When he woke, sunlight had not yet risen; the
last thing he remembered was the necrotic face of Arakbamel, its reddish eyes bulging as if they might burst open—and perhaps, in the end, they had. Through the balcony, he saw the sky before him: dark with a violet hue, speckled with nearly infinite stars, the twin moons, and the great wandering star that appeared every five years. It was a sky he had long forgotten to observe.
As he gazed at the forgotten vastness through
the open balcony, he lost himself until he finally became aware of his surroundings. He felt the delicate fabric of his nightclothes against his skin and the soft, thick blankets—royal in colour—likely woven from the hide of a magical beast like the vulperia. The night was cool, a gentle breeze swaying the translucent curtains, while moonlight cast reflections on the room's gilded furniture. His body felt heavy, the objects around him unnaturally large. He sat up in the dim near-dawn light.
He realized his hands were small and slightly
chubby, devoid of calluses from swords or magical tools. He stared at them as if seeing them for the first time. Then those hands travelled to his face—soft and round—and to his short, smooth golden hair…
He jolted upright so abruptly he nearly fell from the bed, now colossal as if meant for a giant, and rushed to the large mirror by the dresser. His heart raced.
It had worked! He had traveled back in time. Far enough to remain a contender for the throne, to fight and change every terrible event that had unfolded since his childhood.
Laughing wildly, he covered his childlike face
with his hands, berating himself for his past naivety. His mother had wanted him as a tool to reach his father, who'd ignored him once deemed useless to the empire. He'd fled that twisted family circle on his own, even as his fairy remained ensnared in their tentacled grasp. How stupid he'd been to think the emperor's love for Canaria—daughter of his beloved half-brother—would protect her. How deluded to believe she'd be happy among those claiming to be family and friends while he lived exiled from Lörien!
Everything had ended so badly because of his
naivety…
Igfrid stepped toward the open balcony, gazing at the infinite sea of stars above the white city stretching into the distance—a sight starkly different from the last time he'd glimpsed Lörien from that same room. The city where Canaria had died at the hands of that bitch.
He clenched his fists tightly, recalling that fateful day when everything turned chaotic and lifeless. When he lost the only thing he'd ever loved: his precious Canaria.
He could still remember the first time he saw
her, wandering the palace gardens near the tower where they'd confined him, dismissed as a pitiful mentally disabled boy. He could still hear her childlike voice and smell the fragrance of her silver hair gleaming under the midday sun. Enchanted by the flowers he himself had planted—the aethriles.
"They're my favorite flowers… They remind me of my mother. She shares their name."
She'd told him this with a radiant smile, while
he hadn't known how to react. Her beauty and innocence amidst the ruthless court had stunned him.
Canaria had been the only one to approach him without seeing a forgotten, pitiful prince. She had offered him more than kindness and love from the moment they met. She'd even shielded him from the mockery and scorn of his half-brother: the crown prince and her betrothed.
How he had hated Sigurd when he realized the conflicting emotions he felt for Canaria were nothing more than love! How he'd longed to shed his mask of disability and strip his elder brother of everything!
Yet Canaria seemed to genuinely love Sigurd. What could he do?! Agonizing, he maintained his facade, watching from the shadows, as always, his beloved fairy.
Canaria had been a light in the abyss he was
plunged into, always had been, even on days when she spoke excitedly about her plans with Sigurd. Now, Igfrid had the chance to protect that little girl—currently just a baby in her cradle, guarded by her parents. That fact must not change. Igfrid would ensure Canaria kept her family happy and perfect, as she'd always wished.
His heart trembled imagining his beloved asleep in her crib, safe and untouched by evil or suffering.
"I'll ensure you remain loved and protected by
your family, little Canaria, until we meet again in this life."
"Definitively…" he declared aloud. "I'll create a world where you can be happy… where you can smile in peace. I don't care what I become… For you, Canaria, I'll defy even the gods themselves."
That vow etched itself into his heart, carved deep by his emotions.
He knew his trueenemy lurked in the royal palace, breathing and dreaming undisturbed, treated as a pillar of the nation.
If not for thatman's stupidity, Silvine would never have gained such power.
If thatman hadn't ordered Canaria's father to quell the unrest in Duat, she'd have had someone to protect her at all costs. She'd have been spared half the agony of living under her monstrous stepfather.
But Igfrid understood that killing the culprit now would change little. He wanted to excise the rot with the precision of a magical scalpel. The corruption and triggers for the horrors in his abandoned timeline didn't rest on one or two people.
Silvine's birth… The gods' folly in choosing her as their holymaiden, the absurd powers they granted her. That was just a fragment of the evils festering…
So many known and hidden players in this fatal play the gods had woven!
Even divine meddling needed to be neutralized.
He also hungered to know about the slumbering gods Arakbamel awaited so eagerly, the whereabouts of the Twilight Cultists, and how they'd survived in infamy for millennia. They were true adversaries to fear if he hoped to save Canaria in this stolen timeline. He had to ensure nothing else interfered with the flawless future he'd forge with his own hands.
Whether he became a hero or a monster, it would all be for her sake.
He sensed Amon hadn't travelled back with
him—the absence echoed through his being.
Testing, he tried to channel mana through his
fingertips, shaping it to detect remnants or impurities.
With immense effort, he barely conjured a faint iridescent thread. Clearly, he lacked control over his mana, and his reserves were far weaker than in adulthood.
He sighed heavily.
"Seems I've still got endless work ahead…"
It would be disastrous if he couldn't even form a mana mortar to craft magical tools. He needed to expand his capacity—a task that meant dancing with death. Pushing himself to the brink, much like when he'd been poisoned as a child, nearly burning out his magic circuits.
Returning to bed, he forced mana through his circuits, his body growing feverish. If he kept this up, dawn would find him burning with fever.
And so, Igfrid Severe D'Tyr began his grueling odyssey—all for Canaria's sake.