The spoon trembled in Nyelle's hand, sending ripples across the surface of her porridge. She stared into the bowl without seeing it, mind still reeling from the impossible reality of her situation. Every detail of her death remained vivid—the weight of the manacles, the crowd's hostile murmurs, the precise pattern of blood spatters on the cobblestones beneath the flogging post.
"You're not eating," Elina observed, pausing in her own breakfast. "Still feeling poorly?"
Nyelle forced a spoonful into her mouth, barely tasting it. "Just tired, Mother."
The lie came automatically, though calling Elina "Mother" no longer felt as foreign as it once had. More pressing concerns occupied her thoughts. She'd died—actually died—yet here she sat at the Harringer table on the morning she had planned to visit Lord Greymoor for the third time.
"Well, don't dawdle too long," Elina said, rising to collect empty bowls. "I need your help with Lady Meredith's embroidery today. My eyes aren't what they used to be for the fine stitching."
Torvald had already left for the docks, and Aerik was pulling on his work boots by the door. The mundane normality of the scene struck Nyelle as surreal against her memories of public execution.
"Marta at the Greymoor house asked after you yesterday," Aerik mentioned casually. "Said you haven't visited in a while."
Nyelle nearly dropped her spoon. "You spoke with Marta?"
"She was buying leather scraps at the tannery." He shrugged. "Seems fond of you."
The implications hit Nyelle like a physical blow. Events she remembered—her previous visits to Greymoor, her interactions with Marta—had actually occurred in this timeline. Only her final, fatal visit had been reset.
"I should go check the market for those herbs you wanted," Nyelle said to Elina, desperate to be alone with her thoughts.
"Take the basket then, and be back by midday."
Outside, Nyelle walked aimlessly through familiar streets, testing her memory against reality. The buildings matched her recollections perfectly. A scraggly dog she'd fed scraps to last week recognized her, wagging its tail hopefully. The blind beggar at the temple steps called her by name as she passed.
This wasn't a dream or delusion. Somehow, she had lived these weeks, died, and returned to a specific point in time—this morning.
She ducked into a quiet alley, pressing her back against cold stone as the magnitude of her situation finally hit her full force. Her legs gave way, and she slid down to sit on the damp cobblestones.
"Return by Death," she whispered, remembering the strange voice from the darkness. Was this why she was here? Why Nirei Harringer had awakened in Nyelle's body? To experience death repeatedly?
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. Nirei had spent a lifetime avoiding consequences, using others as shields against repercussion—and now found himself in a situation where death itself wasn't permanent. The cosmic irony was almost unbearable.
But if death reset time, what were the rules? How far back would she return? Why this specific morning?
Nyelle pulled her knees to her chest, forcing herself to think methodically. She needed to test this ability—to understand its parameters and limitations before proceeding further.
First, she needed to confirm her memories were accurate. Rising on shaky legs, she made her way toward the Upper Quarter, staying on the main thoroughfares where city guards maintained a visible presence. Not toward Greymoor's residence—she wouldn't repeat that fatal error—but to the public square where her execution had occurred.
The market bustled with normal activity. No flogging post stood at the center, no bloodstained stones marked her death site. Yet when Nyelle closed her eyes, she could overlay the memory with perfect clarity—the magistrate's cold voice, Greymoor's vindictive satisfaction, the crowd's cruel fascination.
A passing city watchman nodded politely to her, the same man who had tightened iron manacles around her wrists until they broke skin. He showed no recognition, no memory of her capture and punishment.
Verification complete, Nyelle turned toward the river that ran along Yorkton's eastern edge. She needed somewhere private to contemplate her next test—the most important question of all.
The riverbank was deserted at this hour, laborers already at work and children in lessons or apprenticeships. Nyelle found a secluded spot beneath a willow tree, its trailing branches creating a natural curtain.
"If I die again," she murmured to herself, "will I reset to this same morning? Or can I control when I return to?"
The question had profound implications. If she could control the reset point, she might eventually return to Nirei's original timeline—escape this medieval world entirely. If not, she needed to understand the mechanics of when and how the reset occurred.
