost regal. But behind those sharp hazel eyes, a storm churned with quiet violence.
Her fingers tightened around the handle—just a little too firmly.
That mercenary. That aloof, sardonic wanderer with a lazy smirk and unreadable eyes—"Gus"—was Lucian Vidal Arzest.
Alric's brother.
The realization had struck like lightning the moment she saw the portrait. The name. The face. It all locked into place like a cruel puzzle.
And with it, came the flood.
The novel she'd once read. The story from her past life.
The fall of House Merovech.
The death of Alric.
The death of herself.
And—Elysia's breath caught—of their daughter.
Lucian had become king in that timeline. Because no one else remained. Because House Arzest, too, had crumbled.
Because Alric Rihett Arzest was no longer there to carry its name.
Because Elysia Nohar Arzest had perished.
Because their child had never lived long enough to inherit a legacy.
A tremor passed through her as she set the cup down. She stared into the rippling tea, trying not to break. Panic coiled inside her chest like a serpent. No. She couldn't unravel now—not here, not yet. She needed clarity. Something to hold onto. Not fate written in ink.
Her thoughts scrambled for meaning—and then… she remembered.
The diary.
Her diary.
The one she had enchanted and locked away long ago. The one she'd begun on her sixteenth birthday. She had kept it close—even after Almeida burned. The memory sparked like fire in dry grass.
Her hands moved before her mind caught up. Rising from her seat, her stride was swift, fluid, purposeful. A maid near the garden lifted her head in concern, but Elysia raised a hand to stop her.
"Leave me. I'll be in my chambers. Alone."
The maid dipped into a quiet bow and stepped aside without a word.
Elysia entered the palace hall. Everything blurred—the marble floor, the murals on the walls, the soft light dancing across columns. Her mind had only one destination. Her fingers twitched as she reached her chambers and closed the door behind her with a decisive click.
The air shifted. Still. Expectant.
She turned toward the massive walk-in closet, its entrance like a gateway to a realm of velvet and silk. Dresses hung in rows like curated memories—each sorted by function, season, and occasion. Her eyes scanned them without focus.
Too many.
She closed her eyes. Took a breath.
Focus.
Raising her hand, she summoned her mana. A quiet pulse, subtle as a sigh, slipped through the room, brushing over every surface. A soft shimmer responded—faint, familiar. Beneath the floorboards. Hidden.
There.
She dropped to her knees, pried up the concealed panel, and withdrew a slim leather-bound book. Its edges were worn, the clasp still inscribed with a delicate sigil—hers. Flickering softly like a breath held in suspense.
She pressed her index finger to the lock. Whispered her name.
Click.
A knock.
She nearly dropped the book in surprise.
In one swift motion, she slipped it into a nearby sling bag, added a notebook and a pocket watch that lay on a dresser, and slung it over her shoulder.
When she opened the door, Clara stood with perfect posture, not a strand of hair out of place.
"Your Grace," she greeted smoothly, "it is nearly time for lunch. However, His Grace will not be joining."
Elysia answered with a quiet, even tone. "I have no appetite for anything heavy. Have light snacks and coffee sent to the study, please. I'll be reading."
"As you wish." Clara bowed lightly.
Elysia walked away in silence, her thoughts racing even as her footsteps remained controlled.
Her study was just down the corridor—except… it wasn't hers.
The moment she entered and closed the door, something felt off. The shelves, the pinned parchments, the old diagrams etched into the wood, the glowing mana circuits—none of it bore her touch.
It was… someone else's world.
Clara followed shortly with a maid carrying a wicker basket. Dishes were placed carefully. Cold coffee poured. But Elysia's eyes had already wandered to the golden crest carved on the far wall—its intricate sigils catching the afternoon light.
"That's the family crest," Clara said softly, noticing where her gaze landed.
Elysia turned to her. "This is… my study?"
Clara offered a calm nod. "It was once the personal study of the late Duke Wyatt Arzest. But he left a clause in his will: whoever could decode the Seventh Code would inherit it."
Her eyes flicked to the glyphs carved high on the paneling.
"His Grace had no interest in it. But two years ago—you solved it."
Elysia blinked, letting the words sink in. "So it became mine…"
"And none have challenged that decision since," Clara added with finality.
The study fell quiet again.
Once Clara and the maid exited, Elysia lowered herself into the old armchair and reached into her bag.
The diary's leather cover was cool under her fingers.
She opened it.
And read the first words written in her own hand—by a girl she could no longer remember being.
----------
Though worn at the corners and bound in leather faded by time, the diary's contents were untouched by decay. Every page opened with crisp precision, as if her mana had preserved the ink with a quiet reverence. It was unmistakably her handwriting—slanted, firm, practiced. But interspersed between her entries were occasional scrawls, far more erratic in form yet oddly elegant in their chaos. Another hand, full of wild grace.
She paused once or twice at those strange additions, wondering—but her eyes moved on. They held no meaning for her now, not yet.
And yet the words she did understand, her own words... they struck deeper than any sword.
The entries written during the three years she had lost matched Alric's narrative almost entirely—if anything, they were more restrained, more factual. Less dramatic. But the feelings came through nonetheless. They weren't just stories. They were glimpses of her—of the woman she had become when Almeida crumbled and her life was swallowed in ash.
The grief. The fear. The isolation. And slowly—like spring after a brutal winter—the comfort. The warmth. The healing.
Alric was the axis around which all of it turned.
