The first thing Arlan felt was warmth.
A soft breeze brushed against his skin, carrying the scent of spring. When he opened his eyes, sunlight filtered through a familiar canopy of trees. For a long moment, he didn't move. His body didn't ache, there were no wounds, and the air was too clean — too alive.
He sat up slowly, confusion spreading through him. The forest around him was one he knew well. The hill, the river, even the stone path — this was the training ground outside Fort Dravien, where he had once trained as a young officer.
But that was ten years ago.
Arlan stood, his pulse hammering. He looked down at his hands — smooth, unscarred, no sign of the mark. Panic tightened his chest. "Erebus!" he called, but there was no answer. Only the rustle of leaves.
He turned toward the river and saw his reflection. The face staring back was younger — maybe twenty. The faint lines of battle and exhaustion were gone. His hair was shorter, his jaw sharper, his eyes the same deep brown they'd been before the curse.
"No… this can't be real."
The last thing he remembered was the moonlight, the dagger, the voice inside his mind. And then—darkness. Yet here he was, back where it had all started.
Then he heard it — distant shouting, the clash of steel. He turned instinctively toward the sound.
Arlan sprinted through the trees, boots thudding on the soft earth. As he reached the clearing, his breath caught.
Five young soldiers were sparring in the yard — familiar faces he hadn't seen in years. One of them, tall and reckless, was shouting orders. "Arlan, you're late again!"
Arlan froze.
That voice. That grin. It was Ryn Calder — the man who would one day betray him.
But now, Ryn looked nothing like the hardened traitor he remembered. He was laughing, swinging a wooden sword at another recruit. Sweat and dirt covered his face, but his eyes were bright with youth.
Arlan stepped out from the trees, disbelief turning to realization. "This… this really is the past."
The others turned at the sound. "Finally decided to wake up?" Ryn joked. "Captain's gonna kill you if you skip drills again."
Arlan's heart pounded. He wanted to speak, but words caught in his throat. He was surrounded by ghosts — people who were already dead in his memory.
He forced a smile, trying to keep his voice steady. "Couldn't sleep," he said. "Had… strange dreams."
Ryn tossed him a wooden sword. "Then maybe a little pain will wake you up."
Arlan caught it easily. The weight felt different, lighter than the blades he'd wielded in the war. But as he raised it, something inside him stirred — muscle memory, instinct sharpened by ten years of bloodshed.
The spar began.
Ryn lunged first. Arlan parried, sidestepped, and countered in one fluid motion. The sword stopped an inch from Ryn's neck. Everyone froze.
Ryn blinked. "Since when did you learn that move?"
Arlan lowered his weapon slowly. "Guess I've been practicing," he said with a faint smirk.
The recruits burst into laughter, unaware of the storm brewing behind Arlan's calm eyes. He looked around the yard again — every stone, every shadow. This was no illusion. The details were too real, too precise.
He was truly back.
Later that day, the recruits gathered in the mess hall. The chatter was loud, filled with the same youthful arrogance Arlan had long forgotten. He sat at the edge of the table, barely touching his food, his thoughts elsewhere.
The door opened, and Commander Kael Draxen entered. Younger, without the scars or cold authority of the man who had ordered his death. He still wore the same black uniform, his posture straight, his tone sharp.
"Listen up," Kael said. "The Imperial scouts report rebel activity near the southern ridge. We'll be dispatched tomorrow."
The room quieted. For the others, it was excitement — their first real mission. For Arlan, it was déjà vu. He remembered this exact mission — and the ambush that followed. Half of the unit would die. Including Liora, his sister.
Arlan's hands clenched beneath the table.
He remembered holding her lifeless body after that battle.
Not this time.
Kael's gaze swept over the recruits. "Rest early. We leave at dawn."
As he turned to leave, his eyes briefly met Arlan's. For a split second, Arlan saw the shadow of the man Kael would become — ruthless, loyal to the throne above all else.
But now, he was still human. Still savable.
