Cold.
That was the first thing Aeron felt.
Not pain. Not fear.
Just cold.
It seeped into his bones like winter had decided to live inside him.
His eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe. His lungs burned as if he had been drowning. His fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, nails breaking against frozen soil. The smell of smoke filled his nose.
Smoke.
Fire.
Screams.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
"No…" he whispered.
The last thing he remembered was the throne room.
The betrayal.
The blade.
His uncle's face—calm, emotionless—as the sword pierced his chest.
"You were too weak to be king."
Aeron had died on that cold marble floor.
He remembered the warmth of his own blood spreading beneath him. He remembered reaching toward the shattered crown lying just inches away. He remembered the sound of the kingdom burning.
And then—
Darkness.
So why… was he breathing?
Slowly, painfully, Aeron pushed himself up.
He wasn't inside the palace.
He was outside.
In the forest.
The forest that bordered the capital of Valerion.
The sky above him was dark, but not burning red like before. No fire raining from above. No collapsing towers.
No screams.
Only silence.
His breathing grew heavier.
"This isn't possible…"
He looked down at his hands.
They were smaller.
Younger.
No scars.
The deep sword mark that had once cut across his palm was gone.
His pulse quickened.
He stumbled toward a nearby stream, nearly falling over roots and stones. When he reached the water, he froze.
A face stared back at him.
Sixteen years old.
Not twenty-one.
Not the crowned prince.
Not the king who had ruled for three months before being betrayed.
This was the face of a boy.
The day before everything fell apart.
His throat went dry.
"I… went back?"
His mind raced.
If this was the day before the coup…
Then tonight—
Tonight his uncle would move.
The nobles would switch sides.
The guards would open the gates.
The royal knights would be slaughtered.
His father would die.
His mother would burn with the palace.
And Aeron—
Would be stabbed again.
His chest tightened, phantom pain flashing where the blade once entered.
Fear crept into him.
But only for a moment.
Because something else followed.
Anger.
Hotter than the flames that had consumed Valerion.
In his previous life, he had trusted too easily.
He had believed loyalty could not be bought.
He had believed blood meant family.
He had been wrong.
Aeron clenched his fists.
"Not this time."
A strange sensation pulsed in his chest.
A faint warmth.
Unlike the cold around him.
It spread slowly, like embers awakening under ash.
He staggered back slightly.
"What… is this?"
In his past life, Aeron had been average.
No extraordinary magic.
No rare blessing.
He had trained hard, yes—but he was never considered a prodigy.
His uncle, however, possessed the rare Black Flame magic.
Powerful.
Feared.
Deadly.
And yet—
Right now—
Aeron could feel something darker than flame inside him.
A whisper.
Low.
Ancient.
Hungry.
"You have returned."
He froze.
The voice didn't come from outside.
It echoed inside his mind.
"Who's there?" he demanded.
Silence.
Then—
A low chuckle.
"You carry my mark… and yet you do not remember."
Aeron's heartbeat pounded in his ears.
"I remember dying."
"Yes," the voice replied calmly. "And I remember choosing."
Cold dread washed over him.
Choosing?
"What are you?" Aeron whispered.
"I am the curse your bloodline sealed away."
The air around him felt heavier.
"The curse that destroyed kingdoms. The power your ancestors feared."
The warmth in his chest grew stronger.
Images flashed before his eyes.
Ancient battles.
A shadow devouring armies.
Kings kneeling before darkness.
And then chains.
Sealed.
Buried.
Locked inside royal blood.
Inside him.
"You were weak before," the voice continued. "That is why you died."
Aeron's jaw tightened.
"And now?"
"Now you are reborn. And I am awake."
The forest trembled slightly.
Birds burst from trees.
Dark energy flickered faintly around Aeron's fingers.
He stared at his hands in shock.
This power—
It wasn't like elemental magic.
It wasn't fire.
It wasn't wind.
It felt like gravity bending around him.
Like the air feared him.
"What do you want?" Aeron asked quietly.
"To see the world burn again."
Silence.
Then Aeron shook his head.
"No."
The darkness paused.
"I won't destroy my kingdom."
"You cannot save it without me."
The words cut deeper than any blade.
Aeron knew they were true.
He had failed once.
He was weaker than his enemies.
The nobles had already been bought.
The knights had already been bribed.
Even if he warned his father—
Would anyone believe a sixteen-year-old boy claiming betrayal?
Probably not.
And time was short.
Very short.
Tonight was the feast.
The feast where poison would be poured.
Where doors would be unlocked.
Where blood would stain golden halls.
Aeron's breathing steadied.
"If I accept your power," he said slowly, "do I lose myself?"
The darkness laughed softly.
"That depends on how strong your will is."
Fair answer.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He remembered his mother's smile.
His father's tired but proud gaze.
The loyal captain who had died shielding him.
The servants who burned alive.
His people.
His kingdom.
If he did nothing—
History would repeat.
If he used this curse—
He might become something worse than his uncle.
A monster.
But monsters were not always evil.
Sometimes monsters were necessary.
Aeron opened his eyes.
"They betrayed me," he said quietly. "They betrayed my family."
"Yes."
"They destroyed everything."
"Yes."
His gaze hardened.
"Then I'll use you."
The forest fell silent.
The darkness inside him stirred with interest.
"I will not burn the innocent," Aeron continued. "But I will destroy every traitor."
A long pause followed.
Then—
"Very well… Cursed Heir."
The warmth exploded inside him.
Aeron gasped as dark energy surged through his veins. It hurt—but not like before. Not like death.
It felt like awakening.
Symbols flickered briefly across his skin before fading.
His senses sharpened.
He could hear distant footsteps miles away.
He could feel movement in the soil beneath him.
He could sense life.
And fear.
A slow smile formed on his lips.
"So this is power…"
The voice inside him hummed in satisfaction.
"Use it wisely."
Aeron turned toward the distant outline of Valerion's capital.
The palace towers stood tall against the night sky.
Still intact.
Still unaware.
"Tonight," he whispered, "the hunters become the hunted."
He began walking.
Each step more confident than the last.
No longer the naive prince.
No longer the weak king.
He was something new.
Something dangerous.
And somewhere far away, inside the capital, his uncle suddenly paused mid-conversation.
A chill ran down the man's spine.
As if something had changed.
As if fate itself had shifted.
But it was too late.
Because the boy who died—
Had returned.
And this time—
He would not beg for mercy.