Logic suggested a direct experiment, but the memory of the flogging post's agony gave her pause. Death had been excruciating. To deliberately experience it again seemed unthinkable.
Yet what choice did she have? Understanding this ability could be the difference between survival and endless suffering in this world.
Nyelle stared into the river's current, weighing her options. A quick death would be preferable to flogging. Drowning would be relatively swift, especially in a child's body with limited strength.
The rational calculation felt surreal—Nirei planning his own death as dispassionately as he'd once planned investment strategies. But before she could act on the thought, another possibility occurred to her.
What if death wasn't the only trigger for reset? Perhaps she could simply will herself back to an earlier point?
She closed her eyes, concentrating on the memory of yesterday morning, attempting to project her consciousness backward through time. Nothing happened. The river continued its gentle murmur, birds called overhead, and Nyelle remained firmly in the present moment.
"Only death then," she whispered.
She approached the river's edge, observing how the current strengthened near the center. A sudden memory flashed of Nirei's childhood swimming lessons—the repeated warnings about underwater currents and river safety. The irony wasn't lost on her.
Just as she steeled herself to step into the water, a voice called from the path behind her.
"Bit cold for swimming today, isn't it?"
Nyelle spun around, heart hammering. A gray-haired woman stood watching her, basket of laundry balanced on one hip.
"I wasn't—" Nyelle began, then stopped. No explanation would sound reasonable.
The woman's eyes narrowed with concern. "Everything all right, child? You look troubled."
"I'm fine," Nyelle insisted. "Just... thinking."
"Thinking looks dangerous when you're that close to deep water." The woman set down her basket. "I'm heading back to Tanner's Row if you're walking that way. Always safer with company."
The interruption had broken the moment of desperate resolve. Nyelle stepped away from the water's edge, recognizing the foolishness of her impulsive plan. Death—even temporary death—shouldn't be approached so carelessly. There had to be a more controlled way to test her ability.
"Thank you," she said to the woman, falling into step beside her. "I should be getting home anyway."
As they walked, Nyelle reconsidered her situation more carefully. The Reset had returned her to this specific morning—the day she had planned to escalate her con on Lord Greymoor. Perhaps the reset point wasn't arbitrary but tied to significant decision points or developments in her life.
By the time she reached Cooper's Lane, Nyelle had formulated a new approach. She wouldn't risk death to test her theory—not yet. Instead, she would focus on using her foreknowledge strategically.
Inside the Harringer home, Elina looked up from her sewing. "Back already? Did you find the herbs?"
Nyelle froze. In her distraction, she'd forgotten her supposed errand.
"The herbalist was out," she improvised quickly. "He'll have fresh stock tomorrow."
Elina frowned slightly but accepted the explanation. "Well, since you're here, you can help with these seams."
As Nyelle settled beside Elina with needle and thread, her mind continued working. If her memories were accurate, Lord Greymoor had already begun investigating her claims—questioning her invented mother's name and employment history. Her planned visit today would have ended in disaster regardless.
But she still possessed valuable information—Greymoor's private schedule, the habits of his household, the location of valuables within his study. Knowledge that could be exploited differently.
"Mother," she said carefully, "have you ever delivered mending to Lord Greymoor's house?"
Elina looked up, surprised. "The Greymoors? Heavens no. Their household employs full-time seamstresses for everyday work. Only the royal tailor handles their formal attire."
"I was just curious. Marta—a kitchen maid there—mentioned they might need extra help before the autumn festival."
"That would be good work if it came our way," Elina said, returning to her stitching. "Though I'd be surprised if they looked to Lower Quarter seamstresses."
The conversation confirmed what Nyelle already suspected—she'd need to be more careful in connecting her schemes to the Harringers. The family's reputation for honest work made them vulnerable to association with her less scrupulous activities.
