Shifting slightly on the makeshift bed, Elara sighed, disbelief still etched across her face.
She stared out the small window, thoughts racing through her mind. Finally, she spoke, her voice a mere whisper. "How? How is it even possible? I've already exhausted my Nine Lives. Is this... another cycle?"
Elara was no stranger to this phenomenon. This was the tenth time she had regressed, having already witnessed the flattening of Primoria nine times over. She gritted her teeth, the sting of her past failures still fresh in her memory.
However, the nature of this specific regression troubled her. Regression, as she understood it, was a fickle and mysterious force. While she understood the basic premise—that everything resets—the catch was that only a few retained their memories. These were the "Chosen of the Cycle of Stray," individuals bearing the runic 999 symbol etched into their very souls.
But even that gift had its limits. Regression followed the nature of a cat; a regressor was granted only Nine Lives. Upon the exhaustion of the ninth life, they were supposed to regress one final time, losing both the mark of 999 and the memories of every previous cycle.
Elara had spent her ninth life. By all laws of the Cycle, she should have woken up with a blank slate. Yet, here she was, remembering every agonizing detail.
To clear her doubts, Elara rose and moved toward the window. She pulled her tunic away from her chest just enough to see. There, on the left side of her chest, was a strange tattoo. It was crafted in the shape of a cat, but it looked more like a furious kitten composed of intricate hourglasses. It was frozen in a leaping silhouette, stretching up toward her shoulder.
Further down her left arm, a snake was tattooed, curling around her limb. The serpent's head rested on the back of her palm, its tongue flicking out as if to sting her fingers. Though separate, the two marks radiated a combined aura of insatiable power.
"The marks... they're still here," she muttered, adjusting her tunic back into place.
She sat back down on the bed, momentarily dejected. She crossed her arms, but slowly, a faint, satisfied grin spread across her lips. "So that's how it is? Why should I complain when the world has given me one more chance?"
Gradually, her expression darkened into a cold, focused scowl. "This time... I promise... I won't fail."
She crossed her legs, assuming a meditative stance on the stone bed. Resting her hands on her knees, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her fingers tapped a rhythmic, silent count against her skin.
After a few seconds, she stopped. The heavy wooden door creaked. The sound of dragging chains and metal clicks preceded the entrance of the scent of burnt metal. Elara didn't move.
Two men clad in crimson armor entered the room. One carried a fire lamp, its flickering glow dancing softly against the damp stone walls. Despite their heavy plate and sharpened steel, they seemed insignificant compared to the woman sitting before them. In fact, the men visibly shivered as they approached.
"L... Lady Elara," one guard stammered, his voice trembling.
Elara tilted her head and opened a single eye. A mischievous smile played on her face, sending a fresh wave of dread through the men. "What is it, gentlemen? You starved me last night... and yet, here I am, still among the living."
The guard with the lamp shook his head frantically. "No... no, Lady Elara. It was the King's command. Please, forgive us. We have always held you in the highest respect."
She sighed and sat up, her smile widening. "Good to know. So, what brings you to my humble cell?"
"The King has ordered us to bring you to the Meeting Hall."
"Very well." She stood up, eyeing the guards playfully. They stared at her, mesmerized—perhaps by her sudden change in temperament, or perhaps by her sheer beauty.
"Well?" she prodded, her tone sharp yet light. "Lead the way."
The guards jolted, nearly colliding with one another in their haste to obey. "Our apologies, Lady Elara. This way."
As she stepped out of the cell, the guards exchanged stunned glances.
"Don't you think she's acting strange?" one whispered. "Has a month in the dark driven her mad? She's completely out of character."
Before the other could reply, Elara reappeared at the cell door, startling them both. "What are you waiting for? Let's go."
The guards scrambled to lock the door and fell into formation. They moved past rows of occupied cells, the prisoners peering out through narrow iron grates. They climbed a crooked, spiral staircase that terminated at a heavy metal door.
Beyond the door lay a vast, grand corridor. The walls and floors were polished to a golden sheen. Portraits of past leaders—some in ornate armor, others in regal robes—lined the hall, flanked by swaying fire lamps. Curiously, the paintings themselves seemed to radiate a soft light, rendering the lamps almost unnecessary.
Elara walked with a confident stride, flanked by her nervous escort. She glanced at the decor with faint amusement. "Five years later... and it still looks grand. Don't you think the palace looks more elegant today?"
The guards exchanged uneasy looks but remained silent.
Finally, they reached the end of the hall, dominated by a massive, arched door of dark wood. Elara turned slightly toward her keepers.
"Well then," she said softly. "Let's not keep the King waiting."
The heavy doors groaned open. Light from the grand chamber spilled into the hallway, mingling with the golden glow of the corridor to bathe Elara in a brilliant radiance. She surveyed the room before her, her unsettling smile growing wider.
'Ah. This never gets old.'