Ethan jerked awake, gasping for air. His hands flew to his neck, frantically searching for a wound that wasn't there. His heart hammering against his ribs as he scanned the unfamiliar room. Rough wooden beams crossed the low ceiling, and dawn light filtered through a small, dusty window. Beneath him lay a straw mattress.
"What... where am I?" he whispered, his voice cracking higher than it should.
He stared at his hands in disbelief—smooth and unscarred, lacking the calluses from decades of swordplay. Trembling fingers brushed against his face, finding no beard, no weathered skin, and no scar along his jaw from that border skirmish fifteen years ago.
A sudden flash of memory hit him like a physical blow: the execution block cold against his knees, chains biting into his wrists, King Thaddeus reading false charges of treason. The axe falling. Silver light erupting from nowhere. A voice cutting through darkness: "Your service is not yet complete, Guardian."
Sweat beaded on his forehead as the images faded. "Impossible," he muttered.
"Boy! You awake yet? The forge needs tending!" a gruff voice bellowed from below.
Ethan froze. That voice. He knew that voice.
Owen.
The blacksmith who had taken him in as an orphan, who had been dead nearly fifteen years in Ethan's memory.
The small attic room suddenly snapped into focus—his apprentice quarters above Owen's forge in Rivermill. The same room he had lived in until joining the Academy at sixteen.
Thirty years ago.
"This can't be happening," he whispered, running his fingers through hair that was now thick and unruly instead of military-short.
A sharp pain flared in his right palm. Ethan hissed, and turned his hand over. A thin silver line appeared on his skin, glowing briefly before fading into a barely visible scar shaped like a sword.
"Boy! I won't call again!" Owen shouted, followed by the clang of metal striking metal.
Ethan swung his legs over the bed's edge. His body felt unnaturally light, limbs too short, and his muscles lacking the hardened strength built through years of combat training. The disciplined physique of the Royal Guard Captain was gone.
But his mind remained—forty-five years of memories, experience, and skills trapped in a sixteen-year-old body.
"Coming!" he called, wincing as his voice cracked. He grabbed a worn shirt hanging from a nail and pulled it over his head, struggling to process what was happening. If this was real—if he had truly returned to the past—everything could be changed: the betrayal, the false charges, his execution and the blade that had somehow sent him back.
His trained mind immediately began calculating the implications, assessing advantages, and identifying challenges. He needed to be careful—act like the boy he once was while secretly preparing for what was to come.
The stairs creaked as he descended to the forge. Heat blasted his face, accompanied by the familiar smell of coal and hot metal—scents he hadn't experienced in decades.
Owen stood at the anvil, already sweating despite the early hour. His thick arms were exactly as Ethan remembered—corded with muscle, scarred from stray sparks, and strong enough to bend horseshoes bare-handed.
"About time," Owen growled, not looking up from the metal he was shaping. "Water needs fetching. Fire needs stoking. Miller's waiting on those nails for his new fence."
Ethan almost responded with the crisp "Yes, sir" of a Royal Guard Captain but caught himself. The surly apprentice he had been would have grumbled or sighed.
"Right," he mumbled instead, grabbing the water buckets by the door.
Owen paused his hammering and looked up with narrowed eyes. "You sick, boy? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Bad dream," Ethan replied, which wasn't entirely untrue.
"Hmph. Dreams don't fill water buckets." Owen returned to his work, hammer striking metal with rhythmic precision.
Outside, the village of Rivermill looked exactly as Ethan remembered it from childhood—small, quiet, and untouched by the wars and political strife that would reshape the kingdom in coming years. People he had long forgotten moved about their morning routines—the baker's wife hanging linens, old man Thatcher feeding his chickens, and children running errands for their parents.
At the well, he mechanically filled the buckets, barely noticing their weight. His mind raced through the implications. He knew exactly what was coming—academy recruitment would happen soon, followed by three years of training, an appointment to the Royal Guard, two decades of loyal service, and then discovering something he shouldn't have about blood rituals and the royal family–something that got him executed as a traitor after twenty-five years of faithful service.
---
This time would be different. This time, he knew whom to trust, whom to watch, and what to look for.
Back at the forge, Ethan worked in silence, his body instinctively performing tasks it remembered, even though his mind felt decades removed from them. Owen occasionally shot him curious glances but didn't question his unusual quietness.
As the morning wore on, Ethan pushed his body to its limits while completing chores. The muscle memory for advanced sword techniques was absent—this body had never learned them—but his mind recalled them perfectly. He would need to train in secret, carefully rebuilding his strength without revealing abilities that no blacksmith's apprentice should possess.
By midday, a plan began to take shape. He would still attend the Academy; it was the only path to the truth and the power he needed. But this time, he would act differently. He would watch for the signs he had missed before and identify his true enemies sooner.
He also needed to uncover the connection between his execution and the strange silver blade that had somehow sent him back.
"Hand me that hammer—no, the smaller one," Owen called, interrupting his thoughts.
As Ethan reached for the tool, pain shot through his palm again. The sword-shaped scar briefly gleamed silver.
Owen didn't notice, focused on the metal glowing orange-red in the forge fire, but Ethan's breath caught. The connection was still there. Whatever had brought him back was still with him.
"You planning to stare at that hammer all day?" Owen asked dryly.
"Sorry." Ethan handed it over, careful to keep his palm turned away.
As Owen returned to work, Ethan resolved to slip away that night to test what else might have returned with him besides his memories. The small clearing behind the forge would provide enough privacy.
For now, though, he needed to blend in as just another village boy—unremarkable and unthreatening. The perfect disguise for someone intent on rewriting history.
Ethan grabbed the bellows rope and pulled, watching sparks dance from the forge. Tonight, he would see if the blade that had saved him—or cursed him—with this second chance could be summoned. If it could, everything would change.