Roland woke up excited.

  It had been three days since his rebirth, and he finally felt… grounded. He’d spent the time untangling his memories — his old life and this one, knotted together like two ropes pulled in opposite directions. It was clumsy, frustrating work, but little by little, his thoughts sharpened.

  And one thing had become painfully obvious.

  He had been a lazy brat in this life.

  Skipping lessons. Dodging history lectures. Sleeping through politics. A prince of Inferna who had learned almost nothing about the kingdom he was supposed to serve.

  Not anymore.

  Now, with the maturity of a twelve-year-old mind in a nine-year-old body, Roland had a plan.

  “First things first,” he muttered, slipping on his boots. “The library.”

  ***

  The corridors stretched endlessly before him, carved from cold gray stone. To strangers, they might look grand, but to Roland, they felt… suffocating.

  The walls swallowed sound, his footsteps echoing hollowly as if the castle itself was holding its breath. The tall, narrow windows cast thin stripes of pale light across the floor, but even sunlight here felt distant, cold.

  This wasn’t a home.

  It was a fortress.

  He passed a pair of servants carrying linens.

  They froze the instant they noticed him, pressing their backs against the wall and lowering their heads. Their hands trembled faintly until he walked past.

  Roland frowned. What’s their problem?

  But it wasn’t just them. Every servant he passed — guards, maids, even the butler — acted the same. Eyes lowered. Shoulders stiff. No one moved until he was well beyond them.

  This wasn’t respect.

  It was something else—something he had never encountered before in his previous life.

  Do they think I’m going to have them executed for breathing wrong?

  Had they always acted this way? Or had he simply been too na?ve to notice before?

  ***

  The library swallowed him whole. Towering shelves stretched toward the ceiling, every book handwritten and bound. The smell of ink and parchment clung to the air.

  He wandered the aisles until one book caught his eye — “The Rule of Two.”

  “Huh. Sounds dramatic.”

  He opened it, expecting some grand story, but found only kingdom laws — dry, methodical, endless. Then one passage made him pause.

  [All reports of a deceased person must be reported, filed, and be bound on a secure cage or a sigil enforced coffin. If in the case of the body rising and showing a blood drop shaped sigil on their eye overlapping with the sigil of the deceased—immediately evacuate and report to the nearest outpost, as it is a sign they are an awakened undead.]

  Undead? Sigils? What did that even mean?

  He skimmed further — and froze.

  [No noble or royal line shall sire more than two heirs. Only two may live at any time. A third shall be seized and executed.]

  “That’s insane!” Roland’s voice echoed through the library, startling a nearby librarian.

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  What if someone had a third sibling? Would they just… kill them?

  His fists clenched.

  “When I’m king, I’ll get rid of this stupid rule!”

  A playful poke to his ribs snapped him out of it.

  “Found you,” Flora said, smiling as she peeked over his shoulder. “Imagine my surprise — the little prince actually reading. Did Lady Carmilla finally knock some sense into you?”

  Roland groaned. “What’s it to you?”

  “For one thing,” she teased, “you skipped breakfast again. Lady Carmilla is very concerned.”

  Concerned? He almost laughed. She’s just mad she hasn’t had the chance to beat me up yet.

  ***

  Roland adjusted the straps of his training vest, his fingers fumbling with the stiff buckles. He tightened his grip on the wooden sword.

  Today, he was going to win.

  “Ready?”

  He turned to see his sister, Carmilla, standing across from him. For once, she wasn’t wearing a dress but simple training clothes, her long black hair tied neatly into a braid. Even without trying, she radiated authority — calm, sharp, unshakable.

  The courtyard was unusually quiet. The air carried a faint metallic tang, and the silence was unsettling.

  Normally, he’d expect to hear clashing steel, guards shouting, soldiers sparring — but here, silence meant something else. In Inferna, idle hands didn’t exist.

  “If you have time to lounge,” the saying went,

  “you have time to train.”

  Roland could only guess that she must have dismissed them beforehand, but could his sister really be so considerate to save him the embarrassment— no, the glory of winning?

