The room was silent save for Magna's steady breathing, a soft, rhythmic comfort in the vast, opulent chamber. Leolvhant lay perfectly still on his side of the enormous bed, listening, watching the soft rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk sheets. Moonlight, cool and silvery, spilled across her seafoam-blue hair, turning stray strands almost luminous. For a fleeting, heart-wrenching moment, as she lay so still and peaceful, she looked like a ghost.
His ghost. The one he'd failed to save before. The one he wouldn't fail again. The thought solidified into a grim, unshakeable vow within his chest.
Carefully, so as not to disturb the fragile truce that had fallen between them, he slipped from the bed, his bare feet soundless against the cool, polished marble floor.
His royal blue robes, shed hours earlier, lay draped over a nearby carved chair, catching the faint moonlight. The heavy, ornate desk at the far end of the chamber seemed to pulse in the dark, a quiet, insistent call that had thrummed beneath his awareness since his arrival in the citadel. The locked drawer, a secret kept even from the meticulous royal staff, beckoned.
He hesitated, his gaze drawn back to Magna. Her fingers twitched against the pillow, a small, restless movement as if chasing something in her dreams—a phantom sword, perhaps, or a memory of a beloved face. Lucien, perhaps. The thought sent a sharp, bitter spike of irritation through him, like the finely honed dagger he knew lay secreted under his own pillow. The image of his brother's possessive gaze at the banquet, combined with the weight of the past he alone carried, was a bitter, potent concoction. He clenched his jaw, forcing the unwelcome jealousy back.
With a soft, almost imperceptible click, the intricate lock on the desk drawer yielded.
It lay nestled in black velvet, a small, yet profoundly heavy object. Darker than midnight itself, its surface seemed to absorb all available light, creating a localized void within the chamber. Yet, paradoxically, it also shimmered, its depths swirling with veins of silver like trapped lightning, pulsing with a silent, internal fire.
The Obsidian Tear.
Leolvhant's throat tightened, a sudden dryness that made him swallow hard, the sound loud in his ears. In his past life, his mother, Queen Danya, had pressed this very stone, warm from her palm, into his on the eve of her unjust exile from Xianthos. He remembered the chill of the hidden passage, the scent of dust and fear, and his mother's face, a mask of regal sorrow. Her voice, then brittle with grief but resonant with an ancient, unwavering purpose, had been a whisper only for him: "When the moon bleeds, my son, when the old world is shattered, come claim what's yours. The power of the Ancients flows through this stone, and through your veins."
He'd died before he could. Died before the moon bled, before the old world truly shattered under Lucien's tyrannical rule. Died before he could truly understand her words, before he could claim any forgotten legacy. His first life had ended in a blur of chaos and failure.
Now, here it was—waiting for him in this life, in this very chamber, as if no time had passed, as if the intervening years of his first life had been but a fleeting dream. It was the undeniable proof, the tangible anchor of his impossible second chance. The stone pulsed with an energy that felt both familiar and alien.
He lifted it from its velvet cushion, the stone chilling his fingers even through the soft fabric. As it cleared the drawer, the very air in the room seemed to shudder, a barely perceptible ripple of distortion. Shadows, deeper and more profound than any cast by the moonlight or the dying fire, seemed to coil around his outstretched fingers, dancing on the periphery of his vision. They seemed to whisper, a language just beyond comprehension, a cacophony of ancient voices and forgotten echoes, murmuring words of rebirth, second chance, final stand.
Was this why he'd returned? Had his mother, Queen Danya, somehow orchestrated this impossible journey across time and death?
He'd tested her days ago, subtly, casually weaving details of their shared past into conversation—a forgotten lullaby, a childhood prank, the name of a loyal stable hand. She'd only laughed, a genuine, untainted sound, ruffling his hair like he was still the mischievous boy he'd once been. Her memory, he'd confirmed, was utterly untainted by the prior timeline.
No. She doesn't remember.
Which meant something—or someone—else had brought him back. And if it wasn't his mother, then what vast, unknowable power had plucked him from the precipice of death and thrust him into this altered existence? The thought sent a ripple of cold unease through him, even amidst the grim determination that fueled his purpose. He was a pawn, perhaps, in a game far larger than he could comprehend, but a pawn with a singular, driving will.
A soft sigh came from the bed. Magna shifted, a small, restless movement. Her brow furrowed, as if sensing the gem's profound presence, the subtle disruption of reality it caused. Leolvhant, his heart thrumming, quickly tucked the stone back into its velvet pouch, sliding it into the drawer and locking it with a swift, almost desperate click. But not before catching his reflection in its impossibly glassy surface for the briefest second—his emerald green eyes gleaming with an unnatural, impossible violet hue, a deep, luminous purple that pulsed with the stone's own strange, dark energy. The color, fierce and fleeting, vanished as swiftly as it appeared, leaving only the familiar green, but the image seared itself into his mind.
What in the gods' names am I? Or what am I becoming? The question echoed in his mind, chilling him more than the cold of the marble under his feet. He was no longer just Leolvhant, Prince of Xianthos and Kazaroth. He was something more, something unknown, tied intrinsically to this dark, powerful stone.