Not just her savior—but the one who held her broken pieces when she couldn't.
She read of how he relocated her aides, her friends, even those she had only briefly interacted with in Almeida. All brought into the fold of Arzest. He didn't just rescue her. He carried the entire weight of what remained of her world.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned the next page.
Lucian.
She remembered him—his stubbornness, his relentless optimism, the way he played the fool to avoid official duties, even though he was one of the sharpest tacticians she had ever met. She had referred to him not only as Alric's brother, but as her own. A companion. A younger brother in every sense that mattered.
A partner in mischief. A protector. A rare light in her long mourning.
And Vivienne.
A name that emerged with floral softness.
The entries about her were glowing, almost lyrical. Vivienne—the Saintess of the Era, a woman blessed by the Universe, with a heart vast enough to love even the weeds between cobblestones. The polar opposite of Elysia's precision and wit, yet somehow, they had balanced each other. Sisterhood forged not by blood, but by choice.
Elysia paused, her eyes burning.
The diary grew sparse after that—entries once a week, sometimes less. But each one was rich. She saw how she lived. How she grew. How she adapted. The way she reclaimed a future for herself.
How Alric had never once pressured her.
He had waited. Two entire years. Not with resentment or burden—but with patience. Endless, unwavering patience.
He hadn't once crossed a boundary, hadn't once stepped beyond the affection she could accept. Even kisses were rare. Gentle.
Respectful.
And yet, he had been her anchor. Her shield. Her silent champion. Always beside her, never demanding more than she could give.
And in all those entries—not a single one recorded a day of sorrow once she settled in Arzest.
Her heart clenched.
She hadn't realized it until now. How much he had given up for her. How much of her pain he must have swallowed in silence. How many problems he must have resolved before she could even notice they existed. Her entries praised his calm, his strength, his leadership—but none hinted at his suffering.
He had carried all of it alone.
Tears welled in her eyes before she even noticed them. They fell onto the pages in soft streaks.
How much had he endured, watching her look at him like a stranger? Flinching from his touch? Refusing to say his name?
Elysia buried her face into her palms. Her chest ached with guilt, with gratitude, with something so heavy it couldn't be named.
If I had rejected life, she thought bitterly, he would have followed me.
That was the man he was.
Her husband.
And now… she loved him again. She could say that now, even if only to herself.
She wiped her cheeks and composed herself, sliding the diary back into the sling bag. Then she opened her notebook, flipped to a blank page, and began writing.
She summarized the novel she had read in her past life—every scrap of memory she could muster, every plot twist, every character, every deviation that might give her insight into what was to come.
----------
Time blurred.
The sunlight dimmed.
The magical lamps in the room flickered to life without her noticing.
Only when her quill stopped, and her back ached from leaning forward for so long, did she realize the sun had vanished beneath the horizon. Evening had arrived.
A gentle knock echoed against the study door.
Elysia blinked, pulled from her whirlwind of thoughts. Before she could respond, the door opened just slightly, and Clara stepped in with her customary poise.
"Your Grace," Clara said with a composed curtsy, her voice polite but firm, "the hour approaches evening. Your bath has been drawn and prepared in your chamber. Shall I have the maids ready your dress for dinner?"
Elysia leaned back slightly in her chair, her expression fatigued. "I'm not in the mood for a bath," she murmured, eyes flicking back down to her open notebook.
Clara hesitated—but only for a breath.
"His Grace has returned," she added delicately. "He has asked to join you for the evening meal."
The effect was immediate.
Something in Elysia's heart jolted to life—as if her blood suddenly remembered how to burn.
She sat up straighter, her eyes wide for half a heartbeat. "Oh—then… I suppose I should freshen up."
Clara offered a quiet smile and bowed again. "I shall ensure your room is prepared."
As the door shut softly behind her, Elysia clutched the notebook to her chest for a moment, trying to steady the flutter in her heart.
Dinner… with Alric.
Packed the diary and notebook in the sling bag, picked it up by the handle.
She sprang to her feet and hurried toward her chambers.
Alric.
Just the thought of seeing him made her pulse race in panic and longing alike.
She nodded, unable to speak. The bath was warm, but her thoughts were warmer still. She rushed through it, got dressed faster than usual, and stepped out into the corridor with barely restrained anticipation.
By the time she reached the dining hall, her legs felt like jelly.
Alric stood at the far end of the hall, conversing with Baron Fitzroy over a set of documents.
Every step she took made her chest tighten. Her eyes refused to rise. She hurried past the men, her cheeks burning, and slid into her seat with her gaze locked on the polished cutlery.
Don't look at him. Just eat. Pretend this is normal.
But it wasn't normal. She couldn't even pretend. Not with her face flushed and her thoughts a tangled web of guilt and affection and unspoken yearning.
She didn't speak. She didn't even lift her head.
Alric must have noticed.
But what did he think? That she was avoiding him again? That she was still uncomfortable?
The idea made her want to scream.
Still, she said nothing.
Neither did he.
Even Baron Fitzroy, ever composed, didn't speak a word. The meal passed in silence, tension laced through the steam rising from the plates.
As the final course was cleared away, Elysia stood abruptly, bowing slightly.
"Good night," she murmured, before hurrying from the hall.
The moment her chamber door closed behind her, she collapsed onto the bed, hugging her pillow like a lifeline. A squeal escaped her lips—quiet but uncontrollable.
She was completely, irrevocably in love with her husband.
Again.
And this time, she wouldn't let herself lose him.
# - #