She was right. I am a fool, and with that foolishness comes an optimism someone like me should never possess.
The world was no longer sinking beneath me. No longer lost.
Today marked the first day of the new year.
I had survived death, clawed through the void itself, and returned to a world that had already moved on without me.
Yet I would not be left behind again.
I would win the war we had lost, reclaim what was ours, and save Mirabel from the fate she had been denied.
Fertical lays to the southwest of Anstalionah, a kingdom at the northernmost part of the central continent.
For centuries, our lands had clashed along shared borders, bitter conflict echoing through generations.
By the end of this year, I would sit on the throne not as a shadow of a prince, but as its rightful king.
But first, I had to become stronger.
Stronger than I had ever been, stronger than the sickness that gnawed at my bones.
The weakness that twisted my magic, the fatigue that threatened to betray every step.
The cost of failing would not just be my death.
This time, the cost would be hers too.
My delirium and surprise faded. I rose from my chair, feeling the burn in my lungs and a twinge of dizziness from standing too quickly.
I approached her, carefully steadying myself on the edge of the bed as I reached for her hair.
Her scarlet strands fell loose over her shoulders.
I gathered them gently, feeling the weight of each movement.
My fingers trembled slightly, betraying the sickness still wrapped around me.
But I held on, coaxing the strands into place as she leaned forward, eyes softening in trust.
I was going to make some changes. Some great changes.
I recalled we were preparing to train; if there was anything I remembered clearly, it was that she had always been the center of it.
She was the reason I had begun to act like a prince after a lifetime of uselessness.
Once I finished tying her hair, I lowered myself beside her, hands resting lightly in my lap.
The room was cluttered yet orderly, the moonlight spilling across the black carpet and reflecting off the ornaments that lined the walls.
The dresser across from us mirrored the tension curling through the space.
She broke the silence first, voice familiar and sharp.
"Listen, I know you don't like hearing this, but you should really get your act together."
The words were the same as before, yet she seemed even more nervous now.
"Alright, I will," I said calmly, though my stomach knotted and my hand shook slightly.
The sickness whispered weakness into every motion, but I forced it down.
A burn sparked deep within my soul, and the symbol on my right arm flared.
The Mark of Sloth, etched into me through years of weakness and negligence.
She tilted her head, eyes widening. "Wait, really?"
I nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair from my own face. "I should listen to the future queen after all."
Before my parents died, they had found her.
Despite her past crimes, she was made my bride, chosen more for her persistence and potential than anything else.
I had no complaints; she was beautiful, clever, and steadfast.
That mattered more than words, and now, she would be queen.
She blushed, covering her face with her hands.
"That's… don't say that!"
Her aura surged, and I stumbled slightly, nearly falling from the bed.
The weakness in my legs nearly sent me to the floor, but she steadied me with a gentle hand brushing my arm.
Her eyes reflected fear and memory, and I remembered a day long past when she had outmatched me in sparring.
I had demanded she never surpass me, and she obeyed, unknowingly walking toward the death that awaited her.
I straightened, dusting off my clothes with a laugh, my chest rising unevenly.
"That's… pretty cute."
I avoided the earlier conversation. This was my chance, my resurrection, my rewrite of history.
I would not waste it.
The world remained grim and dark, death lurking at the edges of every shadow, but now I had a hand in shaping it.
She looked up at me, worry softening her features.
"Cute? No, that's not important… are you okay? You're already so fragile."
Ah, right. My illness. When I had died against Griffin, I had poured every ounce of power into survival.
I had altered time itself, leaving my body weak and my appearance stained white.
Time's laws had bent around me, and yet she did not notice.
Our memories, our moments, they had been rewritten. For her, for me, there was no past. Only now.
I shifted closer to her, careful of the ache in my joints and the fatigue coiling in my chest.
"I'm okay. But I have plans, and worries, that I need to act on."
She looked wary, almost hurt. Regardless I must set things straight.
"It seems you're still holding yourself back. From now on, only do that when we're fighting or when you're near me."
Even at eighteen, she was powerful, rivaling a knight.
I could not match her fully yet, not with my body still fragile and my magic wavering.
"Yes, I'll do that," she said, a small smile flickering over her lips.
I reached for her hands, feeling the warmth and steadiness she offered.
"And don't hold back. Speak your truth. Do not humble yourself before me."
She tilted her head, confusion softening her gaze. "What do you mean?"
"I like you the most, Mirabel. Not some ideal you've imagined in your mind."
Her cheeks reddened as she pulled back slightly. "I-I'll keep note of that."
Keeping her within the castle would not be enough. I was the prince. I had knowledge of the future.
I could rewrite it. With her by my side, I could reshape fate itself.
I lowered myself onto her lap, leaning gently against her, feeling the warmth of her body anchor me.
My hands shook faintly as I tried to steady them, and my heart was pained, from the terrible side effects.
Magic felt heavier, breath more precious, but I could not linger in weakness. I had to act.
"Could you send letters to Malachi up north? Tell him war is brewing."
She flinched, nearly pushing me off her lap in surprise as her hands tightened on my sides.
"What are you talking about?"
I tilted my head slowly, letting my gaze drift past the moonlit window toward the vast forests of Anstalionah below.
The branches swayed like a restless ocean of black and silver, the land itself waiting for a spark to ignite it.
"Isn't it obvious? I plan to declare war on Fertical."
She flinched again, harder this time, almost throwing me off her lap entirely.
Her arms shot out with a gasp, catching me before I slipped.
The warmth of her grip contrasted sharply with the cold shock on her face.
"Wait, you? You're declaring war? Nicky, this is…"
My expression hardened. The moonlight carved the truth into my features, leaving no room for softness.
"I'm tired, Mirabel. I'm tired of being myself, so I must make sure that I cannot be."
The room stilled. Even the night air seemed to pause.
She looked into my eyes, and whatever protest she had died on her lips. She saw it. saw the resolve burning where weakness once lived.
And she must have felt it too, the mark on my arm pulsing with slow, deliberate heat.
The Mark of Sloth, the sin of inertia, the seal of everything I once was and everything I refused to remain.
So she must know. She must understand just how deep my words truly sank, how far I had already fallen forward, betraying myself in order to rise.
Yes.
I am ultimately worthless, and so the betrayal would amount to nothing.