The scent of warm earth and firewood filled his lungs.
Kaen Ardyn gasped and sat upright, his chest heaving. He clutched his torso, half-expecting to feel the blade still plunged into his heart, half-expecting the world to still be burning.
But there was no blood. No smoke. No screams.
Only birdsong. The gentle creak of wooden beams. A breeze through a cracked window, carrying the familiar fragrance of wet grass and morning porridge.
"This... can't be."
Kaen stood shakily. His legs trembled—not from exhaustion, but from youth. He reached the mirror hanging by a string of twine on the wooden pillar. His reflection stared back, clear and haunting.
A boy. Brown hair unscarred. Eyes not yet hollowed by death. His hands—small, uncalloused. His body... fourteen years old.
He nearly stumbled back.
It worked.
The Chrono Ash Reversal had worked.
He should have died. Atop the broken tower of Serathul, blade buried in his chest, time unraveling around him. The Netherlords had breached the final seal. Ashveil had consumed too much of his soul.
But he was here.
Before it all began.
He rushed to the small window and looked out. The village of Aeron. Wooden houses. Smoke rising from chimneys. Farmers heading to the fields. Children running past the creek bridge.
The date burned in his mind.
Six days before the raid.
His fists clenched. That was when Lord Harkel's hired blades would sack the village, torch it to the ground, and enslave survivors. Kaen's mother would die in the fire. His father would be gutted trying to protect them.
Not again.
"Kaen?" a voice called from behind the door—soft, familiar.
He turned. That voice. That voice he'd heard scream and burn and vanish.
"Coming, mom," he choked, eyes stinging.
He wiped his face, straightened his tunic, and walked out.
This time, he would not run.
This time, he would stand before fate with sword in hand.