Max surveyed the chaos from the eastern battlements. Demon hordes swarmed below, their chittering cries rising above the clash of steel and screams of the wounded. The citadel's outer wall had fallen an hour past. Their forces retreated inward, contracting like a wounded beast.
"Hold the line!" Max shouted as soldiers faltered against the press of twisted bodies. "Archers, target the larger ones!"
A volley of arrows whistled overhead, their obsidian tips gleaming briefly in the blood-red sunset before finding their marks with deadly precision. Several demons fell, their twisted bodies contorting as they crashed to the ground with inhuman shrieks, but dozens more scrambled over their fallen brethren with single-minded determination.
The creatures clawed and trampled their own dead, yellow eyes blazing with unnatural hunger, their scaled and leathery hides slick with the ichor of their comrades as they pressed forward toward the citadel's remaining defenses.
One of the guard captain rushed to his side, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. "Lord Maximus, the western gate won't hold much longer. We need reinforcements."
"There are none to send," Max replied, eyes scanning the battlefield. "Pull back to the inner courtyard. We'll funnel them through the narrow passages."
The captain hesitated. "And the wounded in the lower halls?"
Max's jaw tightened. "Move everyone who can walk. The rest..." His words faltered. "Get healers to them. Do whatever you can."
The guard captain saluted and rushed off, barking orders as he went.
A scream cut through the air. Not human, but the battle cry of Astra. The Dawn Gryphon circled above, raining golden light upon the demons below. Wherever her light touched, the creatures hissed and smoked.
"She fights well," a voice said behind him.
Max turned to find his father's advisor, Magister Thorne, watching the battle. The old man's robes were singed, his face smudged with soot.
"For someone who shouldn't be fighting at all," Max replied. "Violet's wounds haven't healed."
Thorne nodded. "Your sister insisted. Said something about not letting you bear this burden alone."
A wave of dizziness struck Max suddenly. He braced himself against the battlement, vision swimming.
"Lord Maximus?" Concern laced Thorne's voice. "Are you injured?"
"It's nothing, I'm fine." Max blinked away the spots in his vision. His chest burned where the assassin had struck him, but he'd suffered worse.
Below, Atlas led a countercharge. The War Lion's roar bolstered the defenders' courage. Soldiers rallied behind his golden form, pushing back the demon tide.
"We need more than courage," Max muttered. "We need a miracle."
Thorne's gnarled hand gripped his shoulder. "Your father always said miracles are made, not granted."
"My father isn't here." The words came out harsher than intended.
"No." Thorne's eyes softened. "But his strength lives in you and your siblings."
Another wave of dizziness hit Max, stronger this time. Heat flooded his veins, his aura flickering visibly around his fingers. Something was wrong.
"Magister," he gasped, "what's happening to me?"
Thorne's eyes widened. "Your aura… it's fluctuating. When did this start?"
"Just now." Max gritted his teeth against sudden pain. "It feels like—"
A blast rocked the citadel. Both men staggered. Below, demons poured through a newly opened breach in the inner wall.
"Go," Max ordered, straightening despite the pain. "Organize the retreat to the keep."
"You should come with me," Thorne insisted. "If your aura is destabilizing—"
"I can't leave them." Max pointed to the soldiers fighting below. "Go. Now!"
The magister hesitated, then hurried away. Max drew his sword and moved toward the stairs, each step sending fresh waves of agony through his body. His aura flared again, brighter now, drawing the attention of nearby soldiers.
"Lord Maximus!" one called. "Are you okay?"
Max couldn't answer. The pain intensified, driving him to his knees. His sword clattered to the stone.
The world around him continued its violent dance. Soldiers fighting, demons shrieking, flames consuming the ancient stone of his home. But Max was trapped in his own battle, internal and inexplicable.
His aura erupted outward in pulses, gold and crimson light washing over the battlements. Soldiers backed away, confusion and fear on their faces. The nearest demons hissed, retreating from the unexpected power.
Max fell forward onto his hands, fingers digging into the stone. Blood dripped from his nose, splattering beneath him. Through the haze of pain, he felt something ancient stirring, not within him, but within the very ground beneath the citadel.
