2. Back to the Start
D orian woke with a sharp gasp, his fingers clutching at his abdomen, expecting to find the wound, the dagger, the slick warmth of blood. Instead, his hands met smooth, unblemished skin beneath the linen of his nightshirt.
There was no wound. No pain. Not even a scar.
Impossible.
His breath came quick and shallow as he forced himself upright, the heavy quilt slipping from his shoulders.
He was in his room at Ebonrose Hall.
Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.
He was dreaming. He had to be. He tried to focus on his surroundings, waiting for them to morph into something unnatural, or transform into smoke—something to give it away, to prove that it was all a dream .
But the canopy overhead stayed where it was, the velvet curtains covered the window, his horse figurines looked down from the shelves. Everything felt solid. It even smelled like home. Warm wood, and the faint traces of lavender.
And yet, he had no memory of coming here. The last thing he remembered was the temple and Selene’s arms around him as the cold swallowed him whole.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet pressing against the cool floor. His pulse roared in his ears. He pushed himself up, swayed, and steadied himself on the bedpost. His limbs felt weak, as though he had been asleep for far too long.
What had happened to him in that temple?
The door creaked as he eased it open, stepping into the bright corridor. Footsteps sounded from the far end of the hall. Dorian turned just in time to see Soren striding towards him, a book tucked beneath his arm, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Soren,” he choked out, closing the distance between them in two strides. Soren stiffened, startled, before his arms came around him, strong and solid.
“What—? What’s wrong?”
Dorian pulled back just enough to look at him. “I—” He swallowed hard, the room tilting. His breath hitched. “I don’t understand. I was—I was—”
The words wouldn’t come. His body betrayed him, shivering violently. He fought the urge to be sick.
“Dorian?” Soren’s voice was sharp now, laced with concern. “Dorian, what’s wrong?”
The door to Ariella’s chambers opened, followed by another down the hall—Rookwood’s. Both emerged, bleary-eyed and alert within seconds.
“What’s happened?” Ariella demanded, stepping forward in her nightgown and robe, dark red curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“He just—he woke up this way,” Soren said, keeping a firm hold on Dorian as he trembled .
“He’s freezing,” Rookwood noted, already pulling the thick shawl from around his own shoulders and wrapping it around Dorian. “Let’s get him back to his bed before he collapses.”
They guided him back into his room, easing him down onto the edge of the bed.
Ariella checked his temperature. Soren stoked the fire to life, its glow pushing back the shadows.
Rookwood went to make him something warm to drink, returning after a short while to press a hot cup into his hands, and Dorian curled his fingers around it, letting the warmth seep into his skin.
“Dorian,” Ariella said gently. “Tell us what happened.”
His fingers tightened around the cup. He stared into the steam, willing his hands to stop shaking.
“I was in a temple,” he said slowly. “Near the Ashvold mountain range. I was… I was dying. There was a dagger in me. Duke Drakefell opened a path to Ashvold. The country was being invaded.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.
“You had a nightmare?” Ariella asked, her voice disgustingly soft, like Dorian was a child again, crawling into her bed after a bad dream.
“No—not a nightmare. It was real. I was there, I was dead, and now I’m here.”
Rookwood exchanged a worried glance with Ariella. “Listen, lad, I think you’ve just—”
Something cold settled in Dorian’s gut. “What day is it?”
Ariella hesitated. “The 3rd of Springrise,” she said.
Had it been Springrise when he was at Nocturne Hall? It was almost Springrise, certainly. He might have lost track of the dates a bit whilst he was camping, but—
“The year,” he presses. “What’s the year, Ariella?”
Ariella didn’t reply. She glanced at Rookwood, then at Soren, as if begging them to say something instead.
It was Soren who answered.
And the world tilted.
A year.
A year had passed. He’d gone back in time a whole year.
Dorian shot to his feet so fast the cup nearly slipped from his hands. “Where are my boots?” he demanded, already shoving away the blanket.
“Dorian, wait—”
But he was already moving, heart hammering against his ribs. If Selene had been at the temple, if she had seen him die—
She might remember too.
He tore through the halls, half-dressed, still trembling, not stopping until he reached the stables.
He had to find her.
Dorian reached Roselune Abbey in the late afternoon, his horse lathered and panting beneath him.