That evening, as the family gathered for their simple dinner, Nyelle observed them with new eyes. Torvald's shoulders drooped with exhaustion from a day loading cargo ships. Aerik's hands were rough and red from the tannery's harsh chemicals. Elina squinted over her soup, her eyesight strained from hours of fine needlework.
They deserved better than their hardscrabble existence. Despite her catastrophic encounter with Greymoor, Nyelle didn't abandon her objective—improving the Harringers' circumstances. She simply needed a less dangerous approach.
"Father," she ventured, "is it true the shipyard is hiring new guards?"
Torvald looked up, surprise crossing his weathered features. "Where did you hear that?"
"Market gossip," she replied smoothly. "Someone said Captain Denevar is expanding his security force because of the northern merchant ships coming for the festival."
The information had come from Marta during one of their conversations—details about Greymoor's shipping interests that Nyelle had filed away for potential use.
"Aye, there's truth to that," Torvald conceded. "Though they're looking for experienced men, not dock laborers."
"But you were a soldier," Nyelle pressed. "Surely that counts as experience?"
Elina and Aerik both looked at Torvald with surprise. The former soldier rarely discussed his military background, even with his family.
"That was long ago," Torvald said carefully. "And not something I've advertised in my laboring work."
"You still have the skills though," Nyelle insisted. "I've seen how you move sometimes—like you're always ready for something to happen. The other dock workers don't stand that way."
Torvald's expression shifted between confusion and thoughtfulness. "Observant little thing, aren't you?" He sighed, setting down his spoon. "Truth is, I've considered it. Guard pay is nearly double what I make at the docks. But those positions go to men with connections or bribes to offer."
"You should try anyway," Nyelle said with calculated enthusiasm. "What's the worst that could happen? They say no, and you're no worse off."
The seed planted, Nyelle turned to Aerik. "And you're wasted at that tannery. Master Hemings at the leather goods shop said he's looking for someone who understands quality hides but can also manage accounts."
Another piece of information gleaned during her market explorations—the elderly leatherworker needed an assistant with both craft knowledge and basic numeracy, a rare combination in Lower Yorkton.
"Master Hemings?" Aerik looked skeptical. "His shop caters to merchants and minor nobility. He wouldn't hire a tanner's apprentice."
"He might if you showed him that ledger system you created for tracking your savings," Nyelle countered. "You have a mind for numbers that most craftsmen lack."
The conversation shifted to possibilities neither Harringer had previously considered—Torvald hesitantly admitting his qualifications for security work, Aerik acknowledging his talents might be marketable beyond the tannery.
Later, preparing for sleep near the hearth, Nyelle reflected on the subtle manipulation she'd employed at dinner. Instead of directly stealing from Greymoor, she was using knowledge gained during her con to open legitimate opportunities for the Harringers. The approach was less immediately profitable but far less dangerous.
As she drifted toward sleep, Nyelle's mind returned to the central mystery of her situation. The Reset had given her a second chance after a fatal error. But what were its limits? How many times could she die and return? Was the reset point fixed, or would it advance as time passed?
Most importantly, what was the purpose behind this strange ability? Was it merely a tool for survival, or did it serve some greater design she couldn't yet comprehend?
The next morning, Nyelle awoke with new resolve. She would test her foreknowledge in small, controlled ways before attempting anything more ambitious. Understanding this power was now her primary objective—more important than cons or schemes or even improving the Harringers' circumstances.
After breakfast, she deliberately took a different path to the market than she'd followed in her previous timeline. If her memories were reliable, the baker's apprentice would be delivering fresh bread to the silversmith's household at precisely this time, using a shortcut through the alley ahead.
Nyelle positioned herself at the corner, counting silently. On "seven," a gangly boy rounded the corner at a run, massive delivery basket balanced precariously on one shoulder. Just as she remembered.
"Morning, Theo," she called, stepping aside to let him pass.
The boy slowed, confusion crossing his flour-dusted face. "Do I know you?"
In the previous timeline, they'd never formally met. Nyelle had only observed his delivery routine from a distance while mapping Yorkton's commerce patterns.
