Pain. Not the searing agony of hellfire or the crushing weight of divine light, but a dull, throbbing ache in his temples.
Kaelen gasped, his eyes snapping open. He threw himself sideways, a reflexive combat roll to avoid a spear thrust that wasn't there. He crashed heavily into a wooden nightstand, sending a silver washbasin clattering to the floor.
He froze, his chest heaving, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword at his hip. There was no sword. There was no armor. He looked down at his hands. They were pale, soft, and unscarred. The callouses built from decades of gripping a greatsword were completely gone.
"What trickery is this?" Kaelen muttered. His voice lacked its deep, commanding resonance. It was the voice of a boy.
He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his knee, and looked around. Rich mahogany furniture, tapestries bearing the crimson dragon crest of the Vane Dukedom, and a large arched window overlooking a bustling courtyard.
It was his childhood bedroom in the Vane Estate.
Kaelen stumbled to the ornate standing mirror in the corner. Staring back at him was a fourteen-year-old boy. He had the sharp aristocratic features of his lineage, the messy raven hair, and piercing violet eyes. But he was painfully thin.
He closed his eyes and pushed his awareness inward, searching for his Aura Core. It was there, but it was infinitesimally small—a flickering candle compared to the raging sun he once possessed.
I am alive. I am back. A cold, terrifying smile slowly spread across the boy's face. The Gods, in their infinite arrogance, had failed to destroy his soul. They had inadvertently granted his final wish.
The heavy oak door to his chamber swung open without a knock.
"Young Master Kaelen," a grating voice sneered. "Are you going to sleep the entire day away? Your father, the Duke, expects you at the training grounds. Not that it will do any good."
It was Toris, the head attendant of his wing. In his past life, Kaelen had tolerated the man's thinly veiled insults, believing that a noble must show grace to his lessers. He remembered now that Toris was a spy for his eldest brother, actively slipping muscle-atrophying poisons into Kaelen's tea to ensure the "youngest trash" never threatened the succession.
Kaelen turned slowly. The fourteen-year-old boy looked at the attendant, but the eyes were those of a seasoned butcher assessing a piece of meat.
"You didn't knock, Toris," Kaelen said softly.
Toris scoffed, stepping into the room with a sneer. "Apologies, Young Master, but considering your usual drunken stupors—"
Before the attendant could finish the sentence, Kaelen moved. His body was weak, but his knowledge of anatomy and footwork was flawless. He slipped inside the man's guard in a fraction of a second. Kaelen grabbed the heavy silver washbasin from the floor and swung it upward with every ounce of his meager strength.
Crack.
The solid silver smashed into Toris's jaw, shattering bone and sending teeth clattering against the stone wall. The attendant crumpled to the floor, shrieking in muffled agony, blood pouring from his ruined mouth.
Kaelen stood over him, breathing heavily from the exertion. He dropped the dented basin and crouched down, grabbing the man by his hair and pulling his face close.
"Tell my eldest brother," Kaelen whispered, his voice devoid of any emotion, "that if he puts nightshade in my chamomile tea again, I will not report him to Father. I will simply cut his throat while he sleeps. Do you understand, Toris?"
Toris, eyes wide with absolute terror, managed a frantic, gurgling nod.
"Good. Now clean up your blood and get out."
As the attendant scrambled out of the room like a beaten dog, Kaelen stood up and looked out the window. The timeline was clear. It was five years before the Demonic Incursion, ten years before Aethelgard's coronation, and fifteen years before his execution.
He had fifteen years to build a foundation of absolute power. Fifteen years to steal every artifact, master every forbidden art, and find a dragon that the world would weep to behold.
The hero was dead. The slaughter had begun.