The morning light filtered through the golden drapes, casting intricate patterns on the cold marble floor. Lucien sat at the edge of his bed, fingers tracing the delicate carvings on the wooden frame, trying to steady the whirlwind inside him.
He was Duke Lucien Ravencroft—yet, not the man he'd been before. Not the tyrant who would ignite the Eastern Kingdoms in flames of war. No, this time, he had a chance to rewrite everything.
But how?
The Council awaited his command in less than an hour, and the weight of expectations pressed heavily on his shoulders. If he faltered, the course of history would snap back to its cruel pattern.
He rose and walked to the window, his icy eyes narrowing at the bustling courtyard below.
Soldiers drilled in rigid formation, banners fluttering with the emblem of the Raven. A symbol once synonymous with fear and oppression. Could it be changed?
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"My Lord, breakfast is ready," came a familiar voice. It was Marcellus, his loyal steward since the beginning of his reign.
Lucien turned. "Thank you, Marcellus. Has anything changed in the Council's agenda?"
Marcellus hesitated, then said quietly, "There have been rumors, My Lord. Whispers among the nobles that your recent decisions confuse them. Your refusal to march north, your sudden talks of peace…"
Lucien's lips curled into a faint smile. "Good. Confusion is a weapon."
Marcellus nodded, but concern lingered in his eyes.
After breakfast, Lucien dressed himself in the traditional black-and-gold attire of the Duke but left his cloak unfastened—a subtle signal, perhaps, of the change brewing within.
---
The War Council chamber buzzed with tension as Lucien entered. The nobles exchanged glances, uncertain how to interpret his demeanor.
General Varick, a towering man with scars crisscrossing his face, stepped forward. "My Lord, the Northern Province remains volatile. Our spies report increased troop movements. Are you certain negotiations will succeed?"
Lucien locked eyes with him, voice steady. "War has never brought lasting peace. I intend to speak directly to Prince Eiran. We will find common ground."
Varick scoffed. "Naïve, if you ask me. The Prince is no fool."
A younger nobleman, Lord Cedric, whispered to a companion, "This is madness. Ravencroft growing soft?"
Lucien ignored the whispers. He turned to the Council, voice firm. "If we continue down the path of bloodshed, we will lose everything. Families, lands, futures. I will not be the villain who destroys all."
A heavy silence fell.
Then, unexpectedly, Lady Selene, the Duke's political advisor, rose gracefully. Her sharp emerald eyes pierced the room.
"My Lord, your vision is bold. But dangerous. The other Kingdoms will see this as weakness and strike."
Lucien met her gaze. "Then we must be prepared to defend ourselves—but only if necessary."
She nodded slowly, a hint of respect in her expression.
---
Later, Lucien found a quiet corner in the castle gardens—a rare moment of peace amid the storm.
The scent of jasmine filled the air as he contemplated the impossible.
If he was to change fate, he needed allies. Allies who trusted him.
His thoughts drifted inevitably to Eiran.
The hero. The prince he was supposed to destroy.
Would Eiran believe him? Could he?
The sound of footsteps approaching startled him.
"Lucien."
He turned to see Marcellus, but the expression on his face was not the usual loyal servant's.
"There's a message for you, My Lord. From Prince Eiran himself."
Lucien's heart quickened as he took the sealed parchment.
Breaking the wax, he read:
"Meet me at the East Tower at sundown. There are things you must understand before we proceed."
---
The castle's East Tower was a place of legends and secrets—an ancient spire overlooking the city, often used for private conversations away from prying eyes.
As sundown approached, Lucien prepared himself, anticipation and dread entwining.
When he arrived, Eiran was already there, leaning against the battlements, his golden hair catching the last rays of sunlight.
"Why did you call me here?" Lucien asked cautiously.
Eiran's gaze was sharp. "Because despite everything, I am curious. You say you want peace, yet you wear the mask of the Duke. Are you truly different, or just playing a part?"
Lucien stepped closer, voice low. "I am no actor, Prince Eiran. I was reborn in this body—given a chance to change what was written. I don't want war. I don't want your death. I want a future where we both live."
Eiran's eyes flickered with something unreadable—suspicion? Pain? Maybe even hope.
"If what you say is true," Eiran said slowly, "then you have a difficult path ahead. There are forces far greater than either of us at play."
Lucien frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The Council, the nobles—they thrive on chaos. If we show weakness, they will conspire against us both."
A shadow passed over Eiran's face. "But perhaps… if we join forces, we can break the cycle."
Lucien's heart skipped. Was this an alliance—or something more?
---
Days passed with secret meetings and careful negotiations. Lucien found himself drawn to Eiran in ways he hadn't anticipated.
Not just as the hero of the story—but as a man scarred by duty and loneliness.
One evening, as they walked through the moonlit gardens, Eiran stopped and looked at him.
"Do you ever wonder if fate can be changed?" he asked quietly.
Lucien met his gaze. "Every day."
For a moment, the walls around them seemed to fall away.
Eiran reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lucien's forehead.
"Then perhaps we are not so different after all."
---
But outside their fragile bubble, shadows stirred.
Whispers in the halls grew louder.
The nobles plotted.
The Council watched.
And the legacy of the villain loomed like a storm on the horizon.
Lucien knew the path ahead would be treacherous.
But for the first time, he believed it was possible to write a new ending.
---
To be continued...