Instead of sharing their feelings, Yves is stunned.

He’s back?

Distantly, he’d known he’d run into him eventually. Of course Yves has prepared for that eventuality. They lived in the same palace, after all. It’d be ridiculous of him to expect the nation’s beloved heir to never return home. That the heavens would finally grant mercy upon Yves and strike down his worst foe before he’d ever step foot on palace grounds. 

He’d just… thought he’d have more time to brace for it. Thought he’d have more time to settle himself before meeting his end in the eyes.

Unbidden, the image of dull pink eyes comes to mind, unseeing and far too still.

…Erica. Where is she?

One unsteady step, and the next, slowly building up as much speed as his anxiety. Uncaring of the startled cries around him, Yves runs. 

He has to find her. Has to formulate a game plan before they meet that bastard again. With every step he takes, every second that passes without sight of his guard, Yves grows colder and colder. His heart beating faster and faster, composure quickly unraveling.

She’s not at the training grounds. Then, where?

He turns back, ready to shake the information from someone else, when the world stops.

Blond hair, bright gold against the sunlight. A veritable beacon of light and hope to the rest of the world. The same color that has haunted his nightmares, along with dull pink and a growing pool of red. Just like the rest of them, he is much younger, face still rounded with youth. The last time Yves had seen him, he had been holding onto a half shattered sword, the edges still dripping with blood. 

His blood.

More importantly, Erica stands before him, and though he is too far away to hear their conversation, the mere sight of it is enough to leave him cold and breathless. For a split second, he swears he can feel the blood spilling from his throat. 

No. Not again. 

He isn’t sure when, but in one moment, he goes from across the courtyard to yanking Erica back with vicious force. It’s a testament to how off guard he’s taken her when she so easily stumbles with the movement as he steps in between them. She splutters something, but he can’t hear her over the rushing in his ears, the racing pulse of his heart. All he can see, all he can think about, is how best to rend this bastard into pieces. 

“You.”

“Oh, Yves!” He smiles brightly at the sight of him, as if he wasn’t the one to slit Yves’ throat the last time he had seen him. As if he weren’t the cause of their deaths. “I’ve only just returned from my studies, and wanted to see how you were doing. I heard you went through some rough times. Have you been faring better now, brother?”

Yves can’t breathe from the sheer force of the incandescent fury that rises up with vengeance. 

“Do not,” Yves hisses. “Call me that.”

“H-Huh?”

How dare he look so taken aback at his response? How dare he stand there so clueless to the things he’s done. The things he will do.

Yves wants so badly to strike out at him, to lunge and slam his face into the ground. It’d be easier compared to the last time he had faced off against him. Back then, the crown prince had already fully grown into his divine abilities, wielding a weapon carefully crafted to render him useless. Now? He is just a boy, with no heavenly sword to cut his way through. 

Simply an overly righteous boy, come home after spending the last few years studying abroad at some neighboring nation.

Laurence de Montmorency. Crown prince to this kingdom, beloved by all and one of the exceedingly rare ones blessed with powerful divine powers. Chosen by heaven’s will to lead his people into greatness, to vanquish evil. Son of the current queen, and half brother to Yves. 

The one to kill Yves.

He’d known, in the back of his mind, that encountering him would be inevitable if he decided to stay in the palace. He’d expected it, had prepared himself for the moment he’d be face to face with his murderer. What he hadn’t expected was how overwhelming the sheer rage would be. Yves can hardly speak from it all, too gripped by the suffocating resentment.

Yves could see it now. He could draw the sword from the sheath at Erica’s side, slit that bastard’s throat like he did his so long ago in one smooth motion. This would throw his entire plan into ruin, and he’d have to escape the palace or die once more. Everything he’s done so far would go to waste, especially when Laurence would probably easily heal himself, loved and chosen by the divine as he was. Not that he really cares at this moment, anyways, but the point still stands.

Yves wants him dead.

The shocked betrayal on his face would be well worth it, Yves thinks. It’s not the first time he has felt such murderous urges, not in this life or the last. But this? This is personal.

The king might have been a distant source of resentment for his negligence and part in his mother’s death, but Laurence was the one who’d interfered in his plans time and time again. The one to plead some overly righteous and hypocritical nonsense, ignorant to anything outside his gilded circumstances, all while drawing his blade against him. Oblivious to the things handed to him on a silver platter.

In fact, has he even awakened his powers yet? A quick glance at his eyes reveals the same damnable deep blue as the queen with not a hint of the bright gold ring that would signify his divine powers. Not yet, thank god.

Though, how did he awaken them in the first place last time? Was it something that could be prevented? Or should he just erase the possibility altogether by ending him right now?

“Boss?”

The lightest brush against his shoulder, just enough to break him from his murderous thoughts. Despite the prickle of her gaze, he doesn’t look back at her, still keeping Laurence in view. Yes, he might be able to pull this off. They might not be at the peak of their strength now, but neither is Laurence. No one can survive a full decapitation, not even the heaven’s chosen one. With the advantage of a surprise attack, even Laurence can die.

