The battlefield was chaos. Steel clashed against steel, screams of the dying echoed through the valley, and the once-pristine snow was stained red with blood.
Johann fought with everything he had, his sword heavy in his grasp, his arms burning from exhaustion.
Around him, his men were cut down one by one, their cries lost in the storm of battle.
He had always known that war was cruel, but he had never imagined his end would come so soon.
A spear struck his side, driving through chainmail and flesh. Pain exploded in his body, stealing the breath from his lungs. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the frozen ground, gasping, his vision flickering.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Johann had dreamed of uniting the Alpine lords, of forging a kingdom strong enough to stand against the great powers of Europe. The Savoys, the Holy Roman Emperor himself—he had wanted to carve his own name into history, to be remembered as the man who tamed the mountains and built something lasting.
But it had been just that. A dream.
The truth was, he had wasted his youth.
While others trained, he drank. While others schemed, he was reckless. He had thought his noble birth would be enough, that his name alone would carry him forward. When his father died, leaving him a minor lord with a small, divided land, he had been too slow to act, too arrogant to listen to wiser men.
By the time he had taken things seriously, it had already been too late. His neighbors had turned on him, his allies had betrayed him, and his soldiers, men who had once followed him with hope, now lay dead around him.
He had failed.
Another blade found him, piercing his chest. His vision blurred, the sky above him darkening. He coughed, blood filling his mouth.
If only I had taken my youth seriously… If only I had prepared… If only…
Darkness took him.
——————————————————
Johann gasped, his lungs burning as he jolted upright. His hands shot to his chest, expecting to find a gaping wound, but there was nothing, no blood, no pain. Only smooth, unscarred skin beneath the silk of his tunic.
He blinked, his breath ragged, heart pounding. The air smelled of wax, parchment, and the faint scent of damp wood. A fire crackled in the hearth beside him. He was in a room, his room.
He knew this place.
The banners hanging from the stone walls, the heavy oak desk covered in maps, the cold draft seeping through the narrow window—it was the castle of his youth.
His hands trembled as he reached for the polished bronze mirror resting on the nearby table. The reflection staring back at him was not the war-hardened man who had met his end on the battlefield. No, the face before him was young—sixteen years old, untouched by war and hardship.
His mouth went dry.
"This... this isn't possible," he whispered.
There was a sharp knock at the door, and before Johann could collect himself, it swung open.
"My lord, are you awake?" A familiar voice filled the chamber.
A young man stepped inside, barely older than Johann himself, dressed in the colors of House Kyburg. His features were sharp, his eyes filled with worry.
Otto.
His loyal steward. His friend. A man who had died by his side in battle years later.
"My lord?" Otto stepped closer. "Are you well? You seemed troubled in your sleep."
Johann took a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm. This was real. The warmth of the fire, the chill in the air, the sound of Otto's voice, everything was real.
He had been given another chance.
The weight of realization settled upon him. He had squandered his youth before, wasting precious years in luxury and complacency. This time, he would not make the same mistakes.
"Otto," Johann said, his voice steadier now.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Prepare the council. Call for my advisors. There is much work to be done."
Otto hesitated. "So soon, my lord? You have only just inherited your father's lands—"
"I have wasted enough time already," Johann interrupted.
He met Otto's gaze, his golden-brown eyes burning with new determination.
"This time, I will not fail."