  Leaning against the wall was Leon, Carmilla’s personal servant. At sixteen, he was only two years older than her but carried himself like a veteran soldier. An iron broadsword rested casually against his shoulder as he smirked at Roland.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to let a harmless girl like her take the lead,” Leon teased. “Stand straight, and you’re holding that sword like a stick.”

  “Shut up, Leon! I’m going to beat her this time!” Roland muttered, cheeks red.

  From the sidelines, Flora waved brightly. “You can do it, Roland! I believe in you!”

  Roland flushed deeper. “I-I know! Just watch!”

  Leon clapped once, loud and sharp.

  “Begin!”

  ***

  Roland charged forward, heart pounding. His wooden blade swung with everything he had.

  Clack!

  Carmilla parried effortlessly, barely shifting her stance.

  “Too predictable,” she said calmly.

  Roland gritted his teeth and attacked again — low, then feinting high, then spinning for her side. Carmilla blocked each strike with minimal, graceful movements, almost bored.

  “Don’t attack blindly,” she said, tone like a teacher lecturing a child. “Analyze. Wait. Look for weaknesses.”

  “I can’t win if I just stand there!” Roland shouted, swinging harder.

  Clack! Clack! Clack!

  Each strike met flawless defense.

  “You’ll win,” she said evenly, “by letting your opponent make the first mistake.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long!”

  “Then you’ll keep losing.”

  She stepped forward suddenly, tapping the tip of her wooden sword against his guard. “Watch me closely. My feet. My shoulders. Even my breathing. Every fighter reveals themselves if you know where to look.”

  Roland hesitated, focusing on her stance. He feinted right, then lunged left—

  Thwack.

  His sword went flying.

  Thud.

  He landed flat on his back. Carmilla’s blade rested lightly against his neck.

  “Dead,” she said, calm as ever.

  “That’s cheating!” Roland groaned, scrambling up. “You used magic!”

  “Magic?” Carmilla tilted her head. “It’s called a sigil. And I didn’t even use it.”

  Roland blinked. “You didn’t? Then how—”

  “Because you’re predictable,” she mocked lightly. “Inferna’s style punishes fighters who create fake openings and warriors that rely on rhythm to win. You handed me victory.”

  Then, without warning, she dragged her fingernail across her palm.

  “Wha—hey! Stop—”

  Roland froze. Blood welled briefly… then the wound began stitching itself together, glowing faintly with soft crimson light. Her irises shimmered, revealing a sigil — an intricate, flower-like mark woven from delicate threads, similar to crimson lilies.

  “This is my sigil,” Carmilla said quietly. “It heals me. No matter the wound, I recover. But…” Her gaze darkened. “I feel every cut. Every drop of pain. That’s the price of this gift, so don’t chalk up your own faults to cheating.”

  Roland stared, wide-eyed. “That’s… disturbing! Why would anyone want that?!”

  Carmilla stared back, deeper into Roland’s eyes, much deeper than he finds comfortable. “Sigils aren’t chosen, Roland. Sometimes, they are made.”

  ***

  Later that evening, Roland collapsed face-first onto his bed, groaning.

  “Why is she so scary? She’s like a machine. And her sigil… man, I want one too…”

  “Its not healthy to talk to yourself out loud Roland,” Flora teased, entering with a tray of tea and bread. “People might think your mad.”

  Roland peeked over the pillow. “Flora… what kind of sigil do you think I’ll get? Something cool, right? Like fire? Or lightning?”

  She laughed gently, setting the tray down. “I’m sure yours will be special, my prince. But don’t get too caught up comparing yourself to others. A sigil is just… part of life.”

  “But what if I don’t get one?” Roland mumbled, frowning.

  Flora brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Every royal awakens their sigil,” she said softly. “It’s tradition.”

  “Wait, really?”

  “It’s called the Sacred Ceremony,” she explained. “No one outside the royal bloodline knows how it works — not even me. But it has never failed.”

  Roland’s eyes widened. “So I’m definitely getting one?! When?!”

  “Your tenth birthday,” Flora said with a warm smile. “Which is coming very soon.”

  Roland grinned, excitement bubbling over. “Then I’ll get the coolest one ever! Just wait!”

  Flora smiled faintly. But behind her soft expression, something unreadable lingered.