The night was sweet with music and the heavy breath of lilies.
They hung from the golden archways, spilled down silken banners, and bloomed in every corner of the palace. A garden brought inside. Fragrant, dazzling—and far too many.
Carlos stood just behind his older brother, his hand resting at his side, fingers tense. His eyes scanned the nobles, lingering not on their silks or jewels, but their hands. Their faces. Their glances. He watched like a man expecting blood.
Because he had seen this night before.
In another life.
The king had been hurt then. Ambushed. A blade to the ribs—one of three meant to kill him. But he hadn't died. He had lived. Barely. He'd spent months in bed, fevered and gasping.
Carlos remembered those nights. How the boy who once shone like gold had withered in agony. How Carlos—older, war-hardened, angry—had held him through each one.
That life had ended in blood.
This life… was supposed to be better.
The king turned slightly, smiling at the court gathered below the marble balcony. Sixteen today. Just crowned. Young and proud, sunlight on his hair. His hand lifted a crystal glass of rosewine.
"To the empire," he said warmly, "and the peace it now holds."
Applause. Laughter. Glasses lifted in response.
Carlos didn't move.
His gaze was locked on the drink. On the king's fingers. On every heartbeat between now and what might come.
"And to those who came before," the king said. "To those who led and built, and left their strength for us to carry."
He hesitated. The pause wasn't long, but Carlos caught it.
"And… to my father."
The words landed like a dropped sword.
Silence spread, quiet and sharp. The nobles didn't breathe.
The old king had ruled with cruelty—behind closed doors, with quiet punishments and whispered threats. And when he crossed one line too many…
The blade that ended him had come from his own son.
But the court never named it.
Not then.
Not now.
Carlos saw his brother's throat move as he swallowed the lie, then sipped from the wine.
It happened instantly.
The glass trembled. A breath caught. The young king blinked hard—once, twice—then swayed.
Carlos stepped forward instinctively. "Brother?"
Then came the blood.
A cough—sharp, red, sudden.
The king collapsed.
Carlos didn't shout. He didn't scream "No."
He moved.
He caught his brother before his body hit the floor.
The boy was light in his arms—too light. Shaking. Lips pale. Blood wet on his mouth. And as Carlos held him, the crowd behind them screamed.
This was not what happened before.
In his past life, his brother had suffered. Had bled. But he had lived.
This time—it was death. Swift. Wrong.
"Ole," Carlos said inside his mind, calling on the god who had granted him this return. "Why is it worse?"
The answer came like breath on a blade.
"You turned the wheel back. But the path ahead is no longer the same. You changed pain into peace. But peace has its price."
The weight of that slammed into Carlos's chest.
He had done this.
He had tried to erase his brother's pain—and brought him closer to the end instead.
More blood. The king's breathing faltered.
Carlos's arms tightened.
The guards stood frozen. So did the nobles. No one moved fast enough. No one ever did.
"To hell with waiting," Carlos hissed.
He stood, lifting the king like something sacred, something already slipping away.
Gasps rose.
The music had died long ago.
The nobles backed away from him, shocked. They had never seen Carlos like this—jaw clenched, eyes blazing. They only knew the younger brother. The one who stood at the edge of every gathering, silent and watchful.
But this—this boy was different.
This was not just a brother.
This was a storm in human shape.
"Move," Carlos barked.
A path opened. He strode down the grand staircase, fast and fierce, his boots ringing over the marble, the king's blood staining the front of his shirt.
Kave appeared at his side, lips tight with fear. He said nothing.
The whispers began at once:
"Is he poisoned?"
"Was it the wine—?"
"Who served it?"
"Is this like… what happened to the old king?"
"Did Carlos do it?"
"No—Carlos looked like he'd kill anyone who touched him—"
"Then someone else did. Someone meant to finish the throne."
Carlos didn't hear them.
He was already at the healer's door.
He kicked it open.
"I need him stabilized," he said, voice a low roar, fury barely leashed.
The healer rushed forward with assistants.
Carlos didn't hand the king off.
Only when the royal healer herself reached for the boy did he allow it.
He laid his brother down gently, never looking away. His hand stayed on the boy's shoulder until the healer guided it away.
Kave stood near the door, finally finding words. "Do you think it was poison?"
Carlos nodded once.
"It's not like before," he said.
"They planned this," Kave murmured.
"They planned for him to die."
Behind them, the nobles whispered:
"This isn't peace."
"This is a warning."
"If he dies—"
"Carlos won't forgive it."
And they were right.
Because even if the king lived…
Carlos would never forget.
He would never forgive.
And if war was the price of peace—
Then let the lilies burn.