The air was thick with the stench of blood. Screams echoed off the walls of the grand hall as Marcus Branford staggered forward, the weight of betrayal crushing his chest far more than the wound gushing from his side. His once-loyal soldiers lay scattered, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Among them stood him—General Reinar Vandel—Marcus' closest ally, his most trusted friend, now holding the blade that had just pierced his heart.

"Why?" Marcus rasped, dropping to his knees, his vision blurring. "I trusted you…"

Reinar's smirk was cold, void of any remorse. "Trust?" He let out a low chuckle. "You were always too blind, Marcus. Too caught up in honor, in loyalty. But in this world, power is all that matters."

Marcus Branford wanted to stand, to fight, to avenge the lives lost and strike down the man who had brought ruin to everything he held dear. But his body wouldn't respond. Darkness crept in, consuming his vision.

So, this was it. The mighty General Marcus Branford, felled not by an enemy on the battlefield, but by the treachery of a friend.

His breath hitched as the weight of regret bore down on him. He had spent his entire life fighting, building a legacy of victory. But in his pursuit of glory, what had he truly gained? There was no family waiting for him, no loved ones mourning his fall. He had lost it all long ago—sacrificing everything for the sake of the battlefield.

As his body grew cold, a strange sensation overtook him. It was as if the world around him was fading, and in its place was a soft, golden light. A gentle voice, neither male nor female, whispered into the recesses of his mind.

"Do you wish for a second chance?"

Marcus' breath caught. A second chance? At life? At what?

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question. He was a man who had lived and died by the sword—what was left for him?

But then the faces of the fallen soldiers, those who had fought and died for him, flickered before his eyes. Could he… could he make things right this time?

"Answer," the voice urged. "Do you seek redemption, Marcus Branford?"

"Yes," he whispered, though his lips no longer moved. "I want… a chance… to fix what I've broken."

"Very well," the voice replied, a soothing balm to his fractured soul. "Then live again… not as Marcus Branford, but as someone who can still protect and love."

Marcus Branford gasped, jolting upright. His chest heaved, and his heart raced as though he had just awoken from a nightmare. His hand flew to his side—where the mortal wound had been. But there was nothing. No blood. No pain.

Where was he?

The room was unfamiliar, smaller than the grand chambers he had once called home. The walls were lined with shelves stacked with books, and beside him was a wooden desk scattered with parchment and ink. Sunlight streamed through the small window, casting a warm glow over the simple, cozy room.

Marcus blinked, his senses still disoriented. Slowly, he raised his hands before him, staring at the long, slender fingers that were most certainly not his own. His heart pounded as he reached for a small mirror on the desk.

The reflection staring back was that of a stranger—a man perhaps in his mid-thirties, with tired eyes, a gentle expression, and brown hair that fell loosely over his forehead. The face was neither hardened by battle nor scarred by war.

He looked… weak.

"What is this?" he murmured, his voice unrecognizable. Panic began to claw at his chest as he scrambled from the bed, his legs unsteady. Who was this man? Where was he?

His frantic thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

"Elias?" A woman's voice called from the other side. "Elias, are you awake?"

Marcus froze. The name meant nothing to him, yet the woman spoke it with such familiarity. He quickly glanced at the papers on the desk, his eyes landing on the signature at the bottom of one of them: Elias Marlowe.

Was this his new name? Was this the second chance he had been given?

The door creaked open, and a woman stepped inside. She was beautiful, in a way that struck Marcus immediately—a quiet, worn beauty, with dark curls framing her pale face and worry etched in her brown eyes. There was something so gentle, yet sad about her presence, as if she carried the weight of the world on her slender shoulders.

She looked at him—no, through him, as if expecting disappointment. "The children are waiting for breakfast," she said quietly, avoiding his eyes. "Don't forget… Kael's performance is today. You promised you would come."

The words were simple, yet they hit him like a blow to the chest. Children? Performance? He had no idea what she was talking about. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of a life that was not his own.

But something in her voice—a touch of vulnerability, of hope long buried—kept him from speaking. He nodded, forcing a smile he didn't feel.

"I'll… be there," he managed to say, though the words felt foreign on his tongue.

She gave him a small, tight smile in return, then left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Marcus Branford—no, Elias Marlowe—sat on the edge of the bed, his mind spinning. Whoever this man had been, it was clear that he had a family—a wife, children, responsibilities that Marcus had never known. He clenched his fists, feeling the weight of this new life settle on his shoulders.

A second chance, the voice had said.