The golden hues of evening spilled gently across the room, stretching through the tall windows and brushing the marble floor with fading warmth. Vyan sat hunched over a cluttered table, rifling through ancient spellbooks, his fingers leaving smudges of ink and dust on the delicate pages.
There was a knock at the door.
"Co in," Vyan said, without looking up.
Clyde stepped inside quietly, boots padding against the floor with uncharacteristic softness. His eyes imdiately fell on Vyan's face, on the way his wine-red eyes flicked with a strange, quiet fire that hadn't been there in days. For over a week, Clyde had watched him drift through the manor like a broken doll, too silent or too loud—there was no in between.
But now, sothing had shifted.
There was life again.
And that unsettled him.
When a storming madman suddenly becos his previous calm, calculating self, it was definitely concerning.
"You look…" Clyde tilted his head, choosing his words carefully. "Less like soone who hasn't slept in a week and more like soone on a mission."
Vyan didn't glance up. "What brings you here, Clyde?"
"I ca to check on you," Clyde said honestly. "And… to inform you. Tomorrow's the forr emperor's execution. A public one. Like you wanted. Athy asked if you were planning to attend. She said she'd reserve the best seat for you."
Vyan's hand paused briefly on a page before flipping it. "It's fine. I don't care much for the show anymore. As long as he dies, that's enough."
Clyde humd softly, folding his arms. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that." He eyed the open books scattered across the desk. "What are you doing anyway?"
Vyan leaned back slightly, running a hand through his dark hair, eyes still fixed on the faded ink in front of him. "Just… looking through so spells."
Clyde squinted at him. "You? Looking through spells?" He narrowed his eyes. "You've been practically allergic to them the past few days. You wouldn't even glance at anything but dical or curse-related books. So, what's changed?"
"I have my reasons," Vyan replied. "Why? You don't want to study? Would you rather I call the innocent staff and shout at them?"
Clyde sighed, his voice dipping into concern. "Honestly? Yeah. That would be less terrifying. Because at least then I'd know you're using anger as a coping chanism. But this… this is sothing else."
Vyan finally looked up. The light hit his face just right—sharp jaw, tired eyes, a haunted kind of hope sitting quietly in his gaze.
"Don't worry about it," he said softly. "I'll be fine. I'll be back to normal soon." He closed one of the spellbooks with a quiet thud, resting his hand on its worn leather cover. "Because Iyana will be fine."
There was sothing in the way he said it. Not just faith. That wasn't just hope. That was resolve.
Dangerous, dangerous resolve.
"…What are you planning, Vyan?" Clyde asked quietly, but Vyan had already turned back to the next book.
And didn't answer.
Clyde let out a quiet click of his tongue and walked over, the sound of his footsteps muted by the thick carpet beneath. He placed sothing on the edge of the desk—a softly glowing stone, orange in hue, shaped into a neat octagon. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
"What's that?" Vyan asked without looking up.
"A mana stone," Clyde said simply.
Vyan glanced at it, then shot him a dry, unimpressed look. "I know what a mana stone is, Clyde. I own fifteen bloody mines of it. Why are you giving one like I'm so starving mage off the street?"
Clyde crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the edge of the desk, his expression sowhere between annoyed and deeply worried. "Because you're barely functioning these days," he said bluntly. "You're not eating. You're not sleeping. You're not even thinking well. So, I just wanted to give you sothing as a backup, in case your own mana fails you, which is highly likely, considering you haven't been taking good care of yourself."
Vyan's eyes dropped to the stone. The soft glow reflected in his wine-red irises, making them look even more tired than they already were. He didn't argue—because Clyde wasn't wrong. His body felt heavier each day, his head foggier, his spells more sluggish. He hadn't even noticed how hollowed-out he looked in the mirror this morning.
After a pause, he reached out and took the mana stone, holding it gently. "Alright, thanks. I'll probably need it."
Clyde's expression softened into a smile. "But I hope you don't."
