The Year That Vanished
Here is Chapter 2 rewritten only, with the requested changes applied:
Alex is 14 at the time
He does not walk into the main celebration hall
Instead, people see him walking past, and the MC wakes two days later
Tone, themes, and continuity are preserved.
Chapter 2
The Year That Was Taken
When Alex was thirteen—almost fourteen—something went missing.
An entire year.
At first, he didn't realize it. How could he? Time in the Luthien estate had always been distorted—days measured by lessons, weeks by formal meals eaten in silence, months by how often tutors were replaced. Isolation blurred everything. Solitude erased landmarks.
So when cracks appeared, he blamed exhaustion.
He had been tired for as long as he could remember.
Tutors rotated endlessly—arcane theory, imperial history, higher mathematics, strategic doctrine. New faces, new voices, the same careful distance. Praise still came, but never loudly, never where others might hear. His brilliance was acknowledged the way one acknowledged fire: useful, dangerous, best handled quietly.
Alex learned.
He always learned.
But it felt mechanical now. His hands moved faster than his thoughts, writing flawless equations, tracing sigils so precise they bordered on art. Often, it felt like he was watching himself from somewhere far away, detached from the boy sitting at the desk.
Then, one afternoon, while passing through a servants' corridor—a narrow stone passage he wasn't supposed to use—he heard voices.
Low. Unguarded.
"—I still don't understand how he survived," a woman whispered.
Another answered, voice tense. "He was unconscious for weeks. The Duke sealed the west wing completely."
Alex stopped walking.
His heartbeat stuttered.
"—last year was a nightmare," the first continued. "When the young master collapsed—"
Collapsed.
The word hit him like a physical blow.
Alex stepped back slowly, retreating before they could notice him. His pulse thundered in his ears as he pressed his back to the cold stone wall.
Collapsed.
Unconscious.
West wing sealed.
None of it existed in his memory.
That night, he sat on his bed and tried to remember.
He went through his life piece by piece.
Nine years old—the whispers.
Ten—the engagement revoked.
Eleven—withdrawal.
Twelve—cold distance.
Thirteen—
Nothing.
No illness.
No darkness.
No pain.
Just absence.
A clean, terrifying void where a year should have been.
By morning, his hands were shaking.
He confronted his parents at breakfast.
Sunlight spilled across the long table, illuminating untouched plates and the space between his parents that felt wider than ever.
"Father," Alex said quietly. "What happened last year?"
The Duke froze.
Silence followed.
"I heard servants talking," Alex continued, forcing the words out. "They said I collapsed. That I was unconscious."
His father set his fork down with deliberate precision.
"That is not a topic for discussion."
"I don't remember it," Alex said. "I don't remember an entire year of my life."
His mother's hands clenched in her lap, eyes fixed on the tablecloth.
"You are alive," his father said sharply. "That is all that matters."
"Was it magic?" Alex pressed. "Was it an experiment? Did something—"
"Enough."
The command cracked through the room.
Only then did Alex notice Azrael standing near the window, bathed in light. White hair. Blue eyes. Perfect posture.
Watching.
Their gazes met.
Azrael wasn't confused.
He wasn't surprised.
He was calculating.
That was when Alex understood: whatever had happened during that missing year hadn't been an accident.
Someone had allowed it.
After that, the house grew colder.
At fourteen, Alex stopped asking questions.
Instead, he observed.
He noticed how Azrael attended meetings Alex wasn't invited to. How tutors deferred to Azrael even in subjects Alex had mastered years ago. How servants stiffened when Alex entered a room—but relaxed when his twin followed.
Only one kindness remained.
Elira.
His maid since infancy.
She still spoke softly. Still brushed his hair with the same careful motions. She never flinched when she touched him.
That mattered.
Then came his older brother's birthday.
The estate swelled with noise—music echoing through marble halls, nobles laughing beneath gold banners celebrating the favored heir. Alex was not invited. No escort came. No message was sent.
Elira arrived alone, carrying a tray.
"Tea, young master," she said gently.
The scent was wrong.
Alex recognized it instantly.
Poison.
"Elira," he said quietly, "you don't need to do this."
For a heartbeat, she hesitated.
Then the knife flashed.
Fear and mana surged together.
The room froze.
Ice formed in his hand—not summoned, not shaped. Born.
One strike.
When it was over, Elira lay still on the floor, blood soaking into stone already rimed with frost.
Pain flared across Alex's face.
Black markings burned into his skin, spreading like living scars from temple to arm.
Screams echoed outside the door.
Alex didn't go to the celebration.
He didn't confront anyone.
He walked past the corridor instead.
Servants saw him first—barefoot, bloodstained, marked.
Then guards.
Then nobles peering out from doorways as whispers followed him like a curse.
"—that's him—"
"—the cursed twin—"
"—look at his eyes—"
No one stopped him.
He passed the grand hall without entering it, music faltering as word spread faster than sound.
Two days later, Alex woke in the medic's wing.
His body was wrapped in bandages. His mana felt heavy, wrong—like something had been locked into place.
He learned later what the estate had seen.
Not a rampaging monster.
Not a boy screaming for help.
Just a fourteen-year-old walking silently through the halls, blood drying on his clothes, eyes empty.
That was enough.
The missing year.
The poison.
The silence.
It had never been about luck.
Luck wasn't real.
Cruelty was.
And fate had already chosen.