Blood.
It was warm—so warm—sliding down her back like molten iron, sticky and wet. The cold bite of the blade still lingered in her spine, and her legs refused to move. Not from an enemy. Not from a monster.
But from him.
The one man she had clung to with fragile hope. Her father.
He had chosen to raise her. To protect her. He had told her stories by firelight and called her "my little blessing."
And now… his hands had driven the blade.
She couldn't even cry. Her throat was too raw, her body too weak.
"…I'm sorry," he whispered, crumpling to his knees behind her, hands trembling over the hilt still buried in her flesh.
Aria blinked, and tears fell—not from him.
From her.
They had lit the sacrificial circle in the forest clearing just as the stars began to fall. She had whispered a prayer—not to be saved, but to finally rest. After all, wasn't this what always happened?
A hundred times.
A hundred deaths.
A hundred broken endings.
But this time, something had felt different. The wind was still. The curse hadn't twisted her soul into madness yet. She thought… maybe this time she had escaped. She had smiled, even as they bound her wrists in red silk.
"It's finally over."
But the blade had come all the same.
And it had been his hands.
Her vision blurred and her blood began to soak the ground beneath the runes. Stars blinked out above her like candles snuffed in mourning.
Her last thought, as her body slumped and her soul began to unmoor, was not rage.
It was sorrow.
"Please… don't let there be a 101st."
The silence shattered.
A cry tore from her throat—not from pain, but terror—as Aria opened her eyes in a rush of blinding light. She was surrounded by strange warmth, the scent of iron and leather, and—
Hands.
Strong, unfamiliar hands held her. A man's.
She thrashed instinctively; the ghost of the last blade still burned into her skin. Her scream came out broken, desperate. Her tiny fists flailed, though they barely moved.
"She's crying!" the man's deep voice said in panic. "Why is she crying?! What did I do?!"
"I told you not to pick her up like that, you great war brute," a woman snapped.
Aria froze.
That voice—it was thunder wrapped in velvet. Commanding. Sharp. Familiar... but not from her last life. Or any life she could recall.
A face leaned in. A beautiful woman with silver hair and piercing blue eyes stared down at her with something Aria hadn't felt in so long, she'd forgotten how to recognize it.
Love.
"She's sensitive," the woman murmured, brushing Aria's cheek with gloved fingers. "Already sensing energy… just like me."
The man still held her, awkward but gentle now. "She looked so small, I thought I should hold her."
"Kaelen," the woman sighed, "you terrify full-grown knights, let alone a new-born. Step back."
New-born.
New-born?
No, no no. Aria blinked rapidly, and this time, she noticed her hands—so small. Her limbs—soft, weak, swaddled in silk. Her voice—nothing but a high-pitched wail.
It happened again.
Her memories roared through her mind like wildfire. The curse. The betrayals.
A hundred deaths. A hundred lives.
And now… the 101st.
She began to cry—not just in fear this time, but in rage, in grief.
Trust me I be upset as well.
The woman didn't sing lullabies.
The Duchess of the South—Elara Vaelthorn—held her daughter like a blade sheathed in velvet.
"She's still shaking," Kaelen whispered, his voice cracking as he cradled the tiny girl against his armored chest. His gauntlet trembled slightly as it brushed over her fragile back. "Elara… she's afraid."
"Then hold her closer," Elara said softly, approaching with calm authority. "You're her father. Let her feel that."
Kaelen swallowed hard. He loosened his armour piece by piece, letting the cold steel fall away until only his calloused hand remained, warm and trembling. He pressed Aria gently into his shoulder, his palm cradling the back of her head like she was something sacred.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "You'll never be hurt again. Not while I still breathe."
Aria's cries weakened into hiccups as she slowly melted into him.
Aria peeked through barely opened eyes. The world was too bright. Too loud. And her body… was small. Helpless.
"You've been born into a world of powers, little one," she said quietly, though Aria couldn't possibly understand.
Or so she thought.
"Every being here is born with a Gift. A flame in their blood. And yours…" Elara paused, brushing Aria's dark curls back from her damp forehead. "Yours is going to be something terrifying, isn't it?"
A flicker of something stirred in Aria's chest.
She had heard those words before. In another voice. Another life.
"What are you?" a terrified priest had once whispered before slitting her throat in fear.
Aria's tiny fingers curled into Elara's tunic.
Not again. Please not again.
.....................................................................................
The night passed.
A storm howled over the mountains beyond the southern fortress, shaking windows and rattling doors.
But Aria did not cry again.
Instead, she lay between two watchful giants—her mother sleeping with one hand always near her hilt, and her father curled nearby on the floor, head resting on crossed arms, unmoving, as if guarding her dreams.
And she dreamed.
She was older. A teenager again.
The sky burned red. Screams tore through the battlefield as monsters of flame and shadow rose from the cracks in the earth. She stood in the center, holding a sword of silver light.
Alone.
Always alone.
"You can run through every life, little star," a voice rasped. "But I will find you. Over and over again."
She turned—too late. A shadowy hand reached for her chest—
Aria gasped awake.
.....................................................................................
The fire had burned low. Kaelen stirred but didn't rise. Elara's eyes flickered open immediately, sharp and alert.
"You're safe," her mother said again.
But Aria was too small to speak. All she could do was tremble.
Her mother drew her closer and whispered like a vow, "No one will ever hurt you. I swear it."
And somehow, Aria believed her.
For the first time in a hundred lifetimes…
She believed.