Baaaa.

Willow’s eyes fixed onto the woolly pastel shapes grazing mindlessly across the vast highlands, and a feeling of unease swelled inside his gut.

Sheep.

He hadn’t seen a field of sheep like this since before destiny catapulted his life into the chaotic war that was politics.

Willow vividly remembered the days when he’d herded his sheep, the hook in his calloused hands as he hiked up and down rolling hills as he longed for something more. He had longed for something to bring his bright ambitions into fruition, away from the cloudy hills and muddy boots. That longing had become reality.

And then, it became regret.

Trembling, Willow caressed his neck with his hand and was surprised to feel smooth skin. There was no sign of blood, pain, or even the ridges of a scar. Belatedly, he realized that a scar would be an impressively minor outcome after a beheading.

Was he dead then?

Willow looked back to the sheep. Golden light filtered onto the herd, and a small rainbow formed from the evening dew against the light pink, blue, and purple sheep, with the occasional black one breaking up the colors. It would be mischievous of fate to leave him with these fluffy assholes for an afterlife.  

On cue, one of the milling black ewes headbutted his legs before dropping a few pungent pellets by his feet.

He glared at Rose as the furry punk wandered away.

Sheep were unpleasant when they wanted to be.

Dazed, Willow leaned against the old sallow tree behind him and closed his eyes, recollecting to the best of his abilities the events that brought him here. He had met with that treacherous bastard, and then…

Hm. Willow opened his eyes and looked down at his hand.

The pale skin lacked the jagged scar he got during his awful knighting ceremony, when the assassin attacked. He looked back to the sheep and then to his surroundings, taking everything in as calmly as he could manage.

Everything was the same.

He doubted a dream could so perfectly recreate the stink of freshly laid sheep feces as well.

An explanation flitted through his thoughts, but it didn’t make any damn sense. Willow was a creature of logic. He didn’t believe in miracles. There was always a cost. There was always an angle.

If he had returned in time, someone was responsible for it. And whatever reason they’d sent him back with all the memories he needed to avoid his foul fate, he could be sure that it wasn’t due to altruism.

Magic, perhaps? He’d never been passionate about the arcane arts, but he couldn’t imagine any other explanation. But who had enough power to send him back like this? To his knowledge, there shouldn’t be any magic powerful enough to change the flow of time.

He frowned at a familiar sheep that settled sleepily by his legs.

He couldn’t imagine it was an illusion. No one would be demented enough to learn about his flock with such detail.

“I prefer goats,” he said sourly. He let out a long sigh and sat down as well, petting the soft fur of the infernal beast as he spent precious minutes considering his circumstances.

The ground was squishy and real.

It had been a rainy day when destiny found him and dragged him to the hell that was the capital. He frowned as he looked up to the sky suspiciously for rain clouds, but there were none. So he had some time to figure things out, but there was no guarantee that he was the only person who had memories of the future, either.

The people who pulled his destiny might also remember and be on their way to him.

Willow might not have very much time at all.

He tapped his finger against the lethargic sheep’s head thoughtfully as he considered his options. The sheep bleated mildly in response.

“Quiet, Dandelion. I’m thinking.”

That was the real trouble now. He needed to decide what he wanted to do. Willow wasn’t usually indecisive—far from it, he’d built his life upon one stubborn decision after another.

It was just that he wasn’t sure what he wanted.

The smart, logical, and, most importantly, scared part of him suggested he run. That traitor could dupe some other farm boy into his shitty plans, and Willow would live freely far from the chaos that was about to descend upon the kingdom. He was bright enough to smuggle himself into a foreign land, and he’d studied quite a few languages in his time at the capital.

He could, theoretically, run and never come back.

His finger tapped faster on the sheep’s head, causing the animal to send him a slanted look. He returned the glare with one of his own.

That was the problem.

Willow had never been one to back down from a fight. Not when the sheep gave him sass. And not when that murderous bastard literally backstabbed him.

He ought to run away. That was the smart thing. He should make sure that no one would find him and never think about the capital or the affairs of the kingdom again.

Willow clicked his tongue. He stood and stretched his arms over his head before glowering at the dark sky above. Rather than rain, the stars arrived to illuminate the evening with their ominous glow from the heavens.

Willow thought that the stars were quite romantic when he was younger. What a naive thought.

Another sheep nudged his leg, and Willow nudged her back. “Leave me alone, Lily.” Why did he still remember all the names of these infernal beasts?

Lily looked up at him balefully and bleated a complaint.

“I don’t care,” he said harshly, dismissing her complaint.

She butted him again and he nearly fell over.

This was why sheep were the worst. Persistent, stubborn things.

“Fine. What do you want?” he asked, reaching down and petting her head absently.

Lily nuzzled against his hand and let out a pleased bleat.

