The world is quiet when I wake.

  The ache is the first thing I register.

  Not just in my limbs, but deep, bone-deep, like something inside me has been wrung out and my very essence has been stretched too thin. It pools in my bones, weighing me down. I inhale slowly, feeling the sluggish pull of breath in my chest. The sensation is one I have known before, magical exhaustion, the kind that lingers beyond mere fatigue, settling into the core of one’s existence. But this is worse than I anticipated. It is not just exhaustion. It is depletion.

  For a long time, I do not move. Even breathing feels unnatural. My lungs resist the motion, slow and unfamiliar, as though they have forgotten their purpose. My heart beats sluggishly, each pulse echoing through my skull like the fading remnants of a war drum. I feel… detached. As if my body is no longer entirely my own.

  I flex my fingers, willing them to respond. The movement is slow, almost foreign, as if they belong to someone else. Beneath them, the fabric of my sheets is smooth, unfamiliar. My eyelids are heavy, leaden, but I force them to crack open.

  I open my eyes slowly. Dim light filters through the heavy curtains. I can tell it is midday, but the glare is filtered, leaving only soft light that barely illuminates the edges of the chamber. My chamber. Not the infirmary. Not the cold sterility of a healer’s room. The scent of parchment, ink, and faint embers from the fireplace confirm that much. The air is thick with stillness, as if time itself has congealed in my absence. A tray sits on the bedside table, untouched. Tea, long gone cold. A meal, forgotten. Something about the sight of it unsettles me, though I cannot yet articulate why.

  I blink, my thoughts sluggish, tangled in the memory of collapse. The cold stone floor beneath my knees, hands catching me, the distant echo of voices. Isla’s voice, sharp and clipped.

  Footsteps.

  The door creaks open. Isla steps inside, her expression unreadable as she studies me from the threshold. She moves with her usual precision, every step measured, controlled, as if she is made of nothing but discipline. But something is different. She hesitates. Just beyond the threshold, she stops. Watches me.

  "It is noon."

  Her voice is not reprimand. It is something else, something I don’t know how to read yet in her.

  I exhale, slow and careful. I try to push myself upright. My body protests immediately, a sluggish, unwilling thing, the motion sending a deep, pulsing ache through every limb. My arms tremble, my breath shudders, but I do not stop.

  The mattress shifts slightly as Isla moves closer. A fresh cup of tea appears at my bedside, placed down with deliberate care. Isla does not comment on my condition. She does not need to.

  I do not reach for it immediately. Instead, I glance at her—really look at her.

  Her posture is too rigid, too still. She does not speak, does not sit, does not fill the silence with reassurances. Instead, she watches, like she always has. Something is different though, and I struggle through the mental haze to isolate what is triggering the feeling in me. She has always been my shadow. My shield. But right now, she seems to be something else. I feel a storm restrained behind her sharp eyes. It will wait, though.

  "How bad?" My voice is rough, the weight of fatigue pressing against it, the rest of the sentence chocking of in the dryness of my throat.

  Isla tilts her head slightly, assessing me.

  “You collapsed from magical overuse.”

  The words should not surprise me. They do not. But the way she says them does.

  Flat. Not questioning. Not accusing.

  Just stating a fact.

  She continues, “The healers attempted to tend to you. I sent them away.”

  I let out a slow breath. Of course she did. A ghost of a smirk pulls at my lips. She knows I hate being treated like something fragile, she is always perceptive. Why does it feel tense, now? I glance up at her face.

  There is no dry amusement, no sharp remark. No familiar rhythm to our exchanges.

  Instead—she steps forward, close enough that I can see the way her fingers tighten at her sleeves, the slight furrow in her brow. I can almost hear the pounding of her heart. Nervous?

  “What did you do?”

  Not accusation. Not disbelief.

  Wonder.

  .

  .

  .

  Shit.

  The moment lingers, stretching between us, thick with something unspoken. I recognize it now, the difference in the way she looks at me, the careful reverence in her stance. Isla has been my shadow, my protector. She has always followed, always obeyed. But this... this is something else.

  Her question still hangs in the air. What did you do?

