Derick stood at the window of his bedroom, watching sunlight dance over the vast lands of House Thorne.
Fields stretched as far as the eye could see—neatly cultivated, dotted with horses, greenhouses, and stone fountains. The mansion itself was solid, noble in its design. Not extravagant like the Duke's golden palace, but strong and dignified. Built from polished white concrete, it glowed beneath the sun.
It hadn't changed. None of it had.
Neither had the people.
He could hear them already.
"Derick, how many times must I tell you? Posture!"
That was his father, Marquis Gregory Thorne, stern and precise, a man who measured respect by how straight you stood and how deep you bowed.
Derick took a deep breath and turned toward the door just as it opened.
His sister, Ellen, peeked in, grinning.
"You're actually up early? What happened? Did you hit your head in your sleep?"
"Maybe," Derick muttered, cracking a small smile.
She blinked. "Are you... okay?"
He stared at her for a moment. She looked just like he remembered—messy brown curls, oversized tunic, always sneaking sweets from the kitchen. She would die four years from now, caught in a fire meant for him. A fire Seraphina would later claim was an accident.
But not this time.
"I'm okay, El. Just… a strange dream."
"Well, if you're up, come on! Father's already shouting at the servants."
He followed her downstairs, heart racing.
The halls were clean and warm, lined with polished stone and deep red carpet. Ornate oil paintings lined the walls—ancestors he used to admire. Now, they looked like strangers.
In the courtyard, their father was pacing.
"You're late, boy."
Derick bowed. "Forgive me, Father."
Gregory blinked. "...That's new."
The old Derick would've mumbled something sarcastic. This time, Derick just waited silently.
Gregory narrowed his eyes but nodded. "Go change. You'll begin sparring with the instructor in ten minutes."
Derick turned without a word, feeling the weight of his father's eyes on his back.
The morning dragged on with drills and sword practice. His body wasn't what it had been in his past life—he was slower, weaker. But his mind remembered every cut, every angle. He didn't need to be strong now. He needed to wait.
Later that day, as he sat alone in the east garden, polishing his training sword, a familiar voice approached.
"You were always the quiet one."
It was Cassandra Thorne, his older cousin.
Sharp eyes. Colder heart.
She was part of the family's internal politics—always siding with whichever brother seemed closest to inheriting the title. She had no loyalty but to herself.
"I'm observing," Derick replied evenly.
"You've changed," she said, watching him.
He shrugged. "I woke up."
"Hmm." She smirked. "We'll see how long that lasts."
She turned and left without another word.
Derick clenched his fists.
They're all still playing the same games, he thought.
But this time, he wasn't a clueless pawn.
That night, he sat at his desk, candle flickering beside him, scribbling notes in a leather-bound book. Not about sword forms or noble etiquette.
About the Duke's family.
Duke Valemar Calderon.Seraphina Calderon.And her sister...
His hand froze over the name.
Liora Calderon.
The girl who had smiled at him when no one else did. The one who offered kindness in a world full of knives.
He remembered the first time he saw her. He'd followed his father to the Duke's estate. It was a political obligation—boring and long.
He had wandered into the wrong garden.
And there she was.
Alone. Sitting beneath a cherry blossom tree. Sketching.
When she noticed him, she didn't scream or call for a guard. She just tilted her head and smiled.
"Lost?"
He'd nodded, stunned. She patted the space beside her.
"Then let's be lost together."
That one moment had carved itself into his soul.
But he never spoke his feelings. Not once.By the time he realized how much she meant to him, it was too late.
And in the end, she died.Because of her sister.Because of her lover.Because of Derick's silence.
"I won't be silent again," he whispered.
He circled Seraphina's name with ink.And underlined Vance Calderon's twice.
He would not strike first. Not yet.They wouldn't even see it coming.
The next day, he was summoned to his father's study.
Gregory stood by the window, arms crossed.
"You'll be accompanying me to the Duke's estate tomorrow," he said. "We've been summoned for a trade conference."
Derick's heart stopped.
So soon?
"I understand," he replied calmly.
Gregory looked surprised again. "Be sharp. The Duke has little patience for weakness."
And neither did Derick anymore.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
He sat at the edge of his bed, gripping the medallion around his neck—a small, carved symbol of House Thorne. In the past, it had been shattered during his imprisonment.
Now, it was whole again.Just like him.
There was a knock.
He opened the door to find Ellen holding a plate.
"I brought cake. You looked moody."
He chuckled. "Thanks."
She handed him the plate and sat beside him on the bed.
"You're weird lately."
"Maybe I grew up."
She rolled her eyes. "In one night?"
"Something like that."
She leaned against him. "You're not alone, you know."
His chest tightened.
"I know."
But he had been. And if he failed again, he would be alone forever.
"I'm glad you're here," he said quietly.
She blinked. "Okay, you're definitely possessed."
He laughed. For a second, he almost felt okay.
But his eyes darkened as he looked toward the window.Toward the rising moon.
Tomorrow, he would see Liora again.He would watch her from afar.He wouldn't speak. Not yet.
He had learned the rules of this game. And this time, he planned to win.