Ascension Of The Villain

Something soft brushed against his hair.

Gentle. Featherlight. Like fingers threading tenderly through his strands.

Vyan didn't open his eyes. He didn't need to. He knew that warmth, or at least the version of it that lingered in his mind.

His body, half-draped in sleep, instinctively leaned into it, as if the comfort it offered could anchor him through the fog he constantly lived in. He let it soothe the hollow ache in his chest. Let it convince him, just for a heartbeat, that maybe, just maybe, it was her.

He exhaled slowly, afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the fragile dream. That if he stirred too much, the illusion would slip through his fingers like water.

But the world, ever unkind in its timing, did not wait for him to linger.

A soft gleam of sunlight pierced through the curtains and landed directly on his face. It was warm, almost too warm. Irritating in its honesty.

His eyes cracked open.

And the moment shattered.

The soft caress disappeared into nothingness. No one was there. Of course no one was there.

Just emptiness.

Just him. Again.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. These ghostly touches—warm, soothing, sometimes so real it ached—visited him often. His mind, it seemed, had grown too good at pretending. Crafting illusions of color in a world that had grown black-and-white around him.

Vyan hazily rubbed the sleep from his stinging eyes with the heel of his palm. A low sigh escaped him. His head throbbed, his neck stiff from resting against the edge of the bed. His limbs felt like lead.

Another night on the cold floor.

Another morning of waking up alone.

He rolled his shoulder and winced. Every part of his body ached—a dull, constant throb from sleeping curled against marble tiles with no blanket, no cushion, no care.

But he didn't complain. It was routine now.

He reached for the nightstand drawer with fingers that had memorized the motion. No hesitation, no fumbling. Just habit.

He pulled out a small vial, uncorked it with a soft pop, and downed the contents in one swift motion. The potion slid down his throat—cool, slightly metallic, biting at his senses—and clarity returned almost instantly.

The fog lifted from his mind, but not from his heart.

He looked over his shoulder.

There she was.

Exactly as she had been the night before. Exactly as she had been for, what, nine days now.

Iyana lay there, face serene, untouched by time or decay—like a statue carved by the gods.

He reached out his hand to feel the faint breaths from her and watched her chest rise and fall in that slow, eerie rhythm. So faint that it was barely there.

But it was there at least. He used to think it meant hope. Now, it only reminded him of how wrong this was.

She didn't need food. Or water. Or warmth.

He, on the other hand, still needed all of it. Still needed to eat. Still needed to drink.

Still needed her.

Perhaps more than all the rest combined.

A smile pulled at his lips—forced, thin, but gentle. He leaned forward, brushing a stray platinum strand of hair from her forehead.

"Good morning, my love," he whispered, voice hoarse from sobbing all night.

He pressed a light kiss to her forehead.

The cold struck him instantly. Not just the chill of her skin, but the jarring, biting realization that came every time she no longer felt like home.

His body recoiled before he caught himself.

He scowled at himself.

Get used to it, he snapped inwardly. You've done this several times. You should be used to this by now.

But then a second voice fought back.

No. Don't you dare get used to this. She's supposed to be warm. She's not supposed to be like this. You don't accept this.

The war inside him never ended, it seemed.

With a sigh, Vyan rose unsteadily to his feet, joints cracking in protest. He shuffled to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face—more out of necessity than routine—and took a shower. He changed into the first outfit he found hanging near the bedpost. It didn't matter what it was. He no longer cared about appearances. He, who hated being drenched, didn't even bother drying his hair.

Vyan stepped into his office, the door creaking softly behind him as it clicked shut. For a moment, he just stood there. His gaze swept over the space that looked as if time had been rewound.

It was pristine. Neat. Perfect. Untouched.

As though yesterday's storm of rage had never happened.

The shattered inkpot, the torn scrolls, the overturned chair were gone. Everything was put back into place again, exactly how it had been before he tore it all apart. As if the room itself refused to acknowledge his grief.

He exhaled, a long, tired breath. A bitter smile curved his lips.

"Why do they keep putting this place back together when I keep tearing it down?" he muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand through his wet, tousled hair. "At this point, they're just begging me to lose it in here."

He shook his head and walked across the room, his boots brushing against the soft rug muffling his steps. His desk was empty. No daunting stack of paperwork, no scrolls demanding attention. Just the faint scent of new ink and wood polish lingering in the air.

Freya handled everything now.

Althea hadn't forced him to the court once after her coronation, Theodore didn't drag him into training, and his vassals, for once, didn't dare to demand dignity from their Grand Duke. Everyone was giving him space—to breathe, to mourn, to fall apart quietly if he needed to.

And he was grateful. Truly, he was. Because in that hollow silence, he could do what truly mattered.

He could keep searching.

For her.

Books filled the shelves behind him, the collection growing every day—tomes about ancient curses, forbidden magic, and so much more. These were what he had requested… or more accurately, demanded in a less-than-graceful tantrum.

Vyan pulled a thick volume from the shelf, its spine worn with age, and sat down to read.

Minutes passed. Hours blurred.

Afternoon light slanted in through the windows, softening to gold, then dimming into shadow. Not a single knock disturbed him. Not a voice. Not a soul.

But the silence became suffocating when his efforts once again led nowhere.

With an angry breath and clenched jaw, he hurled the book across the room. It crashed into the top shelf with a loud thunk, jarring several books loose. They spilled onto the floor like falling memories.

One book landed on top of the heap. Its title glinted in the dim light: Transcendence.

His heart stopped. Just for a beat.

That book. The one he'd stolen from the Imperial Library. The one on time travel.

Hope stirred… only to die with a scoff.

"It'll be just as useless," he muttered, walking over and picking it up.

He had already tried, hadn't he? Used the spell he'd found buried in the Mount Mary. It had let him travel—not into the past to change anything—but merely to observe.

Just a few months ago, during the Walver Epidemic, he traveled to the past and observed it without changing anything. Well, the only thing he had remotely changed was to put a deep sleeping spell on Iyana so that she didn't have any nightmares when he had messed up the spell and ended up in her bedroom. But that action hadn't changed the past, so it had been allowed.

But now? He wanted to go into the past to stop Iyana from killing Jade. That was a whole different reality. It was definitely not allowed. The spell would always break before he could change anything significant. Because that act, that one pivotal moment, had become the anchor for the curse.

Yes, he knew this now. That Jade had been the one behind it.

A curse researcher had called it a reflux curse—triggered by a specific event. Death. And not just any death—Jade's.

So, whoever would be the one to end Jade's life would bear its consequences. The killer's heart would be frozen forever, laying them in an eternal sleep, never to be awakened.

This spell couldn't be lifted by anyone or anything.

Unless the event was undone.

Unless Jade's death never happened.

Which meant, Vyan would have to change the past.

Prevent that death.

Prevent Iyana from killing Jade.

He knew that. That it was impossible. Past couldn't be changed. Especially not a significant one like this.

He had already tried and failed.

So, this book? He was convinced it wouldn't help. That it would mock his desperation like every other false lead.

But… he opened it anyway.

One page. Then another. Then ten.

His breath caught.

His eyes widened.

Every line he read pulled him deeper into the possibility.

The spells were theoretical, yes—unstable, heavily restricted, banned every magical society—but not impossible.

Not impossible.

His hands trembled as he turned another page. He could hardly believe it.

This was it.

The solution. The crack in the impossible wall he'd been throwing himself against.

His pulse roared in his ears.

For the first time in nine days… Hope didn't feel like a lie.

And as if to snatch that hope away from him, a voice echoed in his head.

"Don't do it, my child."