The executioner's axe fell with a wet *thunk*, severing the heads of his last remaining allies in one merciless stroke. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones of the royal square, warm and sticky, mingling with the autumn rain that turned the air thick and coppery. Kairos Vaelor, Crown Prince of Eldoria—no, *former* prince now—knelt in the mud, chains biting into his wrists, the jeering crowd a blur of faces he had once called subjects.
"Traitor!" they screamed. "Regicide! Oathbreaker!"
His father, King Eldric, stood on the dais like a statue carved from granite and spite, the crown glinting under storm clouds. "You sought to steal my throne, my son. For that, you die alone."
Kairos spat blood and laughed—a hollow, broken sound. *Alone.* As if he hadn't bled for this kingdom for thirty years. As if he hadn't led armies against the Voidborn hordes, forged alliances with elven queens and dwarven lords, only to be branded a usurper when whispers of his "ambitions" reached the wrong ears. Betrayed by the very council he'd saved, by the nobles whose lands he'd reclaimed from shadow.
The headsman's blade rose. Kairos met his father's eyes one last time. "You'll fall, old man. The Voidborn come again. Without me... you'll beg for my ghost."
The axe descended.
Pain. Darkness. Then—
*Light.*
Not the void of death, but the soft, golden haze of dawn filtering through silk curtains. Kairos gasped, bolting upright in a bed that smelled of lavender and fresh linen. His hands—young, unscarred, free of the calluses from a lifetime of war—clutched at sheets embroidered with the Vaelor stag.
This wasn't the execution block. This was...
His old chambers. In the palace. Fifty years ago.
He stumbled to the mirror, heart thundering. The face staring back was his own at eighteen—sharp jaw, storm-gray eyes, raven hair untouched by silver. No lines of command, no scars from the Battle of Thornridge.
*A dream?* No. The memories burned too vivid: every betrayal, every victory, every night spent plotting in blood-soaked tents. He remembered it all. The kingdom's fall in his first life. The Voidborn rifts tearing open the skies. His desperate gambit to seal them, only to be labeled mad. The poison in his wine from his own uncle. The axe.
Regression. The gods' cruel jest, or perhaps a mercy. He had all his knowledge—strategies, alliances, the hidden rifts' locations. He could save Eldoria. Avenge the fallen.
But first, survival.
A soft knock echoed. "My prince? Breakfast awaits."
Kairos turned. The door opened to reveal Lira, the chambermaid—barely seventeen in this timeline, with freckles across her nose and auburn curls pinned haphazardly. She carried a tray of warm bread, cheese, and mulled wine, her simple wool dress hugging a figure just beginning to bloom into womanhood. In his first life, she'd been his first—stolen moments in these very chambers, before duty claimed him.
Now, seeing her wide-eyed innocence, something stirred low in his gut. Not just nostalgia. Hunger. Fifty years of war had honed him into a weapon, but it had also starved him of softness. Of *her*.
"Leave it on the table, Lira," he said, voice rougher than he intended.
She curtsied, cheeks pinking as she bent—offering a glimpse of pale thigh above her woolen stockings. "As you wish, Your Highness. Shall I... draw your bath?"
The offer hung innocent, but Kairos's mind raced ahead. In this life, he had time. Time to build not just an army, but *alliances* of flesh and fire. To savor what war had stolen.
"Join me," he said instead, the words slipping out like a command from his future self. "The water's warmer with company."
Lira's eyes widened, but she didn't flee. She set the tray down with trembling hands, fingers lingering on the edge of the tub as servants filled it with steaming rosewater. The steam curled around her like a lover's breath.
Kairos stripped without shame—his body lean and unmarred, cock already half-hard from the mere proximity. He stepped into the tub, sinking to his shoulders, and watched her.
"Well?" he prompted gently, voice low. "The prince commands."
She bit her lip, then—slowly—unlaced her dress. It pooled at her feet, revealing small, pert breasts with nipples pebbling in the cool air, a thatch of auburn curls between slender thighs. She was no voluptuous court lady, but gods, she was *fresh*. Untouched by the world's cruelties yet.
Lira stepped in, water sloshing as she settled between his legs, back to his chest. Her skin was silk against his, warm and yielding. Kairos's arms encircled her waist, hands splaying over her flat belly, thumbs tracing lazy circles just above the waterline.
"You're trembling," he murmured into her ear, lips brushing the shell. "Afraid?"
"A little," she whispered. "Excited, too. You've... never noticed me before."
*Oh, I've noticed.* In his first life, he'd been too buried in scrolls and swords. Now? He let one hand drift lower, fingers parting her soft folds underwater. She gasped, arching back against him, her ass pressing flush to his hardening cock.
"Shh," he soothed, circling her clit with the pad of his thumb—slow, deliberate strokes that made her whimper. "Let me show you how a prince thanks his faithful maid."
His other hand cupped her breast, rolling the nipple between fingers until it stiffened to a peak. Lira's breaths came in pants, hips rocking instinctively against his hand. The water lapped at her skin, carrying the scent of her arousal—musky and sweet.
"Please... Your Highness..."
"Kairos," he corrected, nipping her earlobe. "Say my name."
"K-Kairos..."
He slid one finger inside her—tight, wet heat clenching around him like a vice. She was soaked, body eager despite her nerves. He pumped slowly, curling to find that spot that made her cry out, his thumb never ceasing its rhythm on her clit.
Her first orgasm hit like a summer storm—body seizing, a soft keen escaping her lips as she gushed around his finger. Kairos held her through it, kissing her neck, whispering praises in the old tongue of the elves: *Beautiful. Mine.*
When she sagged against him, boneless, he lifted her chin and kissed her—deep, claiming, tongue stroking hers until she moaned into his mouth.
But he didn't take her. Not yet. This life would be different. Slow. He wanted her begging by the time he claimed her fully.
"Rest now," he said, helping her out of the tub and wrapping her in a towel. "We'll continue your... lessons later."
Lira nodded, dazed and glowing, dressing with shaky hands. As she left, she glanced back—eyes promising she wouldn't forget.
Kairos dressed in riding leathers, mind already turning to the greater game. The rifts wouldn't open for decades, but preparations started now. Alliances with the border lords. Secrets from the royal vaults.
And Lira... she was just the beginning. In his first life, he'd bedded queens and spies, but never savored. Now, with time as his ally, he'd build a harem of the willing—milfs of the court, sisters of the guard, widows of the old wars. Slow seductions, burning touches, until they all knelt for him.
Not in chains. In desire.
He stepped into the corridor, the weight of two lifetimes on his shoulders.
Eldoria would rise.
And so would he—in every way.