  I consider lying, brushing it off as nothing. But that will not work with Isla. She sees too much. Understands too much. And yet, she does not look at me with concern. She looks at me like a disciple awaiting the words of a prophet.

  That will not do. That is not a path I want to take in this life, in any life. Not after that one time…

  I exhale slowly, forcing my body to obey as I shift to sit up properly. My limbs ache, my chest tightens at the motion, but I do not let it show. I wrap my fingers around the fresh cup of tea she set at my bedside. The warmth grounds me, and for a moment, I let it anchor me back into my body, into the present, into this life.

  I meet her gaze, steady and sharp. I take a slow sip before speaking.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "I repaired what I could," I say at last. My voice is still rough, but the weight behind it is deliberate. "Lena was broken. Her mind was unraveling. If I did nothing, she would have remained that way forever. So, I stitched the pieces back together."

  Isla does not blink. She absorbs my words in silence, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she exhales, long and slow, as if she has been holding something in.

  "You... restored her mind."

  "Not fully." I shake my head. "I am not a god, Isla. I cannot return what was lost. But she has a chance now. She can wake. She can heal."

  Her fingers flex at her sides, tension rippling through her form. Her mouth opens slightly, then closes. There is something she wants to say, something she is weighing. I can see the barest of tremble in her legs below her maids skirt.

  I cannot allow her to speak first.

  "Isla," I say, my tone quiet but firm. "You cannot look at me like this."

  Isla does not move. Does not blink. A long moment stretches between us.

  Then, slowly, almost warily, she steps closer, not in submission, but in scrutiny.

  "Like what?"

  "Like I am something more than I am."

  Her lips press together, her jaw tightening. "You are more."

  I sigh, rolling my shoulders despite the stiffness still clinging to them. "No. I am not. I am Aurelius Larkin, heir to this house. Nothing more."

  She looks at me like she wants to argue, but I do not let her.

  "You have always been here, watching me," I continue. I am treading a fine line, she will pick up on how much I remember and was aware from the beginning, but it is worth the risk to prevent this. "And I trust you because of that. Because you have never hesitated. Because you have never wavered in your duty. Do not change that now. Be my shadow, my blade in the dark."

  Something flickers in her eyes. "And if my duty shifts?"

  "It does not." My voice sharpens slightly, cutting through the space between us. "You are not my worshiper, Isla. You are not my follower. You are my guardian. That is what you have always been. And if you truly wish to serve me, if you truly wish to remain by my side, then you will continue as you always have—watching, protecting, questioning when necessary. Not... whatever this is."

  She exhales, the tension in her frame barely easing. She nods once, though the weight in her gaze does not disappear entirely. "Understood, young master."

  I watch her carefully. She wont let go of the notion that easily, but for now it is enough. "Good. Now, tell me—where is Lena?"

  A pause. Then, finally, she straightens fully and answers, "She has been moved from the infirmary. You will not find her there."

  I nod slowly, pushing back the remaining exhaustion in my limbs. "Then take me to her."

  Isla hesitates for only a breath before bowing her head slightly. "As you wish."

  And with that, the moment shifts. The conversation is done, the lines have been drawn. But as I rise and dress, I know this will not be the last time we have this discussion.

  ***

  The world feels unsteady beneath me.

  I push forward anyway.

  Each step is deliberate, measured. My muscles ache, my head still clouded by the aftereffects of magical depletion. I am aware of my heartbeat, slow, too slow, as if my body has not yet remembered how to exist. The pull of fatigue clings to me like damp wool, heavy and unwelcome, but I do not falter.

  Isla walks half a step behind me, silent as ever. But I can feel her gaze at my back. It is not like it was, but it is better than what it was becoming.

  "Has she spoken?" I ask, my voice steady despite the rawness in my throat.

  "Yes," Isla answers. "Her voice is weak, but coherent."

  That is better than I had expected.

  "And Clara?"

  A brief pause. "She has not left her mother's side."

  Of course not.

  I say nothing more, and neither does Isla. We move through the halls in silence, the sound of my footfalls sharp on the marble, hers whisper quiet. The estate is calm, but I feel the shift beneath its surface. Whispers must have spread by now, about the attack, about the aftermath, about Lena’s impossible return.

