The great hall of the Seravonne Imperial Palace glittered like a jewel under the morning sun. Gold-leaf pillars rose toward a ceiling painted with scenes of gods and kings, while the marble floor reflected the endless march of armored guards and silken courtiers. Perfume and incense masked the faint metallic scent of steel.
At the far end, upon the obsidian throne, sat Emperor Cassian Valerius — Edran's father. His voice boomed through the hall as he announced the beginning of the Spring Convocation, a gathering where nobles would pledge loyalty… or plot treachery.
And somewhere in the middle of the hall, seated in a low, unimportant chair far from the royal dais, Edran Valerius awoke.
Not the Edran the court knew — the pale, coughing boy they barely remembered existed.This was someone else. Someone from another world.
Memories flooded in — fire, smoke, the burning scent of old paper, the crushing weight of collapsing beams. He remembered dying. He remembered his life's work: studying empires, their triumphs, their betrayals, their inevitable falls.
And now… he was here.
A sharp pain in his chest forced him to cough, drawing the attention of a passing noblewoman. She glanced at him with the kind of polite disdain one reserved for a servant who had spoken out of turn.
Pathetic, he thought.If what his stolen memories told him was true, this world would swallow him whole unless he struck first.
Beyond the murmuring courtiers, his father's golden eyes swept across the room, lingering on each of his heirs. The Crown Prince, regal and cold as marble. The Princess, smiling like a saint while plotting like a serpent. And then, barely a pause, on Edran — a flicker of disappointment before moving on.
The historian in him knew what this meant.The man he had become knew what must be done.
In a palace of knives, he would learn to wield the sharpest one.