More importantly, Laurence has not obtained the divine sword yet, has not even fully awakened his powers. The playing field is firmly tilted on their side.

He could do it. It hasn’t become an impossibility just yet.

There is no blade at his side, not when he was initially on a stroll to the library. There hadn’t been enough time to retrieve one either in his mad search for his wayward guard. No matter. 

Because even if he is unarmed, Erica isn’t.

His hand falls on the handle of her sword. Before he can draw it more than a few scant inches, she grabs his hand in hers. Yves has always run cold, so the warmth of her hand is enough to melt the ice that grips his body. Enough for him to flinch. 

But not enough for him to stop.

He tightens his grip on the sword, trying to yank it out from the sheath, but her hold remains firm. Frustrated, he glares at Erica, who ignores him in favor of smiling blandly at Laurence.

“Pardon us, but I think we should get going now.” With that, she tugs lightly at his hand still in her grip. Yves remains unmoving, staring at her with a growing sense of betrayal.

What?

What does she think she is doing? Laurence is right there, unwitting and ready for the slaughter. He hasn’t fully awakened his powers yet, hasn’t grown into the nigh unkillable menace that shrugs off grievous wounds as if they were nothing. Why doesn’t she understand this? If Yves doesn’t kill him now, they’ll both die. 

Why is she always preventing him from ending him once and for all?

Fine. Fine. If a sword is out of the option, then Yves still has his own magic to use. There is no divine sword to render it useless just yet.

The shadows flicker and twitch under his command, and—

Erica tightens her grip on him, not enough to break any bones, but enough for him to lose his concentration at the spike of pain. Yves turns to snarl at her. Not once, not twice, but thrice has she stepped in between him and Laurence. Thrice has she stood in his way.

Unforgivable. 

When he’d said he wouldn’t tolerate the slightest hint of betrayal, he’d meant it. He would deal with her, after he dealt with this bastard.

“Yves, are you alright? You look a little pale.” Laurence tilts his head, and steps a little closer. “Shall I call the physician over?”

His hand reaches out, and all Yves can see is a shattered blade looming over him. All he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears, splashing onto the ground as he clutches his throat. Yves is going to die again, just as wretchedly as he did before.

“Don’t touch me!”

The slap echoes through the empty courtyard. Laurence stares at him, eyes widened in shock as he cradles his struck hand.

Yves, on the other hand, struggles to breathe, desperately trying to calm his gasps and ultimately failing. He has to get out of here. Any moment now, and Laurence will be sure to come to his senses and strike them down. In fact, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t also regain his memories just as Yves had, if he hadn’t already. 

The element of surprise is gone, anyways, and more people are sure to come, attracted to the commotion. Straightforward confrontation was more of Erica’s forte, not his.

He turns on his heel. Avoids looking at Erica’s expression, grabbing her wrist instead and damn near runs. Distantly, he notes how easily she goes along with him, too caught off guard to resist. The one time she follows his lead, and it’s for escape. How useless. 

If only she had not stopped him from cutting down the crown prince, then all of this could’ve been avoided. 

She’s saying something, all worried eyes and confused tilt to her head, but her words fall on deaf ears. He can’t hear anything over the rush of blood pounding in his veins, can’t focus on anything besides the rabbit-quick beating of his heart. 

The crown prince is still alive. 

He’d thought he would have enough time to prepare for this eventual confrontation, had thought he’d be composed when faced with his murderer again. Clearly not. 

Logically, he knows that this version of Laurence is not the one who killed him in his previous life. Knows that this one has yet to do any of the things he still sees in his nightmares.

Yves knows, and yet, when he laid eyes on that face…

He is struck with immediate rage. Rage and, if he is honest with himself, nauseous fear. 

…He has to get out of here. 

Yves is forcibly yanked out of his thoughts when Erica stops in her tracks. He nearly falls backwards when he tries to continue onwards, but she is as unmoving as a mountain despite his tugging. He has to release his grip lest he lose his footing and make a fool of himself. Why did she stop?

“Move.”

“No.” Erica studies him carefully, as if he were the one acting out of character. She must think him a raving lunatic, some animal liable to lash out at any moment. The thought makes him bristle. He is not crazy. “There’s no one around. What’s wrong with you?”

What’s wrong with him? A bitter laugh almost escapes him. Nothing. It’s the world that’s wrong. People that should’ve been dead are still living, and those he was never supposed to meet are now standing before him. He’s stuck in this weaker body plagued with impossible memories that constantly leave him jolting awake at night, white knuckled and a scream bitten back with gritted teeth. 

Yves turns to spit back at her, ignoring her words. “What the hell were you doing there?”

“Nothing?” Erica blinks confusedly, before adding, “not that it’s any of your business.”

It most certainly is his business. 

That self righteous bastard was the one who killed them all, and Yves can still feel his life draining from his body, helpless to do anything besides press a useless hand to the gash. Blood spills and spills and spills, from his throat and from the blade pressed into unwilling hands with unnatural strength. It drips and drips and he can’t get that sound from his head; a haunting echo that no one else seems to understand. 

No one understands—!

“Boss…?”

Erica looks at him with growing concern. “Are you… alright?”