'Third Point of view '
The air inside the royal infirmary was colder than stone, lined with silver instruments that glinted under torchlight like the fangs of a waiting beast. Kael sat shirtless on the edge of a marble bed, his back aching and muscles throbbing from the recent duel with Varn. His bloodied shirt lay torn on the floor, and his ribs still bore the imprint of the enchanted mace.
Yet none of that compared to the pain gnawing inside his skull—memories not his own, clawing for dominance.
"Drink this," murmured a soft voice. A silver chalice was pushed into his hands. It was Eleyna. She stood at his side, golden curls unbound, her eyes cast low—not in submission, but in cautious study.
Kael downed the liquid. Bitter herbs bit his tongue, then dissolved into heat as the elixir soothed the pain. "Thank you," he said, voice low, rough. "I expected the medics, not you."
"I dismissed them," she said. "If word spreads that Leon Drayven was nearly beaten to death by a glorified thug, the court will tear you apart before the Emperor even gets the chance."
He snorted. "So you're saving me… for politics."
She met his gaze. "No. I'm saving you because you're the only one dangerous enough to change anything."
Her words startled him, but before he could ask what she meant, the door to the infirmary burst open. Captain Rendar strode in, red cloak streaked with blood—not his own.
"Lord Leon," he said, ignoring Eleyna entirely. "There's been a breach. Assassins entered the Temple of the Twelve. Four priests are dead. And someone's asking for you by name."
Kael stood, the haze of pain replaced instantly by ice-cold clarity. "Who?"
Rendar's eyes hardened. "They left a message. Carved into a corpse."
He handed Kael a rolled parchment, the paper soaked in blood. Kael unrolled it.
"Drayven. Come to where you first died. Or more will follow."
Kael's heart thudded once. Then twice.
Where he first died?
"No," he muttered. "It can't be…"
Eleyna touched his arm. "What does it mean?"
Kael didn't answer. He stormed past them both, body still aching but mind burning.
Because he remembered now.
He remembered the village. The night. The blade sliding between his ribs. The mocking laughter.
He remembered her.
---
The ride to Darrow's Hollow was like riding into a graveyard made of memory. It was the very place where, in his first life, Kael—then just a no-name mercenary—had died for the first time. Framed for a crime he didn't commit, butchered by townsfolk manipulated by nobles who wanted his silence.
It had been the trigger for his reincarnation into Leon Drayven's body. A second chance.
Now someone was calling him back.
The village was dead quiet when he arrived. His horse refused to go any farther, snorting and backing away from the blackened gates. So Kael dismounted and walked the rest of the way, sword sheathed, his hand never straying far from the hilt.
Smoke lingered in the air. Fires had been set recently. And yet no one came out.
Then he heard it.
Crying.
Kael followed the sound to the town square—and stopped cold.
Bodies. Dozens of them. Lined in a perfect circle around the fountain, all robed in the garb of the Crimson Cult, their throats slit, eyes gouged out. And standing in the center was a child, no older than ten, her white dress soaked in blood, her lips moving in a silent chant.
Kael approached slowly. "Who did this?"
The girl looked up. Her eyes glowed pitch black.
"They said you'd come," she whispered in a voice not hers. "They said the usurper must die again."
Kael's heart slammed against his ribs. "Who said that?"
But she didn't respond. She raised one hand—and the corpses twitched.
Kael leapt back just as the bodies rose, puppeted by some dark force, their movements jerky, unnatural.
Undead.
Necromancy.
Kael drew his blade just as the nearest corpse lunged at him. The steel met rotting flesh with a sickening thunk, and the creature collapsed. But three more followed.
This wasn't a message.
It was an execution.
He fought like a demon, blade flashing silver under the moonlight, slicing through corpses, sidestepping clawed hands and broken teeth. But they kept coming. And at the center, the girl just watched, lips moving faster, summoning more from the blood-soaked soil.
"Stop!" Kael shouted, leaping over a fallen cultist and charging her.
But the moment he reached her, her eyes widened—and her body convulsed, collapsing in a heap. Whatever force had controlled her was gone.
But Kael felt it, then.
A presence behind him.
He turned—
—and saw a woman in a black veil, hovering inches above the ground, her form barely human, her face hidden beneath writhing shadows.
"You shouldn't have come back, Kael," she said, and the sound of his real name on her lips felt like a blade of ice.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"I'm the one who watched you die," she whispered. "And I'm the one who will bury you again."
She extended her hand—and the shadows around her writhed into spears.
Kael dove behind the fountain just as the first volley struck, stone shattering like glass.
Breath ragged, blood pouring from a fresh wound on his side, he peered around the edge.
She was floating forward. The girl's body lay forgotten. The undead stirred behind her, waiting.
He couldn't win this.
Not alone.
But he wouldn't die again. Not here. Not like this.
As she raised her hand again, Kael hurled one of his last remaining magic flares into the sky—a beacon only Eleyna or Captain Rendar would recognize.
Let them come.
Because if he was going to die again…
He would drag this monster into hell with him.
---