3. A Desperate Hope
D orian woke with a sharp inhale, his body jerking as if he’d just surfaced from drowning. He knew this ceiling. These drapes—this was Ebonrose. His room at Ebonrose.
He sat up too fast. Pain lanced through his stomach, but—no, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t been stabbed. His tongue didn’t taste of poison.
Nothing.
He was back again.
He threw back the blankets and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bolting for the door, yanking it open so forcefully that it slammed into the wall.
Soren was already there, standing in the corridor.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Dorian saw the exact moment Soren realised it too—the flicker of awareness, the quick glance down at his own body, the way his breath hitched just slightly before he steadied himself.
“You’re here,” Dorian said hoarsely.
“So are you,” Soren murmured. He exhaled a slow, unsteady breath. “Thank the gods.”
They embraced on the threshold, clinging onto each other tightly. Dorian swallowed. He’d been afraid—terrified—that only one of them could have come back. That he’d be alone in this, that Soren would be gone.
Or that he would be, too.
“Do you know the date?” Dorian asked.
Soren’s jaw clenched. “It’s a few days after Selene’s engagement. I checked my diary.”
Dorian closed his eyes. So close. So close, but not enough. He wasn’t sure he could stop the marriage. Not with the Duke holding all the power, not with Selene bound by duty and expectations and—
“We don’t have to stop the marriage,” Soren said, as if reading his thoughts.
Dorian’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“What if we go back?”
Dorian stared at him. “Back where?”
“The temple.” Soren’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something sharp and desperate, something that mirrored the storm brewing in Dorian’s own chest. “What if we go back before the end of the year? If it worked once, it might work again. If it takes us back a year from now, and then we go back a year from then…”
Dorian’s breath caught.
“My father.” The words escaped him before he could think.
Soren nodded.
Hope, wild and reckless, surged in Dorian’s chest. He didn’t stop to question it. He didn’t hesitate .
They needed to go.
If there was any chance, even the smallest one, that Dorian could save his father, of course he was going to take it. Maybe his father was the missing piece, the person they needed to solve this, to make the Duke answer for his crimes.
Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was just Dorian’s father, and that was reason enough to want to save him.
He turned on his heel, heading straight for the stairs. Soren followed without a word.
They barely stopped to gather supplies, or to think about the consequences. They didn’t stop for Ariella or Rookwood or any of the questions waiting for them in this timeline.
Dorian wasn’t going to waste another second.
Not when time, for once, might finally be on his side.
The first thing Dorian noticed when he returned was the cold. It seeped into his bones, clinging to his skin like frost, sharp and unnatural.
The second thing was the light.
Too pale. Too thin.
A slow, creeping unease curled in his stomach as he forced himself upright. He turned to the window, throwing the curtains open—
And froze.
Frost blanketed the grounds of Ebonrose. Ice clung to the glass. The trees stood bare, their skeletal branches coated in white.
Winter.
Dorian’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. That wasn’t right. Both times before, he’d returned a year prior.
How much time had passed ?
He yanked on his boots, shrugging into his coat as he moved to the door.
Soren was already in the corridor, his expression tight with unease. Before either of them could speak, a door creaked open down the hall.
Ariella stepped out, wrapped in a heavy shawl, her dark red curls tousled from sleep. She arched an eyebrow at them. “What are you two doing, up at this hour?”
Dorian swallowed, his voice rough as he asked, “What’s the date?”
Ariella blinked. “The fifteenth of Frostward. Why?”
Dorian’s stomach twisted.
Six months. They’d only come back six months.
Ariella frowned. “Are you both all right? Have you been drinking? I’ve told you before: Soren is too young for that much alcohol—”
“We’re fine,” Soren interrupted quickly. His voice was even, but there was something tight behind his eyes. He turned to Dorian. “We’ll try again.”
Dorian nodded. There was no hesitation, no debate.
If they couldn’t make it back far enough in one jump—
They would keep going until they did.
The second time, something went wrong.
Dorian woke with the same jolt of awareness, the same creeping dread.
But this time, the air wasn’t quite as cold. The light wasn’t quite as thin .
Spring? Hope flared in his chest. If it was spring, then they were getting closer. He was still in his father’s old bedroom, which meant that he was still dead, but they couldn’t have been far off.
His chest constricted. He threw open the curtains—
Not spring. Autumn.
He pushed out of bed, moving before his thoughts could catch up with him. He found a letter on his desk, checked his diary—
Three months. They’d only come back three months.
