The night sky looms dark and endless. The rain has stopped, but the cold lingers, seeping into my bones. Snow drifts down in silence, coating the ground in a deceivingly peaceful white.
The room is dark. Too dark. The air is heavy, suffocating.
I glance at the clock-2 a.m.
Then, I hear it. The sharp, unmistakable clash of steel outside.
A fight.
A battle.
My chest tightens. My hands tremble. A cold, sickening dread settles in my stomach. It's not just fear-it's the fear of loss.
I turn toward the bed. Empty.
She was supposed to be there.
"Lady? Where are you?"
The words slip from my lips before I can think. But then, doubt claws at me. Who am I calling? Who is this lady?
The door stands ajar. My breath hitches. The hallway beyond is drenched in red. Blood. It soaks the floor, smeared across the walls like grotesque paintings. The iron scent is suffocating.
I step forward, but my legs feel heavy-like wading through tar. My breath quickens. I can't stop. I have to find her.
"Lady!" I call out, my voice breaking.
But who is she?
Why does it feel like I already know the answer?
My feet carry me forward, deeper into the carnage.Bodies line the corridor, their faces twisted in agony, their eyes lifeless.
Then, outside-chaos.
The battlefield stretches before me, an endless storm of violence. Swords clash, screams tear through the air. The snow is no longer white. It's painted red.
A man walks toward me, stepping away from the carnage as if he no longer belongs to it. His arms cradle a girl-her body limp, lifeless. Her blood stains his hands, his clothes, the snow beneath his feet.
He stops in front of me. His expression is hollow, empty.
"I lost," he says. His voice is barely a whisper, yet it cuts through the noise like a blade.
Then, his gaze locks onto mine, and something shifts.
"You have to win."
The words hammer into me like a death sentence. I try to move, to speak, to understand. But before I can-
Darkness.
I gasp, jolting upright. My heart slams against my ribs.My breath comes in sharp, uneven gulps.
I look at the clock.
3 a.m.
It was just a dream.
But why does it feel like a memory?
"How long was I asleep?"
The royal physician bowed his head slightly before answering. "Two hours, Your Highness."
I exhaled, my fingers pressing against my temple as the remnants of the dream clung to my mind.
"Did you experience the same nightmare again, Your Highness?" he asked cautiously.
I pushed myself upright, my movements slow but deliberate. "It was the same… yet different."
The physician hesitated, his eyes briefly flickering with concern. "I beg your pardon?"
I looked past him, my gaze fixed on the dimly lit room. "It wasn't just a nightmare. It felt more like a memory."
The physician remained silent, waiting for me to continue.
"I was in a woman's bedroom." The words left my mouth with an unfamiliar weight.
The physician lowered his head slightly. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but I hope this is not an inappropriate—"
I cut him off. "She was missing." My voice was firm, leaving no room for interruptions. "I was searching for her, but when I left the room, the hallway was covered in blood. Corpses littered the floor."
I could still recall the overwhelming scent of death, the suffocating silence of the lifeless bodies. A dull ache settled in my chest.
"I kept running, desperate to find her. When I finally stepped outside the mansion, I saw a war." I ran a hand through my hair, my jaw tightening. "A battlefield where survival meant taking a life before losing your own."
The physician, though composed, gripped the edge of his sleeve tightly.
"Did Your Highness see their faces?" he asked, his voice quieter this time.
I closed my eyes briefly before shaking my head. "No. I did not."
A moment of silence passed.
The physician lowered his head in a deep bow. "Then I shall take my leave for today, Your Highness. I will return tomorrow to assess your condition. Thank you for your time."
As he prepared to leave, I fixed him with a sharp gaze.
"When you report to the Emperor, inform her that I will be attending tomorrow's meeting."
The physician stiffened. His breath hitched for a fraction of a second before he quickly bowed again. "P-Pardon, Your Highness? Y-Yes, of course. I will relay your message without fail."
A faint tremor ran through his hands as he stepped back.
"You are dismissed."
He bowed once more before hastily exiting the chamber.
He practically ran out, bowing so low I thought he might trip over his own feet.
I sighed, watching the door swing shut. "Was I really that terrifying?"
Without missing a beat, Ardan replied, "Yes, Your Highness."
I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Should I kill you then, Ardan?"
He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back as if preparing for his last rites. "I believe I shall keep my lips sealed, Your Highness."
A smirk tugged at my lips, but I let it go. Instead, I walked toward the window, gazing out at the moonlit gardens. The spring air was cool, carrying the scent of fresh blossoms. Fireflies blinked lazily above the flowers, and somewhere in the distance, a frog croaked, utterly unbothered by my existential crisis.
"I think I was in the North when the war started," I muttered, more to myself than to him.
Ardan, standing a few steps behind me, nodded. "It's possible. Before the war began, you asked me about the Astraloyn family."
I turned slightly. "Did I ask you anything else?"
"Of course. You ordered me to send a sealed letter to the Astraloyn mansion," he replied, his tone calm yet observant. "And… you also showed me the last Archmage's ring—the one you stole."
My fingers instinctively reached for the ring hanging around my neck. I had been wearing it like a necklace all this time.
I held the cool metal between my fingers, staring at it as a hollow feeling settled in my chest.
I don't remember.
Not the ring. Not the letter. Not even a fragment of the life I supposedly lived before.
One year ago, I woke up and found myself as the Crown Prince of Solasterra—the empire's heir, a renowned swordmaster, and a war hero.
But in truth… I remembered none of it.
It was strange to me—to be someone I couldn't even remember. The emperor, my mother called physicians from all around the world to try and heal me, but nothing seemed to work.
Then, suddenly, I could understand people's expressions. I don't know how I learned it, but it felt like survival instinct. Maybe I had learned it subconsciously, realizing it was the only way to navigate the complex world of politics and court life.
Then came the teleportation—flashes of me being in places I couldn't explain.
That's when I discovered I had demonic power, not divine power like I was supposed to have.
I asked my mother about it one night, when I couldn't bear the weight of my new identity any longer. She looked at me with a cold, calculated expression.
"You are my son, the future emperor. It doesn't matter if you have demonic power or divine power. The gods have abandoned the blessed ones. What matters is that you keep your power hidden until I see fit. For now, your only task is to heal."
Healing, she said. But nothing seemed to work.
The nightmares grew worse each night—more vivid, more terrifying. And today, the nightmare wasn't just a nightmare. It felt like a memory. The horrors of war, the bloodshed, the destruction. A war I couldn't remember fighting in, but one I knew deep down I had endured.
Who is my father?
How could a child of demons be born from a lineage of divine heroes?
The more I thought about it, the more it puzzled me. If my mother is the emperor, a powerful figure with a legacy of divine heritage, why was there no mention of a father? And if I truly came from a divine bloodline, how could I possess demonic power instead?
Had I known the answer to this when I still had my memories? Did I once understand who my father was, or is this another piece of my past that has been hidden from me?
---
"Your Highness."
"What?"
"Here is the information you requested."
He took the document and sat down on the couch, his eyes scanning the pages.
I observed him, my thoughts drifting to the past. It's probably better if he doesn't remember anything, I thought. I couldn't shake the memory of the day he returned from the war.
His eyes... They had looked like death itself. Instead of the relief or joy that should have come with returning home, he had looked like a man already lost—empty.
Now, a year later, his obsession with a serial killer still consumed him. But his eyes... They seemed to have a light again. He looked less dangerous, more human, even if the shadows still clung to him.
I couldn't help but wonder: What happened to him during the time he ran away from the palace?