The first thing Noctis noticed was the air.
It was warm.
Not the heavy, suffocating warmth of blood and bodies packed too close together, not the acrid stench of incense and judgment that had filled his lungs at the end—but something cleaner.
Softer.
Sun-warmed stone and linen, faint candle smoke lingering like an afterthought.
He breathed in.
And immediately choked.
Air tore into his lungs too fast, too sharp, dragging him back with an almost rude insistence. His chest convulsed as if his body itself were offended by the idea that it was breathing again.
Noctis rolled onto his side, coughing hard.
It took several seconds before he realized something was wrong.
He could feel the floor.
Cold stone beneath his palm.
Solid.
Real.
He lay there, breathing slowly now, methodically—habit overriding instinct—letting the world settle around him instead of fighting it.
Soft surface behind him.
A bed.
That thought registered with mild confusion.
A bed, he repeated mentally.
The last place he had been laid upon was a raised wooden platform stained dark with old blood, surrounded by chanting priests and a crowd that had already decided how they wanted the story to end.
Beds did not exist there.
Noctis opened his eyes.
Light filtered in from the side, golden and lazy, touching the stone walls with warmth rather than accusation. The ceiling above him was made of dark wood, clean and uncracked, beams carefully fitted together by hands that had not expected them to bear witness to an execution.
No runes.
No chains.
No iron hooks.
His brows drew together faintly.
"…This is new," he muttered.
His voice sounded wrong.
Younger.
He pushed himself upright.
His body responded instantly.
Too instantly.
There was no resistance, no sharp protest from joints that had once screamed at him every morning. Muscles tightened smoothly beneath his skin, balanced and responsive, moving as though they trusted themselves again.
That was unsettling.
Noctis looked down.
His hands were steady. Long-fingered.
.....Clean.
No scars crossed his knuckles. No calluses split the skin where sword hilts had once rested for years on end. His arms were lean, well-toned, but unmarked—trained, not broken.
He flexed his fingers once.
Nothing hurt.
"…That's rude," he said quietly.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.
The room came into focus as his mind caught up with his senses.
Stone walls draped with dark tapestries embroidered in silver thread. A heavy oak wardrobe carved with familiar sigils.
A writing desk near the window cluttered with parchment, ink, and what looked suspiciously like unfinished lessons written in a neat, youthful hand.
His hand.
That realization settled slowly.
The mirror hung against the far wall.
Noctis walked toward it, steps unhurried but careful, as though he were approaching a dangerous beast that might lunge if startled.
Then he saw himself.
Sixteen.
Midnight-purple hair framed his face in thick, slightly wild waves, catching the light with an almost unnatural sheen. His features were sharp and striking—high cheekbones, a clean jawline, eyes vivid and bright, glowing faintly with life rather than exhaustion.
No scars.
No lines of fatigue carved by years of command.
Just… potential.
The boy in the mirror looked relaxed.
Dangerously so.
For several seconds, Noctis simply stared.
Then his lips curved faintly.
"…Oh," he said. "That's annoying."
He lifted a hand and touched his cheek.
Smooth.
Whole.
His fingers slid to his neck.
Unbroken.
The world tilted.
Memory surged in without warning.
Chains biting into his wrists.
The weight of silence before the crowd spoke.
Seren's voice—soft, trembling, resolute—pronouncing words that had killed him more cleanly than the blade ever could.
'I remember her voice more than the blade.'
The thought slipped through him like a knife between ribs.
Noctis turned away sharply, bracing one hand against the desk as nausea rolled through him—not panic, not fear, but the sudden, suffocating realization that this was real.
He forced himself to breathe.
Slow.
Controlled.
Emotion could wait.
Truth could not.
His gaze snapped to the calendar hanging beside the window.
The date stared back at him.
Sixteen years earlier.
"…So," he murmured, voice calm despite the sudden, sharp interest burning behind his eyes. "Either I've lost my mind… or someone has an impressive sense of humor."
He crossed the room and drew the curtain aside.
Blackthorn Hold stretched out before him.
Tall eastern walls. Unscarred towers. Ravencroft banners snapping proudly in the wind, black and silver against a clear sky. Soldiers patrolled the battlements with relaxed efficiency.
Smoke curled from chimneys as the city woke to another perfectly ordinary morning.
His home.
Intact.
Unbetrayed.
For a moment, something tight pressed against his chest.
Not hope.
Memory.
"…Right," Noctis said softly. "Definitely rude."
A subtle pressure brushed against his awareness.
Not sound.
Not touch.
Presence.
Noctis straightened immediately, posture shifting with unconscious grace, eyes sharpening as instincts honed by decades of survival slid neatly into place.
"Alright," he said aloud, tone even, mildly curious. "If you're going to stare, you might as well introduce yourself."
The presence lingered.
Then—
"You're taking this rather well."
The voice was feminine, light, and unmistakably amused.
Noctis did not jump.
He sighed instead.
"Let me guess," he said, glancing around the room. "Spirit. Deity. Ancient curse. Or some combination of the three."
A pause.
Then a laugh brushed against his thoughts—soft, delighted.
"Oh, I like you already."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That wasn't an answer."
"I'm aware," the voice replied cheerfully. "I just didn't feel like giving one yet."
Noctis crossed his arms, leaning back against the desk, posture relaxed despite the situation.
"Fair," he said. "But for the sake of politeness, you might want to explain why I'm standing in my childhood bedroom instead of missing a head."
Another pause—this one thoughtful.
"You died," the presence said plainly. "Quite dramatically, I might add."
He hummed."Thought so."
"And now," the voice continued, clearly enjoying this far too much, "you're not dead."
"That part I gathered."
Silence stretched.
Then, playfully:"You're remarkably calm for someone who's just been resurrected."
Noctis' lips curved faintly.
"I already had my dramatic reaction," he said. "It involved chains, a crowd, and a woman in white. I don't feel the need to repeat it."
The presence made a sound suspiciously close to approval.
"Good. Melodrama is exhausting."
"So," he said, tilting his head slightly. "Curse, miracle, or wager?"
A delighted pause.
"Oh, you are fun."
He smiled a little wider.
"I try."
"This is a wager," the presence said at last.
"One I've waited a very long time to place."
"With whom?"
"With the world."
Noctis considered that.
Then he chuckled.
"That sounds unhealthy."
"It usually is."
Something shifted before his vision—not light, not illusion, but the faint sense of structure, like invisible threads aligning briefly before slipping away again.
Possibility.
Choice.
Noctis' eyes gleamed faintly.
"You expect me to act," he said.
The voice corrected, light but firm.
"No. I'm telling you to live."
He tilted his head, thoughtful.
"…Ah."
That made more sense.
"And if I don't?"
"Then you'll fade quietly," the presence said lightly. "Which would be terribly boring."
A soft laugh escaped him.
"Can't have that."
"No, we really can't."
.
.
[A/N : yes we really can't ! ]
.
.
Silence settled between them—not awkward, but charged.
Noctis turned back toward the mirror.
The boy staring back at him smiled.
Slowly.
Sharply.
"This time," he said, voice smooth, amused, and edged with steel, "I'll be a little less kind."
The presence sounded pleased.
"Oh good," she said. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Outside, the bells of Blackthorn Hold rang the hour.
And somewhere deep within the world, something ancient stirred—half amused, half uneasy—aware that its carefully written future had just been laughed at.
.
.
.
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[ A/N :- guys if you do like the chapter then please show your support ! Drop some power stones please ..!!! ]