Chapter 1 — The Lion Cub Awakens
The world didn’t end when the blade fell.
It was the laughter that came after—the soft chuckle from His Majesty Aldros Latimer IV, the crowd’s horrified silence breaking into a roar—that burned itself into the inside of my skull. That sound followed me into the void. And then, the void cracked.
Light spilled through like an unwelcome memory.
I woke to the faint creak of wooden beams and the whisper of wind against shutters. For a heartbeat I thought I was still in a cell. Then the scent hit me—cedar oil, dust, and the crisp bite of mountain air. A smell I hadn’t known in years.
I sat up slowly. The sheets were too soft. My body too light. My armor was gone. My scars—
My eyes landed on the mirror across the room.
For a moment I couldn’t breathe. A boy stared back at me. Ten years old. Unscarred. Unburdened. Soft lines where there should have been hardened edges. Black hair, no silver streaks. Blue eyes, steady and sharp—already old beyond their years.
My reflection smiled.
And so did I.
“You’ve given me a second chance, Aldros. I’ll make sure you choke on it.”
I ran my fingers along my jaw. The bones felt smaller. My hands—clean. No calluses from sword hilts. No bloodstains that wouldn’t wash away. My body was weak, but my mind burned sharper than it ever had.
I stared into the boy’s face a long time, letting the silence breathe. Then the grin came. Not kind. Not childlike. A thin, predatory curve on lips that did not belong to a child.
“This time, I won’t be your hound.”
“This time, the Lion roars for himself.”
Footsteps approached the door. My mother’s voice—soft, warm, carrying the low lilt of high halls. I hadn’t heard her like this in decades. In my first life she’d grown frail long before I returned from the front. Then she was gone.
“Ardyn?” she called. “Are you awake, sweetheart?”
The door creaked open. Lady Celina Valemont stepped inside, sunlight brushing a halo around her. She looked like a portrait of youth and calm: pink hair that fell in soft waves, gray-blue eyes like clouds on the verge of rain, laugh lines that softened her face. Her beauty was the sort that made rooms lean in—graceful, effortless, and quietly authoritative. As the younger sister of Duke Draigh Thornevale, she carried not only blood but influence; salons and whispered councils bend to the direction she favors.
“You’re up early.” She smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You’ve grown restless lately. Always looking at that mirror. Do you dream of battles already, little lion?”
I nearly laughed at the irony.
“Just couldn’t sleep,” I murmured, forcing my voice to sound lighter. She crossed the room and touched my cheek. Her hands were warm. Steady. Alive. For a heartbeat I allowed the memory of being held—soft and human—before the taste of steel returned to my mouth.
“Breakfast is waiting. Your father wants to speak before he goes to the keep.” She paused, glancing back with a fond, guarded look. “And Seraphine will be here soon. You two always have energy in the mornings.”
Seraphine.
The name landed like a weight I did not want to lift. The last time I’d seen her she had not looked at me—she had turned her face away while the blade fell. Silence had killed me then.
I forced a smile. “I’ll come down soon.”
The manor hadn’t changed. Polished wooden beams, tapestries bearing the Valemont crest—black lion on red—lined the halls. My feet made no sound on the thick carpets as I descended.
Below, Lord Tomas Valemont stood rooted like an old oak—tall, broad-shouldered, the soldier’s build that never quite went soft even in peace. His hair was a dark, steel-streaked brown tied back in a soldier’s knot. His face bore the ease of a commander who spoke low and was obeyed.
“Ardyn!” he called with a laugh. “Up before the sun? That’s my boy.” He clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Stand tall, boy. Shoulders back. Like that.”
He ruffled my hair and joked about old blood waking, unaware how sharp the truth had become.
The dining hall smelled of bread, smoked ham, and strong tea. Seraphine arrived like a summer storm—barefoot, hair in messy braids, cheeks flushed from the cold. She was still a child here, but enough of the woman she would become shone through in small ways: a poised smile, an easy laugh, and a restless brightness in her green eyes. Auburn hair framed her face, wild and soft in the morning light.
“Ardyn!” she laughed, sliding beside me. “You never beat me awake.”
She smelled faintly of grass and river water—innocence braided into the present. This was the girl who stole apples and raced horses along the river. The grave-grown woman who’d stand in the Emperor’s hall later—silent, composed—was still a promise in her bones.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“Probably dreaming of knights and battles again,” she teased, poking my arm. “One day I’ll beat you with a wooden sword.”
I laughed. It felt real enough.
After breakfast Father left for the keep. Mother attended to household matters. Seraphine stayed, still a shadow at my side. We walked the orchard path while fog lingered in the grass.
“You’ve been quiet,” she said, glancing up. “More than usual. Did something happen?”
“Just thinking,” I replied.
“About what?”
“The future.”
Her smile was puzzled. “You’re ten, Ardyn. What future?”
The one where the throne finds a blade and presses it to my back.
“Just a future,” I said softly. “One I won’t let anyone else decide for me.”
She tilted her head at me, confused. But children don’t pry when they don’t understand the weight of what’s being said. She just smiled and kicked a pebble down the path. When she left for her lessons, I returned to my room and shut the door behind me. The softness of the morning fell away like a mask.
I pulled out parchment and ink, hands steady. Ink met paper in deliberate strokes: names, places, battles—everything I remembered. I would not rely on memory alone; I would create a ledger of war, a map of causes and consequences.
At the top I wrote in heavy letters:
ALDROS LATIMER IV
Underneath:
STRATEGIST — UNKNOWN
MAGE — ???
The cloaked woman’s words from the cell echoed in my head. Regression had not been mercy; it had been chance. A thread through time. Whether salvation or trap, I would find the hand that threw it.
Night fell fast in Valemont, dragging cold through the valley. I stood at the window, watching the stars wheel slow and cold.
In another life I would have been sharpening a blade. Now I sharpened a mind.
“I died once because I fought His Majesty’s war.”
“This time, I’ll fight my own.”
My reflection in the glass was a boy’s face with a man’s fury behind it.
This time, the Lion won’t die in a cage.