The scream had died in his throat, but the echo clung to the stone.
Caesar clutched the doorway, heart battering his ribs like something trying to escape. Cold damp air seeped into his skin. The smell—mildew and old candle wax—was so vivid it made his eyes water.
He took one shaky step back into the little cell, blinking hard. No smoke. No fire. No roar of holy magic cracking the sky open.
"This…this isn't real," he whispered. "I'm delirious. I must be."
He scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. When he looked again, the cracked walls were still there. The familiar pile of threadbare blankets. The warped scrap of tin nailed over the basin.
Slowly, as if in a trance, he stumbled toward the mirror.
It showed him a face he barely recognized: pale skin unmarked by burns, hair ragged but whole, horns smooth and unbroken. Eyes too large in a gaunt face that still hadn't finished growing.
A boy's face.
"No," he breathed. "No—this isn't possible."
He gripped the basin until his knuckles whitened. If this was some afterlife, it was a cruel one. A memory playing on a loop, ready to collapse as soon as he dared to believe it. He pressed his palm to the cold tin. Waiting for it to ripple. Waiting to wake in the ashes.
Nothing moved. The reflection just stared back, glassy-eyed and afraid.
A sudden scuff of footsteps outside. He turned, half-expecting to see a knight in silver armor stepping through the doorway.
Instead, a demon woman paused at the threshold—a crooked smile under her third eye, a basket of linens on her hip. Her voice was warm and drowsy.
"Caesar? Stars above, you look like you've seen a ghost."
His throat closed. Lyris.
She'd died so early—her blood still steaming in the hall. He remembered stepping over her body because no one stopped to mourn.
"You—" His voice cracked. "You're dead."
Her brow furrowed. "What?"
"You died. You died years ago."
She looked him up and down, worry crowding out the amusement. "You're talking nonsense. Did you hit your head again? You look ready to faint."
He swallowed, but the taste of ash never came.
"I'm…dreaming," he tried to insist, voice scraping out in a whisper. "I have to be."
"Dreaming?" She snorted softly. "You wish. Come on—you're late again. Valemont'll have your horns if you keep dawdling."
She gave him a gentle shove and walked past, humming a half-forgotten tune.
Caesar pressed both palms against the doorway, feeling the rough stone scrape his skin. He tried to tell himself it would fade, that the world would melt back to fire and screams any moment now.
But nothing shifted.
The air stayed cold.
The walls stayed solid.
Slowly, he turned to face the mirror again. The boy in the tin stared back—wide-eyed and trembling, but alive. Whole.
"This…this is real," he breathed.
His heart thumped in his chest, slow and heavy. "I'm back."
By the time the first bell rang for duty, Caesar had washed the grime and ash from his skin—though he kept expecting it to return, as if it were tattooed into his flesh. He dressed in the coarse gray uniform of the lowest aides, the fabric stiff against his shoulders.
A faint sigil marked the seam over his heart: a silver lily, the crest of House Valemont.
No one ever noticed it. No one ever cared. To most in Blackspire Keep, he was nothing but another pair of hands to haul coal or scrub latrines. Just another mouth that hadn't yet been deemed unnecessary.
He stepped into the corridor, and it hit him: the castle smelled clean.
No ash. No blood. No divine fire.
Somewhere nearby, demons bickered over morning shifts, their voices sharp and indifferent. Who'd forgotten to bring wine to the second-floor salons. Who'd botched the polishing of the brass sconces.
The usual idiocy.
He'd died yesterday. And today, he was fifteen years in the past.
A horned demon with beetle-shell plates along his arms lounged against the wall, picking his fangs with a hooked claw. Vek—mid-ranked, petty, a creature who thrived on making the weak smaller.
"Oi. Caesar." Vek's lip curled. "Valemont's got nobles visiting. That means extra trays. If you spill anything again, you clean it with your tongue."
He didn't wait for an answer, just barked a laugh and swaggered off.
Caesar stood breathing carefully through the sudden memory—Vek's face split open by holy steel, mouth still moving in a final twitch.
A slow breath. Calm.
This wasn't the future yet.
Lord Alaric's private salon was exactly as he remembered: warm, perfumed, draped in silks that pooled on the polished floors. Enchanted globes shed a soft golden glow over low tables and jewel-toned cushions. The air smelled of clove and honey and something richer—something that made the blood in Caesar's veins hum with old, involuntary hunger.
And there he was.
Lord Alaric Valemont.
Unwounded. Breathing. Alive.
He reclined on a chaise, one leg draped over the arm, pale hair falling loose around his shoulders. A hardbound book rested in his hand, his gaze flicking lazily across the page.
For a moment, Caesar just stood in the doorway. His hands trembled.
Alaric didn't look up. "Ah," he drawled, "so you are still capable of showing up on time."
Caesar stepped inside. His voice scraped out small. "You look…well, my lord."
Alaric's pale brow arched. He turned a single cool glance on him. "Don't flatter me. You're not very good at it."
Caesar bowed his head to hide the heat rising behind his eyes.
Alaric studied him in that unreadable way, then clicked his tongue. "Are you ill? You're paler than usual, which is frankly impressive."
"I'm fine."
"Mm." The Incubus set the book aside and lifted his teacup. Steam curled around his elegant fingers. "Be sure you don't drop anything. Some of my guests have very…sharp opinions about incompetence."
"Yes, my lord."
The day passed in fragments.
He carried silver trays heavy with bloodfruit cordial and rare liquors he'd never tasted. He stood silent behind velvet chairs as High bloods—Lady Osvella, scaled and ringed with gold, Lord Kharun, antlered and faceless—discussed strategy and petty rivalries.
Once, Lady Osvella's amber gaze slid over him. "You keep peculiar help, Valemont."
Alaric didn't glance up from his wine. "He amuses me."
"He looks…fragile," she murmured.
Alaric's tone was absent, almost bored. "All the more reason to keep him close. If he breaks, I'll be the first to know."
They laughed.
Caesar kept his eyes lowered, his jaw locked. Rage and shame twisted under his ribs.
Later, after the nobles had drifted out and the last goblets were half-empty, Caesar bent to gather the cups. As he straightened, a gauntleted hand cracked across the back of his skull.
He staggered into the table. Stars burst behind his eyes.
A Kharun retainer loomed over him, voice dripping contempt. "Watch your clumsy hands, maggot. Next time, you'll lick the stain clean."
Caesar swallowed the nausea. "Understood."
He lingered after they were gone, pretending to polish the silver. Really, he just needed the shaking to stop.
From his corner, he watched Alaric—who had resumed reading, wholly indifferent.
In the end, the Incubus never looked up.
Back in his quarters, Caesar pressed his palms to the basin. The warped tin mirror showed the same narrow face—young, bruised, unscarred.
Once, this life had seemed endless—an unchanging march of humiliation and fear.
Then it had ended in fire.
And now—
Now he had all of that time again.
His fingers curled against the cold metal.
"I'm not going to die like that again," he whispered.
Not sobbing in smoke. Not clinging to someone else's coat.
If he died again, it would be on his terms.
If Alaric died again—
It would be over Caesar's dead body.
He didn't know what power had brought him back. But he knew what he needed:
Time. Strength. Leverage.
He wouldn't fight for glory. He wouldn't fight for a people who saw him as a worm.
He would fight to survive.
And this time, when the world burned—
he'd be the one lighting the fire.