"You're Master Hadley's apprentice," she said smoothly. "Everyone knows you make the fastest deliveries in the Lower Quarter."
The flattery worked as expected, bringing a pleased grin to the boy's face. "Got to be quick in this business. Fresh bread waits for no one!"
He continued on his route, none the wiser that their interaction represented impossible knowledge.
Emboldened, Nyelle proceeded to test other memories. She navigated directly to a hidden shortcut between buildings she'd discovered during her third week of exploration. She correctly anticipated the city guard's patrol timing at the market square. She knew exactly when the temple bells would ring for mid-morning prayers.
Her memories were flawlessly accurate, down to the smallest detail. The Reset hadn't simply returned her consciousness—it had preserved perfect recall of events that hadn't yet happened in this timeline.
The strategic implications were staggering. With careful application, this ability could make her invincible in nearly any endeavor. Failed plans could be corrected, mistakes undone, risks taken with the safety net of Reset if things went catastrophically wrong.
Nirei had been a master manipulator with ordinary human limitations. What might he become with the power to literally rewrite his failures?
The thought sent an uncomfortable shiver through Nyelle. Such power demanded responsibility—a concept Nirei had always treated with contempt. But dying had changed something fundamental in her perspective. The experience of absolute vulnerability beneath the lash had left an impression deeper than the physical wounds that had killed her.
By midday, Nyelle had verified dozens of memories against current reality, each confirmation strengthening her understanding of Reset's potential. She returned home with both trepidation and exhilaration churning in her chest.
Elina greeted her with unexpected news. "Torvald's gone to speak with Captain Denevar," she said, looking both hopeful and anxious. "Your words at dinner gave him courage to try for that guard position."
"That's wonderful," Nyelle replied, genuinely pleased. Her subtle manipulation was already bearing fruit.
"It's a long shot," Elina cautioned, "but your father's always been too humble about his capabilities. Perhaps it's time he remembered what he can do."
The afternoon passed in quiet domesticity, Nyelle helping with household tasks while maintaining an outward calm that belied her inner turmoil. The power of Reset changed everything—her approach to Yorkton, her plans for the Harringers, her very understanding of consequence itself.
When Torvald returned that evening, his expression gave nothing away until the family gathered at the table.
"Captain Denevar remembered me," he announced quietly. "From the Northern Campaign, twenty years ago. Said he'd been looking for men with actual combat experience, not just street brawlers with connections."
"Did he offer you a position?" Aerik asked eagerly.
"Trial basis," Torvald replied, a smile finally breaking through his reserve. "Starting tomorrow. Guard lieutenant over the north dock section. Double my current wage if I pass the probation month."
The family erupted in celebration—Elina embracing her husband, Aerik pounding the table in excitement, Nyelle watching with satisfaction as her foreknowledge translated into tangible improvement in their lives.
As they settled into sleep that night, Nyelle lay awake on her straw mattress, contemplating her new reality. She'd confirmed her memories were intact and accurate. She'd verified she could use this knowledge to influence current events. But the fundamental questions about Reset itself remained unanswered.
What triggered the specific return point? Would it always be this same morning, or would the point advance as time passed? Could she somehow control or influence when she returned to?
The answers would determine her entire strategy moving forward. If the reset point remained fixed, she could take extraordinary risks knowing she would always return to this same day. If it advanced, she needed to be more careful about when and how she died.
Either way, death had become a tactical option rather than a final end—a concept so profoundly disturbing and liberating that Nyelle found herself simultaneously terrified and exhilarated by the possibilities.
Tomorrow she would continue testing the boundaries of her foreknowledge. For tonight, she allowed herself to savor the small victory of Torvald's new position—proof that even without direct access to Greymoor's wealth, she could improve the Harringers' circumstances through careful application of her unique advantages.
As sleep finally claimed her, one thought remained clear: whatever strange fate had brought Nirei Harringer to this medieval world and granted him the power of Reset, she would master it completely. Death itself had become merely another tool in an expanding arsenal—the ultimate extension of a con artist's ability to rewrite reality to suit his purposes.