I always thought I'd die with a sword in my hand.
On a battlefield, maybe. Somewhere distant and forgotten, in a storm of steel and blood. Not like this.
Not dragged through the city square, wrists bound behind my back, while the crowd screamed for my head like wild dogs who'd smelled blood.
Not like a criminal.
"TRAITOR!" someone roared, hurling a half-eaten fruit that splattered across my chest.
I didn't flinch.
They had already taken everything from me—my title, my honor, my future. What more could they do?
The guards pushed me forward with the butts of their spears, hard enough to bruise. The wooden gallows creaked as I climbed the steps, each one heavier than the last. I could barely feel my legs. Not from fear—but from numbness.
I glanced up.
Above the square, nestled in the ivory walls of the inner palace, the royal balcony jutted like a vulture's perch.
They were all there.
King Aldric. My father.
He watched with arms folded, his expression carved in ice. The same face I had looked up to for most of my life. The same face that had once patted my head after I won my first sword match. Now, it held no trace of pride. No sadness. Just quiet disappointment. That, somehow, hurt more than the rope around my neck ever would.
To his left stood my elder brothers—Regan, Marek, and Alric. Regan, the war general. Marek, the scholar. Alric, the golden boy, youngest of them and crown heir. Their armor gleamed in the sun. Their silence weighed heavier than the crowd's rage.
Only one face met mine.
Lyra.
My half-sister. Her eyes shimmered with barely concealed horror. She shook her head ever so slightly, tears in her eyes.
She had told me to run.
I hadn't listened.
The priest stepped forward, reading my sentence in a voice that sounded like it had read too many just like it.
"Prince Kael Ashryn, fifth son of the House of Flame. You stand condemned of high treason against the Crown, consorting with forbidden magic, conspiracy, and attempted regicide. You have been stripped of all royal rights and titles. May the gods judge you, and may your soul find either redemption or ruin."
I said nothing.
What was there to say?
I hadn't betrayed my family. I hadn't touched forbidden magic. I hadn't tried to kill anyone. But truth had no place here. My fate had already been written—and I was the villain in their story.
The executioner approached, pulling the noose tight behind my head.
I took a deep breath.
Not to calm myself.
But to remember.
The scent of old stone. The ash drifting in the wind. The distant tolling of the midday bell. Emberfall always smelled like it was burning—even when it wasn't.
The trapdoor creaked beneath my feet.
A moment of stillness.
Then—release.
The platform dropped.
My world went black.
---
But instead of silence, I found fire.
It wasn't outside me. It wasn't even hot in the way fire should be. It was inside, alive, ancient, angry.
It coiled in my chest like a serpent uncoiling from slumber. Like something long-buried had awoken—and it remembered everything.
> [Death Confirmed.]
[Soul Fragmentation Detected.]
[You have been chosen.]
[The Emberbrand accepts you.]
[Reawakening…]
My eyes snapped open.
I was breathing.
I was alive.
I jerked upright with a gasp and nearly fell out of the bed.
Bed?
I blinked at my surroundings.
A stone hearth. A red banner with five golden suns. A cracked mirror on the opposite wall. Warm morning light filtered through the windows, casting long beams across the tiled floor.
I knew this room.
It was mine.
Not the prison cell they'd thrown me into after my trial. Not the palace dungeon.
My old bedchamber. In the southern wing of the royal keep. Before it had been stripped bare. Before the guards raided it. Before my life had collapsed.
I staggered toward the mirror, gripped the sides of the frame.
The face staring back at me was my own—but younger.
My hair wasn't streaked with gray. My jaw hadn't hardened yet. My shoulders hadn't filled out from years of exile and training in the wilds.
I touched my face. My chest. My arms.
No scars.
No whip marks.
No wounds.
This was the body of a boy who hadn't yet been broken.
I turned to the window and looked out over the courtyard.
Soldiers sparred in the yard below. Servants hauled water toward the gardens. Horses neighed in the stables. The city was alive, thriving. And above the gates flew the old standard—five golden suns on crimson silk.
Only five.
Not six.
My brother Alric hadn't been named heir yet.
That meant I was back—before the betrayal.
Before the arrest.
Before the gallows.
Four years. Maybe more.
I'd been sent back.
But how?
> [System Recalibration Complete.]
[Title: The Cursed Heir.]
[Bloodline Status: Corrupted.]
[Emberbrand Active: Dormant.]
The voice again. Not divine. Not demonic. Mechanical—but ancient. It echoed through my mind without echo, like thought without form.
The Emberbrand.
That was what they'd called it in whispers. An old curse. A fire born of something deeper than magic. A power buried after the War of Ashes, one that corrupted bloodlines and ruined kings.
I'd never believed it existed.
Until now.
I sat heavily on the edge of my bed, gripping the sheets like they might anchor me to reality.
The rope should've killed me.
Instead, it had burned me clean.
And now, I had a second chance.
A knock broke the silence.
"Prince Kael?" came a young voice. "You're awake?"
I swallowed. My voice cracked when I spoke.
"Yes. Come in."
The door creaked open. A girl no older than sixteen stepped inside, balancing a silver tray. She paused when she saw me sitting upright.
"You—gods, I… the steward said you were still unconscious. After the border skirmish—"
Right. That had been my first mistake, hadn't it?
Four years ago, I led a scouting patrol to the Flame March. An ambush nearly killed me. A rumor followed me back—about how I survived. About what I might have used.
The first whisper of darkness.
The first lie.
"I'm fine," I said, more firmly now. "Better than fine."
She nodded, awkwardly setting the tray down.
"I'll tell the steward you're awake."
"Wait," I said. "Send for Captain Taren. Tell him I want to speak with him. Privately. Today."
Her eyes widened. "But… the king—"
"Tell him it's urgent."
She hesitated, then nodded and hurried out.
I stood, pacing the room.
Four years.
Four years until the Eclipse War.
Four years until Alric staged his coup under the guise of a holy vision.
Four years until the throne burned, and my name was stricken from every book.
And now I had the one thing I didn't have before—time.
Time… and something else.
That fire still burned under my ribs. Slower now, steadier. Like a forge waiting for command. It wasn't magic the way I'd been taught. It didn't draw from ley lines or incantations. It didn't whisper promises like demon pacts or stormblood rituals.
It listened.
It watched.
And it wanted something.
> [New Objective: Survive the Eclipse.]
[Time Remaining: 1,446 days.]
"Great," I muttered. "I've got a countdown clock."
> [Optional Objective: Reclaim your rightful legacy.]
[Warning: Destiny has already been altered.]
I didn't know what it meant yet. But I knew one thing for certain.
I wouldn't play the fool this time.
I wouldn't be led into betrayal like a blind lamb.
I wouldn't die on a rope while my family watched.
They had called me cursed.
Now I'd show them what a curse truly looked like.