The rain fell in relentless sheets, cold and heavy, drenching the lifeless streets as León staggered forward. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring with each heartbeat. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and thick, painting his shirt in dark crimson. The world around him slowed, every sound fading into the distance, until only the pounding of his own heart remained.
He had been betrayed. Not by enemies, but by those he had called allies.
'Is this how it ends?' he thought, his steps faltering. 'After everything?'
León had been a king—not of a land marked by borders, but of an empire carved from darkness. Born into nothing, he had clawed his way from the gutters, his hands dirtied by blood and sacrifice. He rose as a master of strategy and strength, bending men to his will, forging alliances in the shadows, and conquering his enemies with ruthless precision. His name was spoken in whispers, both revered and feared, and his dominion stretched across the unseen corners of the world—where law was fleeting, and power ruled. Yet all his strength, all his conquests, had brought him to this: a dying man in a forgotten alley, betrayed by the very hands he had once trusted. The throne he built crumbled beneath him, reduced to dust and regret.
A sharp ache twisted in his chest. Not just from the wound, but from the weight of regrets. His parents, long gone, their memories fading with every drop of blood he lost. Friends, few but loyal, who had stood by his side until the end. His empire, collapsing like sand beneath a storm.
'I fought so hard to survive... and for what?' His body trembled. The warmth was leaving him. Cold crept into his bones.
Fear. Not of death, but of being forgotten.
The sky cracked with thunder, a distant echo to his final moments. León fell to his knees, his strength ebbing with each heartbeat. Fear gripped him, colder than the rain that soaked his skin. His hands trembled, pressing against the wound that bled his life away.
'I don't want to die,' he thought desperately, his breath ragged. 'Not like this. Not alone.'
His heart pounded, terror surging with every beat. He had never believed in life beyond death, never believed in gods or afterlives. But now, as the shadows crept in, he longed for something—anything—beyond this empty end.
'I don't want it to be over. I... I don't want to disappear.'
Tears mixed with rain, the fear of oblivion tearing through him. The cold void of non-existence was closer with every heartbeat, and he hated it. He hated that his final moments would be filled with fear, with regret, with the silent scream of a soul begging for another chance.
But the world offered no mercy. Only the relentless pull of darkness.
'Please... let there be more. Let there be something.'
But there was only the void.
'I don't want to go. Not yet.'
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. Yet, as the darkness took him, he felt something... warm. A light, soft and beckoning, unlike anything he had known.
The first sensation was warmth. A gentle embrace, like sunlight on skin. León—no, Noel—opened his eyes, but the world was strange. Blurred shapes, soft sounds, a soothing scent of lavender.
Arms held him, delicate and firm, their warmth seeping into his fragile body. The woman's skin was soft, her hands gentle, and her face radiated an ethereal beauty. Her hair was long and golden, cascading in gentle waves over her shoulders, catching the light like spun sunlight. Her eyes, a deep shade of green, shimmered with tenderness, filled with love and relief. She wore a flowing gown of pale blue, its fabric soft and light, as though spun from morning mist. A faint scent of lavender clung to her, calming and pure. Her voice, gentle and melodic, cooed softly as she rocked him in her embrace. He was no longer a man of strength, but an infant cradled in the tender arms of a mother he did not yet know.
"My little Noel," the woman whispered, her smile radiant with joy.
A man stood beside her, tall and commanding, his frame solid and strong like a figure carved from ancient stone. His dark hair was neatly combed back, streaks of silver at his temples hinting at years of battles and burdens borne. His jaw was sharp, his features stern, though his piercing eyes—a shade of stormy grey—held a depth of emotion beneath the stoicism. Dressed in a nobleman's dark tunic trimmed with silver embroidery, his presence exuded power and control. Yet, as he gazed upon the infant in his wife's arms, something softer broke through—relief, pride, and an unspoken promise of protection. This was his father. The bond between them, though new, was undeniable.
And there, watching with innocent wonder, stood a young girl—his sister. She bore the same sharp features as their father, though softened by youth. Her hair, darker than her mother's, was pulled into loose curls that framed her delicate face. Her eyes, a piercing grey like storm-touched skies, shimmered with curiosity and excitement. Though young, there was a quiet strength in her gaze, a spark that hinted at determination. Her small hand reached out, hesitant but eager, gently brushing against his tiny fingers as though assuring herself that he was real.
Noel tried to speak, but only a soft cry escaped his lips. The woman—his mother—held him closer, rocking him gently.
"Hush, my love. You're safe."
Safe.
The word echoed in his fragile mind. But beneath it, confusion and fear twisted. He remembered pain. Blood. Betrayal. And now... this.
'Why am I here?' The question screamed within him, but no words could shape it.
Was this a dream? A punishment? A second chance?
His memories blurred, but one truth remained: he had died.
And yet, here he was.
Reborn. In a world unknown. In a body not his own.
And as his eyes fluttered closed, lulled by the warmth of his mother's embrace, a single thought lingered in his mind.
'Who am I now?'