  The servants bow as I pass. The guards stand a little straighter.

  Everything looks the same. But everything has changed.

  A turn. Another. Then we reach the room they have put Lena in. A guard stands at attention outside the door. He inclines his head, and moves to the side. Isla steps forward and swings the door inward.

  The warmth of the room is the first thing I notice.

  Sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft golden hues across the small space. A fire burns low in the hearth, a tray of half-eaten food sits on the foot of the bed, and the scent of lavender lingers in the air, subtle but present, woven into the very fabric of the room.

  Lena is propped up on the bed, supported by an abundance of pillows. She is pale, thinner than she should be, her hands involuntarily trembling slightly where they rest on the blanket. Her body is still weak. That much is expected.

  But she is awake.

  And she is smiling.

  It is a small smile, tired and fragile, but real.

  Her husband sits at the edge of the bed, one of her hands clasped between his, his grip firm but careful. His face is drawn, exhaustion evident in the lines at the corners of his eyes. He looks as if he has not slept.

  Clara is at the foot of the bed, a bundle of restless energy, bouncing slightly on her heels as she talks in an excited, breathless rush. Her small hands wave animatedly, her golden curls shifting with every movement.

  Marla sits nearby in a chair, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement, though there is relief in the way her shoulders have settled, the way she lets herself exhale fully.

  None of them notice me at first.

  I take it in. All of it.

  The life in the room. The warmth. The impossible made possible.

  Then Lena looks up.

  And her smile falters.

  Not from fear.

  Not from uncertainty.

  I see it in the way her eyes widen—just slightly. The way her breath catches, barely audible. The way her grip tightens around her husband's hand. No matter how many lives I have lived, walking through someone’s mind by magic or mundane means always leaves footprints. I knew that and I accepted that when I did this. Lena will never understand what is in her head, but it is there now, forever.

  She does not know how.

  She does not know why.

  But she knows it was me.

  I step forward, slow and measured.

  Lena's husband rises immediately, inclining his head. "Young Lord," he greets, his voice even, respectful.

  I nod once in acknowledgment before shifting my attention back to Lena.

  She swallows, her throat working around the effort. There is a sparkle of moisture in the corner of her eye, as she draws a ragged breath. I cut her off.

  "You should not strain your voice," I say instead. "Your body is still weak. It will take time. I just wanted to check on you." I let a hint of youthful quiver color my voice. An act, for Marla, for Clara, for her husband. The young master is scared and worried for one of the maids who helped raise him, but he puts up a tough front. Let them believe that I am a kid trying to fill a role, to live up to my father.

  Lena exhales softly, something like amusement flickering behind her exhaustion. "You sound like the healers," she murmurs.

  I arch a brow. "Then perhaps you should listen to them."

  Clara, who has been remarkably patient for the last minute, suddenly launches herself forward.

  "Relus!" She all but collides into me, tiny arms wrapping around my waist. She can say my name, but the nickname has stuck. "Mama woke up! She woke up, and she's talking, and—" she pulls back just enough to look up at me, beaming. "She's okay!"

  Her joy is unfiltered. Unshaken. Absolute.

  It must be nice, to be so certain of the world.

  And for a moment, I do not know what to do with it. Or rather, I know exactly what to do, but it is not for my sake, it is for hers.

  I place a hand on the top of her head, light, barely there.

  "She is."

  The words are soft, but they are enough.

  Clara grins before turning back to her mother, happily resuming her endless chatter.

  Lena watches me for a moment longer. Then she mouths the words "Thank you."

  Two words.

  No explanation. No pretense.

  Just the bare, unshakable truth.

  I nod, turn to leave, the weight of exhaustion creeping back into my limbs.

  But before I reach the door, Marla’s voice stops me.

  "Young Lord."

  I glance back.

  I can see the hesitation. Her perception of me has changed, and I can see war behind her eyes. I smile at her and give a push to the perception I want.

  “Yes, Miss Marla?”

  Her lips press together. A breath, a hesitation, then a slow exhale, as if she is physically forcing herself back into the role she knows.

  The old maid in her wins.

  "Rest."

  I do not answer. I just nod.

  As I step into the hallway, Isla close behind me, I think I just might.