Prince Lysander Aurelian jolted awake with a scream locked in his throat. His hand flew to his neck, fingers desperately searching for the wound that had ended his life. Instead, he found only smooth skin, unmarred and intact.
"Your Highness?" A concerned voice came from the doorway. "I heard distress. Are you unwell?"
Lysander stared at the servant—Elias—who had been dead for three years in his memory. The man stood in the doorway, very much alive, holding a silver tray with morning tea.
"I'm fine," Lysander managed, his voice raspy. "A nightmare. Leave the tea and go."
The servant bowed and retreated, casting one last worried glance before closing the door.
Lysander's hands trembled as he reached for the ornate calendar beside his bed. The date confirmed the impossible: he had returned three years before his execution. Three years before the day of succession when his siblings had revealed their true faces.
He stumbled to the mirror, bracing himself against the ornate gold frame. The face that stared back was younger than he remembered—seventeen, not twenty. His silver-white hair fell past his shoulders, lacking the short, practical cut he'd adopted in his later years. His violet eyes, the mark of Aurelian bloodline purity, showed no signs of the magical mastery he'd achieved before his death.
"This cannot be real," he whispered, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.
But the memory of his death remained painfully vivid. His brother Darius's face twisted with contempt as he read the false charges of treason. His sister Seraphina's perfectly composed mask of regret that didn't reach her calculating eyes. The executioner's blade, inscribed with magic-dampening runes to ensure no royal could escape their sentence.
Most painful was the memory of his father, Emperor Tiberius IV, turning away as the blade fell, too weak or too indifferent to intervene.
Lysander's knees buckled, and he slid to the floor, overwhelmed by the implications. Somehow, he'd been given a second chance. A opportunity to rewrite a future where his siblings seized power, where the empire fractured under their rule, where thousands died in the magical backlash when the ancient Covenant began to break.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called, hastily composing himself and rising to his feet.
Lord Cassius, his father's chamberlain, appeared in the doorway. "Prince Lysander, His Imperial Majesty requests your presence in the Grand Study in one hour."
Lysander nodded, careful to maintain the meek expression that had been his default in this period of his life. "I'll be there."
After Cassius departed, Lysander paced the length of his chambers, mind racing. In his previous life, this meeting had been the beginning of his public humiliation. Emperor Tiberius had declared him magically deficient and unfit for court, banishing him to the Academy of Imperial Arts—a punishment disguised as education.
His siblings had arranged it all. They'd known the truth that Lysander himself hadn't discovered until it was too late: his magical channels had been artificially blocked since childhood, suppressing what would have been extraordinary power.
"Not this time," Lysander murmured, clenching his fists. He closed his eyes and turned his attention inward, searching for the magical pathways within his body.
There—he could sense it now with his experienced perception—the blockage that had limited him to minor magical feats. A complex working of Umbra magic, probably applied when he was an infant, restricting the flow of his natural Anima affinity. In his previous life, he hadn't discovered the block until he was nineteen, and hadn't fully removed it until twenty—just months before his execution.
Lysander reached for his magic, attempting to channel even a small portion around the blockage. Pain lanced through his skull, and blood trickled from his nose. His magical knowledge from his prior life remained, but his young body lacked the training to implement it.
Wiping away the blood, Lysander changed into formal attire appropriate for an imperial audience. He selected a silver-embroidered doublet in midnight blue—deliberately avoiding the royal purple his siblings favored. Let them continue to underestimate him.
As he traversed the labyrinthine corridors of the Grand Palace, Lysander observed the court with new eyes. Noble courtiers who had once seemed intimidating now appeared as the schemers they were. He noted which ones wore the subtle emblems of House Drakos, his brother's supporters, and which bore the silver pins of House Lunaris, allied with Seraphina.
Few acknowledged him beyond the minimum courtesy required for an imperial prince. In this timeline, he was already known as the "failed prince"—the youngest son with apparently mediocre magical talent. A disappointment in a dynasty where power was everything.
The Grand Study doors—twelve feet of carved blackwood inlaid with gold and crystal—stood open as Lysander approached. Two Imperial Guards flanked the entrance, their faces impassive beneath golden helmets shaped like phoenix heads.
Inside, Emperor Tiberius IV sat behind a massive desk of polished obsidian. Though only fifty-three, he appeared much older, his once-vibrant face lined with exhaustion. His silver-white hair—identical to Lysander's—was thinning, and his violet eyes had dulled.
Lysander felt a pang of emotion he hadn't expected. In his previous life, he'd never recognized the signs of magical poisoning that were already affecting his father. By the time of succession, the Emperor had been a hollow shell, manipulated by whichever child spoke to him last.
"Father," Lysander said, bowing with practiced precision. "You summoned me."
"Sit," the Emperor replied, gesturing to the chair across from him.
Lysander complied, maintaining the carefully neutral expression he'd perfected in his previous life. Inside, his mind raced with strategies. Should he appear improved but still unthreatening? Or maintain the façade of mediocrity his siblings expected?
"Crown Prince Darius tells me your progress with the court tutors has been... insufficient," Emperor Tiberius began, his tone revealing disappointment rather than anger.
Lysander remembered this conversation well. In his previous life, he had protested, argued, and ultimately begged not to be sent away—all to no avail. This time, he simply nodded.
"I've arranged for you to attend the Academy of Imperial Arts," the Emperor continued. "Perhaps different instructors will succeed where the court tutors have failed."
"The Academy is a prestigious institution," Lysander replied carefully. "I'm honored by the opportunity."
The Emperor's eyes narrowed slightly, clearly surprised by the lack of resistance. "You understand this means leaving court? Living in the Academy dormitories like any other student?"
"I do, Father."
"And you have no objections?"
Lysander allowed a small smile. "Would objections change your decision?"
A flash of something—perhaps respect—crossed the Emperor's face before disappearing behind his regal mask. "No."
"Then I'll prepare for departure. When am I expected to leave?"
"Three days hence. The new term begins with the Season of Bloom."
Lysander bowed his head in acknowledgment, his mind already plotting. The Academy had been his salvation in his previous life—the place where he'd discovered his true potential and formed the alliances that would have made him a contender for the throne, had he lived.
This time, he would use it even more effectively.
"Is there anything else, Father?" he asked.
The Emperor studied him for a long moment. "You seem... different today, Lysander."
"Perhaps I'm finally growing up," Lysander replied with deliberate lightness.
After being dismissed, Lysander walked to the eastern balcony overlooking the Imperial City of Aurenthia. Gleaming spires rose from wealthy districts, while in the distance, the crowded common quarters sprawled toward the city walls. Beyond them, the fields and forests of central Valterra stretched to the horizon.
Somewhere in those common quarters, ordinary people were experiencing the first signs of "The Awakening"—spontaneously developing magical abilities that should have been impossible according to imperial doctrine. In his previous life, he'd ignored these reports until it was too late.
This time would be different. This time, he knew what was coming: the weakening Covenant, the magical crisis, the civil war, the foreign threats. This time, he was prepared.
"Enjoy your victory while it lasts, Darius," Lysander whispered, his eyes hardening as he spotted his elder brother crossing the palace courtyard below, resplendent in military regalia. "This fallen prince won't stay fallen for long."