———
The night was hushed, cloaked in a kind of stillness that only ever draped itself around the quietest monts of the heart. The moon spilled silver light across the floor of Vyan's bedroom, bathing everything in its glow—the furniture, the books… and the bed where she lay.
Iyana.
Vyan stepped inside slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His boots barely made a sound against the floor as he crossed the room, his fire-lit eyes softening as they settled on her still form. The candlelight flickered across her pale face, dancing over her features like a mory trying to hold on.
He sank down on the edge of the bed beside her, one hand reaching out, brushing against strands of her platinum-blonde hair with infinite gentleness. His fingers combed through them like he was touching sothing fragile and breakable.
"Hey, love," he whispered, a faint smile tugging at his lips, even though his voice trembled at the edges. "I know you'd call an idiot for this, but… it's the only way left for . For us to be together again. So I'm going to the past, okay?"
He exhaled slowly, feeling the coldness seep into his fingers from her skin. "I don't know if I can fix everything," he murmured. "But I'm going to try. And when I co back… I hope you're here. I hope you're waiting for —with that teasing smile of yours and your arms open like you always did whenever I co to see you."
His voice cracked slightly, but he swallowed it down, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"I really, really hope your touch is warm again."
He leaned down and pressed a final kiss to her forehead. His lips lingered there, as if trying to morize the cold so that soon he could marvel at the difference later.
Then, he stood up.
He stepped back, the moonlight casting silver across his face as he raised his hands and spoke the words. Runes flickered to life, forming a glowing circle in the air around him, lines of light bending.
They shimred in sequence, forming constellations of power that stretched into spirals and coordinates. He wasn't just casting a spell. He was choosing a mont. A place. A sliver in ti as carefully selected as a page in a book.
The air tightened. Magic snapped into place like a trap waiting to spring. Curtains fluttered from a breeze that hadn't been there a second ago.
Then, a pull. Not from outside, but from inside the world itself.
And Vyan vanished.
Everything lurched.
The world twisted, gravity spun sideways, and in the blink of an eye, he was sowhere else. Sowhen else. The scent of his room vanished, replaced by the hum of a layered ward.
He stumbled, catching himself against a luxurious couch.
He blinked at his surroundings. A room. Quiet, nondescript. Tapestries hung over stone walls, gilded chairs lined one side, velvet couches on the other, and a gold-rimd mirror stood in the corner. It looked like a waiting room—elegant, impersonal, likely sowhere in the Grand Hall.
He stood up and glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.
His breath hitched.
This was it.
This… this was the day.
That day.
The day of reckoning.
But, of course, he'd never been good at ti-spells. His magic had always been more fire than finesse. So instead of arriving at the critical mont—where he could dash in and undo the horror before it unfolded—he was early.
Painfully early.
"Brilliant," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "I really should've practiced more spells like this than combat magic."
The evening was rely starting. The guests probably had only begun arriving. Which ant hours of waiting. And worse… hours of avoiding himself.
That was… problematic.
He knew his own schedule that day. Where he had gone, who he had talked to. Every step had been burned into his mory. And this room? He hadn't co here, not once. That was good—it gave him a pocket of safety. But only for now.
He couldn't risk being seen. If anyone recognized him—especially himself—there was no telling what kind of paradox would unravel.
Vyan paced, mind racing. He had to hide sowhere no one would check. Or better yet, change his appearance. Yes. That would make things easier.
He flexed his fingers, mana sparking faintly at his fingertips, readying a disguise spell. He was thinking of what kind of appearance he should take on. Maybe a count's son? Or perhaps, a count himself? Or maybe, soone who didn't bring much attention—like a baron?
Just then, the door creaked open.
His heart jumped to his throat.
Instinctively, he reached for teleportation, only to stop halfway through the motion.
Teleportation doesn't work within imperial grounds, he rembered too late.
Panic surged.
He hadn't chosen a face yet. How would he escape—
"Vee?"
His breath caught. His nickna.
It was a feminine voice. Familiar. So, so familiar.
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