Chapter 2 — Whisper of the Lion
The dawn hadn’t even broken when I woke. No birds. No light. Just the rasp of my breath and the scratch of quill against parchment. Black ink filled the pages, sketching out events I’d already lived through—wars, betrayals, alliances that would rot from the inside. I was ten years old again, but the weight of a lifetime sat on my shoulders.
This time… I wouldn’t just be strong. I would be unstoppable.
In my first life, I was feared with a blade in my hand—the Lion of Valemont. My swordsmanship was unmatched, my armies loyal. And still—I fell. The throne didn’t kill me with a sword. His Majesty crushed me with power I didn’t understand. Shadows I couldn’t fight.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
I would forge my sword again, yes—but it wouldn’t be my only weapon. This time, I would master the unseen as well.
Magic in the Kingdom was rare. Feared. Controlled. Hoarded by the crown like a jewel. I’d felt what a single mage could do—the cloaked figure in my cell had broken the laws of the world in a single breath and handed me a second life. If I could reach that level, no king, no strategist, no army could stop me.
I stared at the ink-stained parchment. Sword and magic. Blade and fire. Two paths, one goal: to tear out the Empire’s throat and make it mine.
A memory slid through my mind—blood on stone, boots ticking down a dais, the cold murmur: “No. The Empire is mine.” The words sank like ice. A claim I would repay with ruin.
The air was cold enough to sting. I sat cross-legged, drawing breath until it burned, then releasing slowly. Mana moved like smoke in my veins—thin, fragile. A child’s capacity. Humiliating. Exhilarating.
I remembered the Academy from my past life—how I’d treated its lessons like distractions instead of weapons. Back then, I thought I had all the time in the world to learn. I only skimmed the surface of what they tried to teach me… the foundations of mana flow, resonance, focus. I should have listened. I should have cared. If I had, this body wouldn’t feel so clumsy now. Every pulse through my veins was a reminder of how much power I’d wasted in arrogance.
I adjusted a breathing cadence meant for warriors who could endure mana overload, scaled it down until the flow wavered, resisted, then obeyed. The room filled with a faint hum—my heart kept time with it. Not much. But mine.
I picked up a wooden training sword. Its weight was featherlight compared to the steel I once carried, but my grip closed around it with a memory older than my hands.
The first strike cracked the quiet. Feet moved like battlefield steps—forward, pivot, guard, downslash, thrust. My breath matched each blow. Pain came. My shoulders burned. Good. Pain meant I could grow.
Before the mirror my wooden blade stilled. My reflection—a boy with sharp eyes—watched. A lion cub with a predator’s patience.
In my past life I built the Black Legion—one hundred men and women who made battalions falter at their name. They did not march; they descended like executioners. This time I would not rebuild under banners. I would forge the Shadow Legion: no drums, no parades—only the whisper of blades in darkness.
By first light I slipped into the forest behind the manor. Fog clung to the soil, frost etched bark. The world held its breath. Something in the air was wrong—the kind of wrongness only a man who’d bled on battlefields could recognize.
Then I felt it. A pulse. Not thunderous, only a whisper against my mana-sense—an Echo imprint, woven carefully and strong enough to remain. My palm pressed to cold earth; the vibration crawled up my arm—heavy, patient.
The Echo. Most could not feel it. Even trained mages needed years. For me it was like breathing. The imprint here was controlled, not the wild discharge of a novice. Someone had been here. A mage. Not the same as the cloaked woman, but related—an echo of the power that had saved me.
Magic here was dangerous. If the Crown learned of a spark beyond its control, they would take it by collar or blade. So I would be silent. Watch. Learn. When the time came, their first knowledge of my power would be their last.
Returning toward the manor, the smell of baking bread drifted from the kitchens. Children’s laughter floated from the village. Ordinary—too ordinary for what I harbored.
On the stone steps sat a boy about my age—boots scuffed, cheeks flushed from the cold. Elias Grent. Vassal knight’s son. In my last life he’d been a blade on the frontlines who died before the final war. Now he would be one of the first embers of the new order.
“You’re up early,” Elias said, squinting.
“Could say the same to you.”
He shrugged. “Father says knights don’t get to rest because nobles do.”
I studied him: loose shoulders, firm stance, hands nicked from training. Steel waiting to be tempered.
“Elias,” I said quietly, “what would you do if everything they make us kneel for burned down?”
He blinked. “Burned down?”
“If the throne fell. The Empire.”
He hesitated, then answered softly, “I’d want to be on the side that lit the fire.”
A slow smile curved my lips. “Then stick close. One day I might need someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.”
He laughed and nodded, unaware of the oath he’d just taken.
That evening the manor glowed with hearth-warmth. I sat across from Father—broad, steady, carved from mountain stone. He spoke of the Academy’s recommendation letters and how they might make an exception for me to leave in spring.
“It’s time you learned how the world works,” he said, proud and unaware I was already cataloguing its fractures.
“First the Academy,” I whispered to the map and the candlelight. “Then the lion’s den.”
Night fell fast. I unrolled a map—old battlefields, troop movements, cities set like dominoes. I placed three black stones:
One for His Majesty Aldros Latimer IV.
One for the Strategist—unknown.
One for the Unknown Mage.
The Echo whisper from the forest still ticked beneath my skin. Whoever had left it would matter.
In my last life I ignored whispers. This time I would hunt them down.
The Lion isn’t roaring yet. But the world should start listening.