When he returned to bed, Magna had rolled onto her back, her posture relaxed in sleep, the silk sheets pooling sensuously at her waist. The thin shift she wore, a pale, almost translucent fabric, did little to hide the gentle curve of her hip, the delicate dip of her navel. The moonlight, now softer, cast her in an ethereal glow, highlighting the faint rise and fall of her chest.
Leolvhant's breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake of air that caught in his throat. His body, despite the crushing weight of his mission and the unsettling nature of the gem, reacted with an undeniable, primal urge. A profound yearning, a desperate hunger that had festered in his soul for two lifetimes, surged to the forefront.
Rule Four, he reminded himself, the words burning through his mind. No physical affection without consent. And wine doesn't count as agreement. The rule felt like a physical barrier, more potent than any wall, a self-imposed prison against a desire that threatened to consume him.
But rules couldn't stop his thoughts, couldn't quell the vivid images that flared in his mind.
He imagined peeling that thin shift away, slowly, deliberately, revealing the secrets of her skin, the hidden landscapes of her body. He'd trace the scars he knew she must hide—the thin, almost invisible line on her thigh from a childhood fall, a detail he'd overheard from gossiping maids in his first life; the faint, shimmering marks on her wrists, evidence of the untamed Storm-Onyx surges she had been known to channel in her youth, power that had both blessed and cursed her. He'd press his lips to each one, a silent promise of healing, of acceptance, then drag his tongue up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, just to hear her gasp, a sound of pleasure, not pain, a sound that would belong only to him.
Would she arch into his touch like she had, so often, with Lucien, before everything turned to ash, before her eyes had dulled with despair? Or would she be bolder now, in this second life, invigorated by her newfound chance, flipping him onto his back with her warrior's strength and taking what she wanted, her seafoam-blue hair fanning out on the pillow, her dark eyes blazing with a desire that matched his own? The images, vivid and potent, ignited a deep, agonizing ache within him, a longing that was almost unbearable.
His fingers twitched against the sheets, a silent yearning, a physical manifestation of his tortured self-control.
Patience.
This marriage was a farce, a carefully constructed illusion to deceive a treacherous court, to buy them time. But his feelings, the deep, agonizing love that had simmered beneath the surface of his first life and now raged, unbidden and all-consuming, in this second… those were terrifyingly real. And if there was one thing Leolvhant had learned in two lifetimes, it was how to play the long game. The most valuable treasures were often found at the end of the longest, most arduous quests. This was his quest.
He loved her.
The realization settled over him like a shroud, heavy and absolute, chasing away any lingering doubts, any rationalizations. He'd loved her in the past life, a silent, unseen admirer, a secret observer from the edges of the court. He had watched her laugh with Lucien, a bright, fleeting joy; seen her paint her wild seascapes with furious strokes; witnessed her weep quietly for her father's passing, a grief that had broken him too. He'd loved her even as he burned the stolen sketches he made of her, unable to bear the weight of his own illicit desire, the constant, torturous reminder of what could never be. His love was a quiet ache then, a private sorrow.
And now?
Now she was here, within arm's reach, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin, yet somehow farther away than ever before. A princess in her own right, bound to him by a trick, a lie, a shared, impossible secret of rebirth. The very act of saving her, of bringing her to this dangerous reality, had created an insurmountable barrier.
If she knew the truth—that he'd been reborn, that he'd subtly manipulated events, shifting destinies, pulling strings he barely understood, all to bring her to this place, to secure her safety—she'd never forgive him.
He was using her, yes, but for her own protection, a grim, self-sacrificing irony. The thought of her contempt, her hatred, was a deeper wound than any blade.
Rule Seven. Never ask why. The boundary they had set was as much for him as for her. He could not, dared not, risk her asking why he was here, how he knew the things he did, what sacrifices he had made. The truth, in this instance, was a poison.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips, a phantom pain. Some questions didn't need answers. Some truths were best kept buried, even between allies. Especially between them. The weight of his unspoken love, and his hidden manipulations, was a burden he would carry alone.
When dawn's first, pale light crept through the arched windows, painting the room in hues of soft grey and rose, silencing the distant calls of night creatures, Leolvhant finally drifted off, succumbing to the profound exhaustion that had been building since his impossible return to this life. One hand curled under his pillow, his fingers resting on the familiar, cool hilt of his dagger, a constant sentinel, a silent promise of protection. The other was stretched toward Magna—close enough to feel the warmth emanating from her sleeping form, to sense her presence beside him, but not close enough to cross the invisible line they had drawn between them, a line of respect and desperate control.
In his dreams, the Obsidian Tear pulsed with a soft, dark light, a second, alien heart beating in his chest. And somewhere, in the shimmering, uncertain space between lifetimes, a woman with Queen Danya's eyes, fierce and wise, eyes that had known both exile and triumph, smiled, a silent understanding passing between mother and son across the impossible divide of time and forgotten memories.