The pounding of his own heart was the loudest sound in the world.
Kayian Wellstream knelt on the cold stones of Askar's central square. Rope bit into the skin around his wrists, and his shoulders bore not just the weight of chains, but the weight of his entire past. He looked down at the dirty planks of the scaffold and tried to remember the last time he had felt warmth.
"Elian Wellstream," the herald's voice rang out across the square, cutting through the noise of the crowd. "Accused of heresy of the first degree, use of forbidden blood magic, attempted assassination of members of the Imperial family, and conspiracy with dark entities."
Kayian didn't lift his head. He knew what he would see if he did: dozens, hundreds, thousands of faces gathered to watch the fall of the last heir of the Great House. And among them—those he had called family.
"The sentence, personally confirmed by His Majesty the Emperor, is death by beheading."
The crowd erupted in a murmur. Some shouted, "Serves him right," others cried, "Mercy!" Kayian smiled faintly at the corner of his mouth. Mercy. A strange word for a world where compassion was seen as weakness.
He raised his eyes.
The first person he saw was Damian.
His older brother stood in the front row, dressed in the black-and-silver ceremonial attire of the head of House Wellstream. His face was flawless—grief mingled with dignity, the perfect mask of righteous anger. Only his eyes gave him away. There was no pain in them. There was joy.
So that's how it is, brother, Kayian thought. You got what you wanted.
Beside Damian, slightly behind him, stood Loren Ardente. His former fiancée. Now the chosen of the Crown Prince. She wasn't looking at Kayian. Her gaze was fixed somewhere in the distance, at the palace spires, as if she was trying to convince herself that she wasn't really there.
"Does the condemned wish to speak a final word?" the herald asked.
Kayian straightened slowly, as much as the chains allowed. His throat was parched, his tongue felt foreign. But he found the strength to speak.
"I never used blood magic against the Imperial family," he said, his voice quiet, yet in the silence that followed, everyone heard him. "I never used it against people at all. Only to heal. Only to save."
Loren flinched. Damian gave a barely perceptible shake of his head—a gesture Kayian read with perfect clarity: Be quiet, don't disgrace the family.
"But you won't believe me," Kayian continued, his lips stretching into a smile that was more of a snarl. "Because the truth means nothing to those who've already passed the sentence."
The crowd stirred. Someone threw a rotten apple at him. A wad of spit struck his cheek, but Kayian didn't wipe it off.
"Let the gods judge," Damian said loudly, addressing those gathered. "If he is innocent, let the gods grant a sign."
The gods, Kayian thought. The ones who've slumbered for millennia and never answered a single prayer. The ones whose names are used to justify murder.
He looked at the sky. It was clear, cloudless, mercilessly blue. No sign. No miracle.
The executioner stepped forward. A massive man in a black hood, his axe glinting in the sun. He grabbed Kayian roughly by the shoulder, forcing him down toward the block—a crude wooden stump with dark stains across its surface.
Kayian smelled someone else's blood. His own blood seethed somewhere deep inside—the magic answered, that forbidden magic for which he'd been sentenced. It pulsed in his veins, begging to be unleashed, promising power, promising revenge.
I could, he thought. One movement to shatter these chains. One thought to stop the hearts of everyone standing in this square. Kill my brother. Kill her. Kill the Emperor. Become the monster they named me.
But he didn't.
Because if he did that now, they would have been right. All their accusations would have become true. And the name Wellstream would vanish forever, erased from history as cursed.
Kayian laid his head down on the cold wood. His cheek touched someone's long-dried blood.
Farewell, brother, he whispered with just his lips.
Damian didn't hear him. Or pretended not to.
"Carry out the sentence!" the herald cried.
The executioner raised his axe. Kayian closed his eyes.
In the last moment, as the steel cut through the air, he felt a strange calm. As if time had slowed. As if someone was watching him—not from the crowd, not from the stands, but from somewhere beyond the edge of reality.
I wonder, he thought, are the gods listening to me now?
And suddenly a voice sounded in his mind—not loud, not melodic, but rather like stone grinding against stone:
"They hear you. But not the ones you're thinking of."
The blow.
Pain flared and faded faster than Kayian could register it. The world shattered into a million fragments, each of them a memory: his mother's laughter, whom he hadn't seen in ten years; the first spark of magic kindled in his fingers; Loren's face when she said "yes" on the day of their engagement; Damian's cold stare as he signed the arrest warrant.
Then—darkness.
But the darkness was not empty. Someone was there. An entity without form, without a face, but with a weight that made everything inside him tighten.
"You did not die in vain, Kayian Wellstream. Your death became the key. And now I will give you what the gods do not grant."
"What?" he whispered, not sure if he even had a mouth anymore.
"A second chance. Go back and change your fate. But remember: every change comes at a price. And I will be watching."
"Who are you?" Kayian managed to ask, feeling the darkness begin to dissipate, yielding to a bright, blinding light.
"Your new god."
The light crashed down upon him like a lightning strike. Kayian screamed—for the first time in years, he let himself scream, a cry full of pain, fury, and unspoken despair.
Then he opened his eyes.
He lay on his back. Above him was a ceiling of dark wood with gold inlays—the crest of House Wellstream, two crossed lightning bolts. The warm glow of candles flowed from a candelabra on the bedside table.
Kayian slowly sat up. His hands were whole. His neck—untouched. His heart pounded somewhere in his throat, but he was breathing. He was alive.
He looked around. This was his room. His old room, in the family manor—the one that had been burned down a year after his arrest.
On the nightstand lay a piece of paper with calligraphic handwriting: Tomorrow is the first day of entrance exams for the Academy of Eternis. Don't be late, brother. D.
The date in the corner made his blood freeze.
Third day of the Month of Fiery Rain, 847th year since the founding of the Empire.
Kayian leaned back against the pillows and laughed—dry, hoarse, raw.
Three years. He had returned three years into the past. The day before entering the Academy. Three years before he was accused, betrayed, and executed.
On his right wrist, dark script appeared—not a tattoo, not a scar, but something alive, pulsing in rhythm with his heart. He looked at it, and before his eyes words assembled into a neat line:
[Fate System activated. Host: Kayian Wellstream. Level: 1. Available functions: Target Analysis, Fate Log, Fragment Shop. Warning: altering the timeline draws the attention of Keepers. Proceed with caution.]
Kayian slowly clenched his fist. Magic crackled in his fingers—not blood, no, this time it was different, purer, but still dangerous.
He rose from the bed, walked to the window, and pulled back the heavy curtain.
Outside, nocturnal Askar slept. The palace lights flickered in the distance. Below, in the inner courtyard, stood his brother's carriage—Damian had just returned from some ball.
Kayian gazed at the scene, and something dark, long-suppressed, rose inside him. Not just rage. Not just a thirst for revenge.
He knew what would happen in the next three years. Every betrayal, every lie, every drop of blood spilled on the scaffold.
And now he had a tool to change everything.
A second chance, then, he whispered, touching the cold glass with his fingers. Fine. I won't use it to become a hero.
His lips curved into a smile that promised nothing good.
I will become the one who makes this world burn.
Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, the system responded with a quiet, almost mechanical chime:
[Objective registered. Quest generation initiated: "Revival of House Wellstream." Difficulty: Divine. Reward: unknown. Accept?]
Kayian answered without a second thought.
"Accept."
Outside, the wind howled, and the first snow fell upon the cobblestones of Askar, heralding the beginning of a winter that would change everything.