He stepped into the corridor.
Soren wasn’t there.
A sharp spike of fear drove through him.
Dorian didn’t wait. He strode down the hall and pushed open Soren’s door, crossing the room in hurried steps. Soren was still asleep, tangled in his sheets, his face buried in his pillow. Dorian grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
Soren groaned. “What?” He flopped onto his back and squinted up at him, clearly irritated. “What’s wrong with you?”
Dorian’s breath caught.
That wasn’t right.
Soren should have been awake already, waiting for him. He should have known.
Dorian’s grip tightened. “Get up.”
Soren frowned, still half-asleep. “Why?”
Dorian took a step back, pulse pounding in his ears.
He didn’t know.
He could see it, now that he was really looking. The sluggish confusion. The lack of recognition, of shared understanding.
Soren hadn’t come back with him.
Dorian’s stomach lurched. They had died together. They had done everything the same as before. So why—
Why was he alone?
“Dorian?” Soren’s brow furrowed. “Are you all right? You look awful.”
Dorian tried to answer. He really did. But his throat closed up, and his breath hitched, coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
No. No, no, no, this wasn’t right .
Soren should remember. He should know. They had died together. He should be standing here with that same understanding, that same desperate drive to fix things.
Not looking at him like this. Like he was mad. Like he was wrong.
The walls of the room pressed in. His pulse thundered in his ears. His vision narrowed, tunnelling until all he could see was Soren’s confused face and the edges of the world closing in.
He stumbled back. His knees hit something—was it the bed? The chair? He wasn’t sure. His chest was too tight, his lungs too small, the air too thick, suffocating, choking—
He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready.
Too many deaths. Too much to deal with. Too much resting on him. Him, him, all alone, always him—
His vision blurred, breath hitched. A distant part of him recognised that he was shaking, that he could feel the press of Soren’s hands trying to anchor him, but the rest of him was breaking apart, unravelling, falling.
He had done everything the same. Everything . But this time, something had gone wrong. The temple had taken them both, but it had only sent him back. Why?
Why was he the only one who remembered? Why had it left him alone?
He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Images flared behind his lids, too sharp, too bright—the temple, the blood, Selene’s cold body, the ruin of everything he had tried to save.
He tried to hold onto Soren’s voice, but it slipped through his grasp like water. The darkness rose to meet him, and he let it take him.
The next thing he knew, he was in bed.
The curtains were drawn. The room was dark.
Everything was dark. Maybe he was dead again.
Maybe the temple hadn’t released him this time.
Maybe that was for the best. How much longer could he do this for, keep dying and resetting, losing his father, Selene, Soren?
Failing, again and again, over and over .
He couldn’t save his father. He knew that now. If he kept trying to go back, one day, he wouldn’t be able to. He’d lose all his memories. His father wouldn’t want him to risk it. His father would want him to focus on saving the country.
Hot tears leaked from Dorian’s eyes. He was starting to doubt that he could save anyone.
A shuddering breath rattled out of him, but it didn’t bring relief. His body felt wrong. His mind felt wrong.
What was the point?
He curled in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle, as if that could hold him together.
His limbs felt like lead. His head ached. His stomach churned.
How long had he been here?
Did it even matter?
He swallowed against the nausea, shifting slightly—and immediately regretted it when his entire body protested.
A sigh came from the other side of the room. “You’re awake.”
Dorian turned his head. Soren sat slouched in a chair, arms crossed, watching him with a mixture of wariness and concern.
“You’ve been out for days,” he said. “The bad news is that Ariella and Rookwood are really worried. The good news is that I remember.”
Dorian sat bolt upright in bed. “You… remember?”
Soren nods. “Woke up yesterday with picture-perfect clarity. Sorry. I imagine that was tough.”
Dorian tumbled out of bed, yanked him into his arms, and held him for a long time.
“We can try again,” Soren said eventually.
Dorian shook his head and released him. “No,” he said. “It’s not going to work. It’s getting shorter and shorter, and if next time we both forget, then there’s no point.”
Soren swallowed. “You’re sure?”
Dorian insisted that he was.
Soren sighed. He seemed to have already sensed this and resigned himself to the fact. He knew when it was time to cut their losses. “Well, all right then,” Soren said, “but I think I’d like to try something else this time.”
“What’s that?”
Soren’s eyes gleamed. “Assassinating the Duke.”