The door creaked open.
An elderly man stepped inside, followed by two maids and a stunning woman whose tear-streaked face betrayed both beauty and sorrow. Her eyes widened the moment she saw him.
"Nel...?" she choked out, her voice trembling.
Naomi blinked. Nel?
"I'm sorry... who?" he said hoarsely.
Without warning, the woman rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him, sobbing openly.
"My son... You're alive. Thank the heavens..."
Naomi stiffened in her embrace, bewildered. Son? What was she talking about?
"I don't understand what's happening," he muttered. "Who are you people? Where am I?"
The woman gently cupped his face in her hands, her eyes filled with desperation. "My son, you look so weak. Are you okay? Don't you recognize me?"
He pulled back slightly, eyes narrowing. "No. I don't know you."
Whispers began stirring behind her.
"Is the young master's brain broken?" one of the maids murmured under her breath.
"He's certainly acting strange," the old man said grimly.
The woman's expression crumpled further, tears spilling freely now. "Nel... I am your mother. Don't you remember me?"
Naomi stared at her. "Mother...?"
Before the tension could escalate further, another figure entered the room — a man in a long coat with a satchel slung over his shoulder. His presence immediately commanded attention.
"Please," the man said with practiced calm. "Everyone, compose yourselves. Let me examine the young master."
The doctor approached Naomi and gently pressed two fingers to his wrist. Then, placing a hand on his forehead, he whispered, "Checko." A soft glow pulsed from his palm.
His brows furrowed as the spell revealed the truth.
"The young master is suffering from memory loss," he declared. "His mind shows signs of disuse, as though he hasn't truly engaged with his surroundings for a long time — likely due to his coma."
A collective gasp echoed through the room.
The woman — Naomi's supposed mother — let out a shaky sigh of relief. "So… he's not injured beyond repair?" she asked, voice still trembling. "He will recover?"
The doctor nodded. "With time, rest, and perhaps some gentle guidance… yes. He should recover."
Hour later...
Naomi lay quietly on the bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling. In the stillness, a heavy realization settled into his heart:
This life — this second chance — was a gift from his mother.
A gift to survive peacefully in a world he barely understood.
Yet even as gratitude warmed a corner of his soul, sorrow gnawed at him.
He could not forget the past.
He could not forget the life — and the mother — he had left behind.
Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Mother... Is this your gift?" Naomi whispered, voice trembling.
"How am I supposed to live in a strange world without you? Why didn't you take me with you... to heaven?"
His body shook with quiet sobs, grief pouring out like a dam breaking.
Just then, the door slammed open.
A man stormed in, a blazing presence that filled the room with suffocating heat.
He was tall and muscular, clothed in noble attire stitched with gold and crimson threads. His hair, a wild mane of fiery red, crowned his head like a burning flame.
"Nel!" the man shouted, voice booming like a war drum.
"My pathetic brother! You're alive after all!"
Naomi jerked upright, startled.
"Y-yes? And... who are you?"
The stranger's expression twisted instantly from joy to fury.
"You dare not recognize me?!" he bellowed.
Heat shimmered in the air around him, small wisps of flame licking at the edges of his sleeves.
Naomi froze, heart hammering.
Magic...!
This world really has magic!
"You filthy disgrace!" the red-haired man roared. "How could you forget me?!
I am Murin Darkstar! Your elder brother! The rightful heir to Father's bloodline!"
Without warning, Murin lunged forward, seizing Naomi by the collar and lifting him halfway off the bed.
"You pathetic worm," Murin snarled. "I should beat the memory back into you!"
Fury boiled in Naomi's chest, but before he could react, a voice cried out.
"Please, Lord Murin! Have mercy!"
The young mistress — the woman who had claimed to be his mother — stumbled forward and fell to her knees, clutching at Murin's leg in desperation.
Murin's face twisted in disgust.
Without hesitation, he kicked her away, sending her sprawling across the polished marble floor.
Then, with a cruel sneer, he slapped her hard enough to echo through the chamber.
Naomi's breath caught.
Something snapped inside him.
"You should be grateful I don't kill you both right now," Murin said coldly. "But because of Father's will, I will let you live... for now."
He turned his burning gaze toward the woman.
"Remember your place, concubine trash."
Naomi's hands balled into fists. His blood roared in his ears.
He surged forward and grabbed Murin's collar in return, yanking him down to eye level.
"You bastard!" Naomi shouted. "You dare lay a hand on a woman?! Are you insane?!"
For a moment, silence.
Then Murin laughed — a low, cruel sound that shook Naomi to the core.
"Hahahahaha... Oh, poor Nel. So you really have forgotten, haven't you?"
Murin's voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
"Did you forget it was me who put you into that coma? After our duel for succession?"
Naomi's mind reeled.
The memories were gone — but the hatred burning in Murin's eyes was all too real.
Tension crackled between them, like a storm ready to break.
But before the two brothers could tear each other apart, the temperature in the room suddenly plummeted.
From burning hot... to freezing cold.
A chilling wind howled into the chamber.
The very torches along the walls flickered and died, plunging the room into an eerie half-light.
And from the shadows, a new voice spoke:
"Enough."
The voice cut through the room like a blade — cold, sharp, and absolute.
The air shifted.
Murin froze. His grip on Naomi loosened instinctively as the temperature dropped another degree.
From the shadows near the door, footsteps echoed — calm, deliberate, confident.
A woman stepped into the light.
She was tall, wrapped in a sleek white cloak that flowed like liquid silver.
Armor of polished steel hugged her frame, etched with ancient runes that shimmered faintly under the candlelight. Her hair, long and snow-white, was tied behind her in a high tail, strands dancing with each step.
But it was her eyes that stole the room.
Icy blue. Focused. Piercing.
They locked onto Murin with the fury of a blizzard.
"You will not touch him again," she said, voice low and controlled — the kind of tone that dared anyone to disobey.
Murin scoffed, though a flicker of unease crept into his expression.
"And who are you to order me?"
The woman didn't blink.
She stepped between Naomi and Murin without hesitation and drew her blade — a slim longsword with a gleaming blue edge that steamed slightly in the warm room.
Her stance was flawless. Effortless. Deadly.
"I am Seraphina Vale," she said.
"Sworn knight of the late Duchess Elira Darkstar... and protector of her son, Heir of the Darkstar Duchy."
Naomi blinked.
Heir...?
Murin's eyes twitched at the title. "Tch... So the mutt's lapdog still lives."
In a flash, Seraphina's sword was at his throat.
"You speak again, and I swear I'll remind you how your fire fares against my ice," she said coolly.
Silence.
Naomi stared at her, stunned. Her presence… it was like gravity. Even without knowing her, some part of him trusted her.
As if, in another life, she had stood at his side.
Seraphina turned slightly, her voice softening just a fraction.
"Master Naomi... you're safe now. Rest. I'll handle him."
Murin sneered, but the blade hadn't moved an inch.
He raised his hands mockingly. "Fine. For now."
Then, with one last glare at Naomi, he turned and stormed out.
Seraphina didn't sheath her sword until the door clicked shut.
Only then did she turn to Naomi, kneel before him, and place a fist over her heart.
"Forgive me for arriving late, my lord."
Naomi stared at her.
"...Who are you really?" he asked.
She looked up, and for the first time, a flicker of sadness passed through her frost-bitten expression.
"I am the blade your mother trusted with your life. And I will not fail you again."
To be continue....
[End of chapter]