By the time Franklyn Croft turned five, he had perfected the art of pretending to be ordinary.
He laughed when expected, stumbled when appropriate, and feigned ignorance with the precision of a seasoned actor. After all, nothing was more dangerous in a royal court than being a child who knew too much.
Especially one born under an omen.
Especially one who remembered dying.
"Again," barked Sir Garrick, his training master, slapping the flat of a wooden sword against his palm. "Left stance! And stop holding the grip like a stuffed toy!"
Franklyn gritted his teeth, adjusting his tiny feet on the sandy courtyard. Around him, the other royal trainees—mostly noble boys twice his age—snickered. Darion, his oldest brother and heir to the throne, leaned against a column watching the lesson, arms crossed and unimpressed.
"Too stiff," he called. "Your wrists are locking. Loosen up, baby brother."
Franklyn said nothing. Words wouldn't win him respect here.
So he let his body remember.
Footwork. Balance. Leverage. Things he once saw in late-night martial arts videos, now filtered through the muscle memory of a five-year-old prince. The next swing flowed sharper, more confident. He struck the training dummy with a clean crack, and the laughter stopped.
Sir Garrick raised an eyebrow.
"Hmph. Not bad. Again."
---
After lessons, Franklyn snuck away to his favorite place: a hidden garden deep within the west wing of the palace, forgotten by all but time.
The gate was half-broken, the stone path cracked and overgrown with ivy. A ruined statue of an armored knight stood watch at the center fountain, weathered by age but still noble.
Franklyn came here often to think. To breathe.
To remember who he was—and who he wanted to be.
He sat cross-legged beneath a cherry tree, watching petals fall like soft pink snow.
This world... it's beautiful. Dangerous. But real.
He touched the hilt of the wooden sword tucked under his belt.
And I'm not wasting this life.
A soft rustle caught his attention.
From behind a hedge, someone stepped out.
She was about his age, maybe younger. White hair that shimmered like frost. Pale blue eyes too bright to be natural. She wore a simple gray tunic and held a book far too thick for a child.
Franklyn blinked. "Who are you?"
She tilted her head. "You're the Fourth Prince."
"And you're... not supposed to be here."
She stepped closer, ignoring the unspoken rules of status.
"I heard you make the Aether dance. Is it true?"
Franklyn paused.
He could lie. But something about her eyes told him not to.
"A little," he admitted.
She smiled. Not politely—triumphantly.
"Then you're like me," she said. "They call us touched by the old blood. My name is Lysette."
Franklyn stood, dusting off his tunic. "What do you want?"
"To show you something."
She took his hand and led him past the garden walls, into a chamber hidden behind layers of vines and stone. Inside, a mural covered the wall—faded and cracked, but unmistakable.
It showed twelve figures wielding blades of light, standing before a sky split open with shadow. And in the center, marked by glowing eyes and a burning crown, stood a thirteenth.
"He's the one in the stories," Lysette whispered. "The one who fell… and rose again."
Franklyn stared at the mural.
The thirteenth figure's sword was identical to the one he kept seeing in his dreams.
A blade forged from silver flame. A hilt wrapped in dragonhide. And a name, always at the edge of his memory.
The Sword King.
His blood chilled.
"Who is he really?" he asked.
Lysette's voice dropped to a whisper.
"They say... he never truly died."
---
As the sun dipped below the towers of Faeloria Palace, casting long shadows over the land, Franklyn stood before the forgotten mural with his heart pounding.
He didn't know what it meant yet. Or why the sword in his dreams felt so familiar.
But one thing was certain.
This wasn't just a second chance.
It was a story that had already begun once before.
And now, it was his turn to write the next chapter.