The land guardian. The ancestral pact made centuries ago by the first Drakhalis.
"Not now," Max gasped, though he knew no one could hear him. "We're not ready."
The pain crescendoed. Max's back arched, a silent scream trapped in his throat. Time seemed to slow, then fracture around him like shattered glass.
Through the fragments, he saw visions:
Atlas, mighty and unstoppable, torn apart by three massive demon lords, his golden mane stained crimson.
Violet, her face determined as she channeled the last of her strength into a barrier, before collapsing as the magic consumed her.
The keep's central tower collapsing, crushing scores of refugees who'd sought shelter within.
His brother Darius, eldest and strongest, dueling the demon general as the world burned around them, until both fell together into the abyss.
His sister Lyra's body, broken at the foot of the western tower, her water magic frozen in crystal patterns around her.
The land guardian rising too late, its ancient power unleashed only after the last Drakhalis had fallen.
The point of no return.
Max reached out, trying to grasp the fragments, to change what he was seeing. "N-No!" he cried. "This can't be the end!"
The visions accelerated, showing the aftermath: the kingdom in ruins, demons marching across the land unchecked, the old ones returning from beyond the veil. Darkness spreading across the continent like a plague.
"I… I won't accept this fate," Max whispered, blood now streaming from his eyes and ears. "There must be another way."
As if in response, the fractures in time widened. Max felt himself falling through them, tumbling through darkness and light. The pain intensified beyond bearing, beyond conscious thought.
Then everything turns black.
***
Birdsong was heard melodiously, no one knew where it came from.
Max opened his eyes to golden sunlight streaming through familiar curtains. He lay in his bed, in his chamber, in a citadel that stood whole and unburned.
For a moment, he thought it had been a nightmare… the attack, the demons, the visions of his family's destruction.
Then the memories settled, crisp and clear. Not a nightmare. A future. A future he'd lived through and somehow been sent back from.
He sat up slowly, expecting pain that didn't come. His body felt wrong, smaller and weaker. He looked down at his hands. No battle scars. No calluses from years of swordplay.
Max scrambled from the bed, nearly tripping over his own feet, and rushed to the mirror on his chamber wall.
A boy stared back at him. Fifteen years old at most, thin and untempered by war. His eyes, however, remained unchanged. Older than his face, haunted by things unseen.
"Impossible," he whispered, touching his reflection.
A knock at the door startled him.
"My lord?" called a servant's voice. "Are you awake? Lady Violet requests your presence in the training yard."
'Violet is alive, uninjured?' Max asked himself.
"I'll-I'll be there shortly," Max called back, his voice cracking in a way it hadn't for years.
"Very good, my lord."
Footsteps retreated from his door. Max sank onto the edge of his bed, mind racing. 'How was this possible? Why had he been sent back? And to when, exactly?'
He crossed to the window and looked out over the citadel, there's no signs of battle preparations, no reinforced walls, everything is normal. The banners flew peacefully in the morning breeze.
His eyes found the calendar on his desk. The date struck him like a physical blow.
This was the day. The morning before the attack. The morning before they died.
Max's hands gripped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened. He'd been given a second chance, not just to save himself, but everyone. His family. The citadel. Perhaps the kingdom itself.
But how? His aura, once a respectable Tier 7 peak, now barely registered. His body lacked the strength and skill he'd spent years developing. He possessed the knowledge of what was to come but none of the power to change it.
"What happened to my body?" His reflection caught his eye again, a boy with a man's burdens.
"But no matter what, I'll find a way," Max promised his younger self. "I won't let them die again."
He dressed quickly, mind already formulating plans, countermeasures, desperate strategies. There was so little time. The demons would attack at dusk, led by assassins who would target his family first.
As he strapped on a training sword that now felt awkward in his hand, Max steeled himself for the impossible task ahead. He'd spent years blaming himself for not being strong enough, for failing to save them.
Now he had a second chance.
No matter the cost, no matter what he had to sacrifice, Max would rewrite their fates.
For a king without a throne must still protect his kingdom.
For a general without a crown must still lead his army.
Even if that army was now only himself.