Willow scowled.

He couldn’t help but think that the damn sheep wanted him to stay. A horrifying thought. Sheep were enough trouble on their own—he didn’t need sheep with memories from the future.

But the thing was, Willow liked revenge. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. And his time in the capital had provided him with all the information he needed to exact the perfect revenge against that lying traitor.

Willow walked through the herd, uncaring about his duties to the sheep, and headed back to the farmhouse. He’d have to start preparing if he wanted the upper hand. As there was no guarantee that he was the only one who retained his memories, he needed to plan for various contingencies.

He stopped at the front door, feeling eyes upon him. He turned around and saw that the herd of sheep had followed him, bleating in the plaintive way they always did when they wanted attention.

Sheep. Always damn sheep.

Willow sighed. His only wealth in this world were these bleating jerks. After his parents passed away, it was up to him to care for them and to survive off of selling their wool, meat, and other miscellaneous products.

He’d never liked sheep. Not even when his parents were alive and they’d attempted to impress upon him a love for the fluffy animals. They were stinky and needy and loud. They never respected his boundaries and they were dumb. They needed constant care and protection from all things and he hated dealing with them.

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Why had he ever wanted to be king? Didn’t it ultimately boil down to herding more sheep? Except instead of food and shelter, the sheep in the city wanted power and money. Willow hated the capital. Reflecting upon his time there, he realized with certainty that he’d been miserable the entire damn time.

In the early days, he thought he loved it. It was new and interesting and there weren’t any damn sheep, but now he knew that he’d been lying to himself. Or perhaps he just hadn’t been able to grasp his own hatred.

Between sheep and the capital, both sounded awful.

“What a wretched bastard I am.” He let out a long-suffering sigh as he went about caring for the needs of the sheep just one last time. There wasn’t a moment to spare, but Willow had never been irresponsible, even if he was miserable.

He wondered if he was just incapable of being happy.

Living a meaningless existence in the countryside hadn’t made him happy. Having meaning and drive in the capital hadn’t made him happy.

Willow, renamed William Dran Evronsworth, was found to be the heir to the great kingdom of Krell. He was the last of the once-exiled royal family, returning to his rightful place upon the Oaken Throne. His silver hair and amber eyes proved that the royal blood flowed through his veins.

What a cliché series of events. Willow snorted at his past naivete. For him, the discovery had marked the day that his life really began, and yet it was nothing but a countdown to the end.

If Willow had one fatal flaw, it was pride. That was precisely why he was unwilling to let go. It was his pride that caused him to feed, care for, and shelter the sheep with practiced perfection. And it was pride that caused him to return to his humble home, sit down at his derelict table, take out a costly sheet of paper, and begin plotting his revenge.

He was a wretch who couldn’t be happy in riches or in poverty. So why not spread the misery to someone who deserved it?

A twisted smirk overtook Willow’s face as he wrote, and he hummed as he concocted his treasonous plot. A quick glance at the calendar let him know that his body was nineteen years old, and that was enough to grant him the timeline he needed.

He had no intention to become king. Not after his experiences. Besides, it was doubtful he was even the rightful heir as that lying treacherous scum had claimed. All he had needed was a convenient nobody with no family and no connections to trick into taking on the role. It hardly mattered if the person was legitimate.

The thought stung. Willow had been proud of his lineage when he’d learned of it, thinking highly of himself and his so-called ancestors after learning that he wasn’t just a worthless shepherd from nowhere. He was the future king. The true heir. The one who would save the kingdom from darkness.

All of those insolent thoughts created a mirage that trapped him.

He wasn’t so prideful that he would continue to believe even now. Whatever destiny he supposedly had was clearly a con from the beginning.

The prospect of bloodline determining his worth to the throne seemed ridiculous in retrospect. It felt so special once upon a time, but now, he couldn’t help but resent the entire concept.

How funny it was to even care about his heritage. It had certainly made him the butt of the joke.

Willow’s teeth clenched, and he set aside his quill in an attempt not to snap it in half. It would be burdensome to acquire a new one. Everything was burdensome.

He couldn’t live lavishly anymore. And he wouldn’t be of any help.

It was the smile that bothered him.

Until the very end, he had worn the most innocent smile. The sort of homely and foolish smile that made you believe that even if the man had the capacity for malice, he wasn’t capable enough to pull it off.

He looked pure and kind.

Even as William was executed.

Willow snarled and stood up. He hated being duped. Conned. Fooled. Used.

Murdered.

He hated him more than anyone else.

How was it he managed to look so pure and harmless while committing the worst atrocities? How could he look so sincere and kind while plotting to use and dispose of him? It was a level of dishonest treachery that Willow still couldn’t grasp.

How did one cope with a monster that so easily concealed himself as inept? Not even benign or kind but bumbling and good-natured.