There was no sky. No ground.
Only a still, breathless void.
He floated in it — weightless, thoughtless — until something stirred.
A whisper.
Not a sound, but a presence. Ancient. Detached. Watching him.
"You are... compatible."
No face. No form. Just words echoing into his soul.
"A vessel that cannot be broken. Flesh that cannot rot. Spirit that cannot be touched."
There was a pause — as if the voice was considering something.
"You shall receive this body. You shall remember your death, but not your purpose."
And then:
[Immortal Magic Body: Bound.]
There was no pain when the change began.
Only a warmth — deep and eternal — spreading through him like stars seeping into his bones.
Then, silence.
And then, a scream.
---
When he opened his eyes, it was to the sound of life.
A wailing cry — his own.
Harsh voices. Cold air. A blinding silver chandelier above his cradle.
He was no longer in the void.
He was alive.
And not just alive—reborn.
---
Twelve Years Later
Kingdom of Vaelora — Imperial Capital, Arkenhold
The world worshipped Aiden Vaelora, Crown Prince of the Empire.
He was beautiful, unaging, and perfect. A boy born under a moonless eclipse — a sign the priests called "Heaven's Omen."
They believed him touched by the gods.
But Aiden knew better.
He was just... wrong.
---
He didn't bleed.
Didn't bruise.
Didn't scar.
He had broken bones once — or tried to — by jumping off the palace wall when he was eight.
Nothing. He landed like a leaf. Not even a scratch.
At ten, a palace sorcerer attempted to strike his soul core during a training accident.
The spell shattered — rebounded. The mage lost two fingers.
That night, Aiden stared into his mirror for hours.
Touching his face. Pinching his arm. Clenching his fists.
He couldn't feel pain. Not truly.
Just pressure, then numbness. Like his nerves were asleep.
He didn't know why. The voice from the void never returned.
No system. No guidance. Just… silence.
And every day, he wore a mask.
A perfect prince. Polished. Controlled.
Living in a palace that whispered behind velvet curtains and smiled with sharpened teeth.
He spoke only when needed. Smiled when required. Trained when expected.
But inside?
He was hollow.
Until the girl arrived.
---
She came in chains.
The guards dragged her through the garden courtyard like she was some wild beast.
She was filthy. Her tunic torn. Wrists bound. Ankles bruised.
Aiden had been on the balcony above, reading a dusty tome on ancient bloodline contracts. But the moment he looked down—
He felt something shift.
She didn't look up. But he saw her face.
Or rather, her eyes.
Amber-gold. Glowing faintly like embers left in a dying fire.
Eyes that did not belong to a human.
He knew what they meant.
Demon.
---
No one else noticed. Or maybe they didn't care.
She was called a "half-blood mutt," claimed as spoils from the northern campaign.
They said her village was razed. That the border lord gifted her to the Emperor.
Another thing for the palace to use.
She was given a new name: Ilya.
A false name.
But Aiden remembered what she whispered to the maid who slapped her during her first week:
"My name... is Lyra."
---
He watched her from afar.
She never cried. Never smiled.
When the nobles mocked her accent, she stared at the floor.
When the servants poured spoiled broth in her bowl, she drank it in silence.
But her eyes—they were alive with something else.
Not fear.
Not sadness.
Hatred.
---
Aiden should've told someone.
Should've had her removed, executed even. A demon in the palace was dangerous.
But he didn't.
Something about her—called to him.
It wasn't pity.
It was... recognition.
As if the void that lived inside him stirred when she walked past.
He didn't speak to her. Not yet.
But sometimes, at night, he would find her standing by the outer garden gates — staring at the moonless sky.
And sometimes, she would turn… and look directly at his window.
Eyes glowing. Lips unmoving.
But he knew.
She saw him.
---
One day, she was assigned to serve in his wing.
"Cleaning duty," they called it. A punishment for backtalking a noble's daughter.
She entered his quarters quietly, like a shadow — broom in hand, head bowed.
He said nothing. Just watched from the corner of the room as she swept.
And then, suddenly—
She looked up.
Right at him.
Eyes like fire. Like the past.
And for just a second—
He saw something in her gaze that shattered the stillness in his chest.
Not just hate.
But pain.
Deep. Ancient. Howling through her every breath.
He didn't speak. Couldn't.
She turned back to her task without a word.
But he knew.
She remembered something he didn't.
----
The scent of crushed roses drifted through the room.
The kind they scattered near the crown prince's bedchamber every morning. Artificial. Suffocating.
Lyra — or Ilya, as the staff called her — didn't flinch as she scrubbed the floor beneath the grand window. Her back was straight. Her movements, robotic. Not once did her gaze wander toward the throne-like chair where Aiden sat, book open in hand.
But she knew he was watching.
She always knew.
---
He didn't understand her.
There was no fear in her body language. No awe. No respect.
Even nobles, commanders, and foreign ambassadors bowed before him with trembling voices.
But she? She didn't tremble. Not even once.
There was something about her stillness that unnerved him more than any enemy ever had.
She moved like a beast coiled for a strike—but patient. Deadly patient.
And her silence... it wasn't submission.
It was planning.
---
"Where are you from?"
The words left his mouth before he realized he'd spoken.
It was the first time he'd said anything to her.
She paused. Just briefly.
Then resumed cleaning, as if he were the breeze and nothing more.
"South," she said at last.
Her voice was low, a little cracked—like someone who hadn't used it in weeks. Or months.
He waited for more. A name. A village. A family.
But that was all she gave.
---
"What happened to your hands?"
There were faint scars across her knuckles. Not the kind from cleaning or work.
No, these were precise, deliberate.
"Punishment," she said.
"For what?"
She stopped scrubbing. Her head tilted slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.
For the first time, their eyes locked.
"For being born."
---
Aiden's breath caught.
She turned back to the floor before he could say anything. But the damage was done.
That look. That voice. That bitterness wrapped in ice—
It rattled something deep inside him.
She's not meant to be here.
She's not just a servant. She's surviving something.
No—she's hiding something.
---
That night, Aiden couldn't sleep.
He sat at his window, staring at the same spot in the garden where he'd seen her watching the sky before.
She wasn't there now.
But her words echoed like whispers behind his thoughts.
"For being born."
---
He wanted to ask more the next day. But she didn't come.
Another servant was sent to clean his chamber. A younger girl. Clumsy, chatty, with too many questions and no answers.
Aiden said nothing to her.
He didn't sleep that night either.
---
She returned three days later. No chains, no bruises. But she walked slower. Limped slightly.
His eyes narrowed.
"You were gone."
Lyra didn't respond.
He stood from his chair, closing the book he'd pretended to read.
"What happened to your leg?"
Still nothing.
"You don't have to pretend."
She froze at that.
"You think I'm pretending?"
Her voice held something sharp now. Barely veiled venom.
"You think I want to be here? In this golden cage, serving a monster wearing silk?"
Aiden's eyes widened.
She had said too much.
And yet—he didn't feel anger.
Just… cold. Like her words had punched through a wall he didn't know he'd built.
"I didn't choose this either," he said softly.
She stared at him, confused for the first time. A flicker of something passed across her expression — uncertainty? Or guilt?
It vanished in an instant.
"No," she said. "But you were born into it. And that makes you guilty all the same."
---
He didn't reply.
He watched her pick up the mop, her hands trembling only slightly now.
And for the first time since his rebirth…
he wished he could bleed.
Because maybe then, she would believe him when he said:
"I don't even know what I did wrong."