Arlan looked away first.
Night came. The barracks were quiet, the others asleep. Arlan sat on his bunk, staring at the faint mark that had reappeared on his palm — a dull trace under the skin, visible only when the moonlight hit it.
"Erebus," he whispered, "if this is your doing, then speak."
The voice answered, faint but clear. "You asked for vengeance. I gave you the means. The past is your battlefield now."
Arlan frowned. "You sent me back in time?"
"Call it a second life. The world resets, but your soul remembers. Every choice you make will rewrite the story of this Empire."
Arlan exhaled slowly. "Then I'll start here — by saving her."
"The sister."
He hesitated. "Liora. She dies tomorrow if I do nothing."
"Change her fate, and the mark will evolve. Every action that defies destiny strengthens our bond."
Arlan's expression hardened. "Fine. But understand this — I'm not your servant."
The voice chuckled softly. "We shall see."
The mark pulsed once, then faded again.
The next morning, dawn broke over Fort Dravien. The squad assembled, weapons ready, armor polished. Kael gave the usual orders, his tone disciplined but not cruel. Arlan watched him closely, every movement reminding him of the day it all began.
They marched south through the forest, the same path that had once led to tragedy. The sky was clear, the wind calm — a deceptive peace.
Halfway to the ridge, Arlan's instincts screamed. He stopped suddenly.
"Hold position," he ordered.
Ryn turned. "What's wrong?"
"Ambush," Arlan said quietly.
Kael frowned. "Impossible. The scouts cleared this route."
Arlan ignored him and moved ahead. He crouched near the trees and brushed aside the leaves — revealing a tripwire, almost invisible in the grass.
Kael's eyes widened. "How did you—?"
"No time," Arlan snapped. "Pull the men back."
The moment Kael signaled retreat, arrows rained down from the ridge. The recruits panicked, diving for cover. Arlan drew his sword and charged forward, cutting through the first rebel before the man could notch another arrow.
The fight was quick and brutal. Arlan's movements were precise, fueled by ten years of combat experience none of the others had. When the dust settled, five rebels lay dead, and the rest fled into the woods.
The soldiers stared at him in stunned silence. Ryn finally broke it. "Since when do you fight like that?"
Arlan wiped his blade. "Guess I'm a fast learner."
Kael approached slowly, eyes sharp. "You saved us. How did you know?"
"Instinct," Arlan replied. "Something felt wrong."
Kael studied him for a long moment. "I see." Then, for the first time, he nodded. "Good work."
Arlan didn't answer. He looked toward the horizon, where the sun was rising — the same sun that had once set on his execution day. But not this time.
He turned toward the squad. "We head back. Mission's done."
Kael raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. The unit began to move, leaving behind the bodies of the fallen.
As they walked, Ryn nudged him. "You're not the same guy I knew yesterday."
Arlan smirked faintly. "Maybe yesterday was just a bad dream."
That night, when they returned to the fort, Arlan found Liora waiting near the gate. She was alive — laughing with another healer, her hands full of herbs. The sight froze him in place.
For years he had carried the memory of her dying in his arms. Now she stood there, breathing, real.
She saw him and smiled. "Brother! You're back early."
Arlan managed a smile. "Yeah… early enough."
She frowned slightly. "You look pale. Did something happen?"
"Nothing I can't handle."
She reached out, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "You always say that."
For the first time in ten years — or perhaps ten minutes — Arlan let himself breathe. He placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding himself in the reality he had been given.
This time, I'll protect you, he thought. No matter what it takes.
As night fell again, he stood outside the barracks, watching the stars. The mark on his palm pulsed faintly — stronger than before. Erebus's voice returned, faint and cold.
"Every thread you change twists fate further. The world will fight back."
Arlan's jaw tightened. "Then let it. I've fought worse."
He looked toward the distant lights of the Imperial capital, where Kael's destiny — and his vengeance — waited.
The path had changed, but the war had only just begun.