He barely noticed. Sunlight stretched long over the rolling gardens, catching on rose-draped trellises and the white marble balustrades.
Music drifted from within—violins, laughter, the murmur of conversation. A soirée.
He dismounted without thinking, his body moving on instinct, his mind racing.
It wasn’t difficult to slip inside with so many other people around.
The gardens spilled into open corridors, guests meandering in and out, caught up in the festivities.
A fresh flood of conversation washed over him as he stepped into the main hall, the scent of wine and warm candle wax filling the air.
Dorian paused, listening.
“…such a splendid match—”
“…the Duke will make a fine husband—”
“…their children will be so beautiful…”
The words crashed over him like a wave. He turned sharply, catching glimpses of silk skirts and polished boots, faces he barely recognised but whose words rang in his skull.
The day of Selene’s engagement .
To Duke Drakefell.
The man who would topple a kingdom in a single night and had killed his father to achieve it.
Who had killed Dorian.
His hands curled into fists. He had been right—this was the past. He had gone back. But if Selene had returned too, why in all the hells would she agree to this again?
Unless she hadn’t come back.
Or she had, and she didn’t think she could refuse.
Either way, he had to see her.
Dorian moved through the crowd like a shadow—a skill he’d picked up from Soren—head bowed just enough to avoid catching too much notice.
The Abbey’s ballroom was alive with light, chandeliers spilling gold over silken gowns and fine jewellery, gentlemen in tailored coats raising glasses in quiet toasts.
And at the centre of it all, she stood.
Selene.
She was laughing, one hand pressed lightly to her waist, the other resting on the arm of a friend.
She looked perfectly at ease, her face glowing in the candlelight, her lips painted the softest shade of rose.
Her gown was cream and lavender, elegant, effortless.
The image of a woman who had never known a day’s hardship.
Dorian stood frozen.
There was no way she’d been running for her life last night. No way she’d watched someone die. She hadn’t come back. If she had come back, surely she wouldn’t stand there like this, smiling, drinking, surrounded by people who celebrated a future she had already lived?
Unless she was pretending.
Unless she had no choice.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He couldn’t approach her here. Not now, not like this. He would get no answers from a woman surrounded by friends on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.
So he waited .
The minutes stretched into an eternity. He paced the perimeter of the garden, back and forth through the clipped hedges and trellised roses, circling the paths with the restless energy of a man on the edge of breaking.
Then, at last, she was alone.
Selene stepped into the gardens, the last traces of laughter fading from her lips, the candlelit glow of the ballroom slipping behind her. The evening breeze stirred the hem of her gown, and for a moment, she was only a silhouette against the fading light.
Dorian moved before he could think better of it.
He reached her in an instant, stepping from the shadows, cutting off her path.
“Lady Selene—”
She turned towards him, a pretty smile laced across her face. Her beauty was bewildering, but it was the absence of recognition in her eyes that hit him tonight, like a punch to the gut.
“Lord Nightbloom,” she said sweetly. “How lovely to see you. You’ve been keeping to yourself. How are you?”
She didn’t know him. Or at least, she didn’t know the him of last night—the one who had died in her arms after confessing that he doodled roses. And if Dorian couldn’t convince Ariella, Rookwood and Soren that he’d come back in time, what hope did he have of convincing Selene Duskbriar?
“Congratulations on your engagement,” he said, and then slunk back to the shadows.
Ariella, Soren and Rookwood were still no closer to believing him when he arrived home the next day. That did not deter him. It would take time to convince them, but it wasn’t impossible, not when he was home in Thornmere with a year’s worth of events he could predict ahead of time.
It took a little while to get his bearings, to remember how exactly events unfolded. They weren’t convinced by Selene’s engagement—everyone saw that coming. They were more baffled when he correctly guessed the gender of Posey Greenwood’s baby.
“That’s still a fifty-fifty chance!” Ariella argued.
But one by one, his predictions stacked up. Mrs Stewart’s death at the end of Springrise. Thomas’ roof needing fixing again. A merchant ship sinking.
Marta and Jon’s hasty marriage.
Dorian’s face paled at the news. He found it hard to congratulate them.
“What’s wrong?” Rookwood asked him later.
“She’s pregnant,” Dorian explains. “The baby comes too early… neither of them make it.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say!” Ariella snapped, but when Marta started to show a few weeks later, the panic seeped in.