When I opened my eyes the next morning, I found myself smiling before I even realized it.
Damian was still asleep, his face a picture of serene, absolute peace. He was smiling in his sleep, a look of pure joy that surpassed even the time I’d surprised him with his favorite cheesecake.
“Sleep tight, my love,” I whispered, kissing his rosy cheek.
***
“[Dad!]”
Eric’s heart hammered against his ribs as the golden-haired boy appeared in his consciousness once more. It had been years, but the child from his dreams had returned, more vivid and desperate than ever.
“[My mother and I are safe! But when are you coming?]”
Eric clenched his hands, the weight of his guilt a physical pressure in his chest. *Are you blaming me?* he wondered. *Are you telling me I was too slow to save her?*
The child reached out to him, his purple eyes—Cornelia’s eyes—shining with an ancient, terrifying wisdom.
“[Dad, there’s no more time! You have to find us quickly.]”
“Where?” Eric tried to scream, but no sound escaped his throat. “Tell me where you are!”
The boy shook his head, a bitter expression crossing his small face. “[I cannot say. Revealing our location would violate the law of causality. You must find us yourself, Father. Before it’s too late.]”
Eric’s eyes snapped open. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in the Brant manor, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
*Another dream,* he thought, sitting up.
He’d searched every riverbank, every ravine, and every coastal village in the South and West. He’d spent a fortune on informants, but there was nothing. No body. No trace. Even Janet had vanished, her silence a confirmation of her death.
He walked over to the corner of the room where their wedding portrait stood. It was a ruin—the ink from Cornelia’s final act had stained the canvas, turning her face into a dark, illegible blur. He reached out to touch the frame, his fingers trembling.
*I’m forgetting your face,* he realized with a jolt of pure terror.
He had pressured artists to recreate her likeness, but none could capture the fire in her eyes or the subtle curve of her smile. She was fading from his memory, a ghost that refused to haunt him.
*If I die, will I see you?* he wondered.
Then he laughed, a hollow, jagged sound. He was a "Soul Reaper," a man who had slaughtered thousands on the battlefield. He was a son who had driven his own mother into a madness of guilt and neurotoxins. He was a monster. Cornelia was a princess who had shown kindness to the lowliest of her subjects. Even in death, they would be separated by heaven and hell.
A gray hawk landed on the windowsill, a message from **Hit**, his most reliable informant. Eric untied the scroll with a snap.
[Marquis Arguin is investigating 'Countess Hurd' of the East. The Emperor is also monitoring the territory with unusual frequency.]
Eric’s eyes narrowed. The Emperor hadn't shown his face in public for months. Why was he interested in a remote border province?
“Heard County,” Eric whispered. “The land that should have been Cornelia’s.”
***
A few days later, I was sitting in my study when a familiar face appeared at the door.
“It’s been a long time, Your Highness,” Marquis Philippe said, bowing deeply.
“What brings you here, Philippe?” I asked, my voice steady. “The Emperor doesn't send his personal messenger to the East for a social call.”
Philippe sighed, looking older and more weary than I remembered. “His Majesty’s health is failing. It began with a cough, but now... he is vomiting blood.”
I went still. In my first life, the Emperor had died of a slow liver failure—the result of a years-long poisoning campaign by Marquis Arguin and the Empress. Lung symptoms were new.
*The causality is shifting,* I realized. *My survival has changed the script.*
“Who is his physician?” I asked.
“A new man, appointed by the Archduke,” Philippe said.
I clenched my fists. **Archduke Reinhardt.** If the symptoms were different, it meant the mastermind was different. Someone was accelerating the Emperor’s death, and they were using a more aggressive toxin.
“I need to see him,” I said, standing up. “I need to go to the capital.”
“MOMMY! NO!”
Damian, who had been playing by the door, lunged forward and grabbed my legs. He was sobbing, his face red and his small body trembling with a frantic, absolute terror.
“Don't go! Stay with Dami! You can't leave! Waaaaah!”
I tried to peel his fingers away, but he clung to me as if his life depended on it. His distress was so raw it made my heart ache. He’d always been such a calm, thoughtful child. This wasn't just a tantrum; it was an alarm.
***
At the same time, Eric stood on a ridge overlooking the valley of Heard County.
Below him, a thriving city of stone and glass sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just five years ago, this had been a collection of mud huts and dirt roads. Now, it was a jewel of the East.
*She would have loved this,* Eric thought, a bitter taste in his mouth.
He knew the story: the Emperor had elevated the widow of a fallen war hero to the rank of Countess and given her this land. She had discovered diamonds and transformed the province into a powerhouse.
“If she were alive, she would be the one standing there,” Eric whispered.
He felt a surge of rage at the Emperor for giving Cornelia’s inheritance to a stranger. He felt a surge of rage at the Marquis for circling this woman like a vulture.
“I’ll find out what you’re planning, 'Countess Hurd',” Eric said, pulling his hood over his golden hair. “And if you’re a part of the Emperor’s games, I’ll finish what the river started.”
He began his descent into the city.