4. An Assassination Attempt
D orian and Soren spent weeks planning Drakefell’s assassination. They watched and waited, memorising every detail of the Duke’s routines. The perfect opportunity finally presented itself—a social event, one of the largest of the season, where security would be stretched thin.
They debated poison. It was subtle, effective—more difficult to prove foul play.
But Soren ultimately decided against it.
“Poison can be tricky,” he mused, twirling a dagger between his fingers.
“You have to get the right amount for a person’s size, and run the risk of killing the wrong person if glasses are misplaced or swapped.
Wouldn’t want to accidentally kill your precious Selene now, would we? ”
Dorian ignored the jab. In the end, they agreed on something simpler, something reliable. A blade between the ribs. It was messy, but foolproof, and Soren was confident in his ability to get away with it.
He snuck into the Duke’s chamber before nightfall, carefully unlatching the window.
Dorian waited outside, horses ready and restless, hooves scuffing the earth beneath the trees.
The estate loomed quiet under the moonlight, though the distant murmur of the party filtered through the open windows—laughter, music, the occasional clink of glass.
He could almost pretend nothing was wrong.
But his eyes stayed fixed on the window.
Each minute dragged like an hour. The weight of silence pressed heavy on his shoulders.
A breeze rustled the hedgerows, and he flinched, hand tightening on the reins.
Every sound—the crunch of gravel, a gust against the trees—twisted his gut with the fear it might be someone coming too soon, or someone catching on.
Still nothing.
His mind raced. Had Soren been caught? Had the Duke changed his schedule? What if Selene was with him? Soren would never hurt her, not on purpose, but—
A cry pierced the night air, sharp and short, silenced almost as soon as it began.
Dorian surged forward a step, heart hammering, eyes locked on the dark window above.
Had it worked? Was Soren alive?
A pale-haired figure appeared in the window. He half fell from the ledge, lacking all of his usual dexterity. Soren righted himself quickly and sprinted across the lawn, covered in blood.
Dorian spurred his horse forward. “Did you do it?”
“Yes," grunting in discomfort. "Let’s ride.”
There wasn't time to ask Soren if he was all right. Lights were flickering across the lawn. Shouts rang out in the dark. They couldn't afford to be caught, not when this time they might finally have changed things. This loop could be the last…
If only they could get away in time .
They rode hard, pushing their mounts to their limits, the wind tearing at their cloaks.
The thrill of escape pounded through Dorian’s veins.
Had they finally done it? Changed the future—saved Selene?
A myriad of quiet possibilities exploded before him, of a better future for her, for everyone, for him—
Soren slumped in his saddle.
“Soren?”
A cough, wet and horribly thick. Soren pitched forward, nearly falling.
Dorian pulled up short, leaping from his horse as Soren hit the ground. He turned him over, hands pressing against the dark stain spreading across his side.
The blood wasn't the Duke's. It was Soren's.
“Gods, Soren—”
“Damned bastard kept a knife under his pillow,” Soren rasped, blood at the corner of his mouth. “My fault… I’m out of practice…”
Dorian pressed harder, as if he could keep him here through sheer force of will. The blood continued to pump through his fingers. It didn’t care how much Dorian needed Soren alive.
Not now, Dorian wanted to scream, or beg. Not now when they had finally changed things.
But reality hit him like a sinking ship. Soren was dying, and there was nothing he could do but watch. It wouldn't be as long as his father's death. Of this, Dorian was certain. It would be over painfully soon.
That almost made it worse. There was nothing he could try, no time to prepare. And Dorian had always known he would one day bury his father. That was the way of things. Children were supposed to bury their parents.
But Soren was his little brother, and Dorian was not prepared to bury another.
Soren’s fingers found his, gripping weakly. He exhaled shakily, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
“Maybe next time…” His fingers tightened, one last desperate squeeze. “Next time.”
His grip slackened. His chest stilled .
Dorian swallowed down the roar of grief rising in his throat.
Next time.
The words echoed in his skull, over and over, like a curse.
Dorian took Soren’s body home and laid him in the vault next to his father. He took one of Soren’s wooden figures from his bedroom and carved his name into it. Soren Nightbloom, beloved friend and brother.
Soren had had no last name when he’d come to them. He’d been thrilled when Gideon suggested using theirs. Dorian had never had a brother before—or at least, not one that had lived long enough to draw breath, to become his . He’d been shocked at how fast Soren had become his. Become theirs.
He gripped Soren’s frozen hand. “You will be mine again.”
He knew he should try to stay in this timeline longer, to see if the Duke’s death actually made a difference, but he was worried about time not moving backwards as it should. He was terrified of being left in a world without Soren in it.
Next time. Next time.
Next time he would save them all.
Ariella wept bitterly for days after Soren’s death. Rookwood wasn’t much better. No amount of promises that Dorian would change this could console them.
“But he isn’t coming back to life, is he?” Ariella cried. “It’s like we’re dying too. Everyone dies, except you.”
Dorian didn’t like to think about that. Didn’t like to think about everyone else vanishing, or, even worse—maybe they didn’t. Maybe there were several timelines where he was dead, and the country had been invaded .
Maybe Soren would stay dead in this timeline, and Ariella would stay grieving.
“Come back with me,” he begged her. “Both of you—come back with me.”
Ariella shook her head. “What if taking too many people back is what shortens the jump? What if that’s why he forgot for a few days? What if we try, and that’s what makes it fail?”
Dorian agreed with her logic, but he didn’t have to like it. He didn’t want to be alone again.
“Besides,” Ariella said, “I don’t think I want to remember this.”
Rookwood declined to come too, of course. He’d never go anywhere without Ariella.
Maybe, in the next life, he’d finally ask her out.
But not this one.
Dorian woke again to a world with Soren in it. He broke down sobbing at his bedside, causing no end of confusion to the boy. When he could finally speak, he told Soren everything. Soren believed him quickly, of course—he always did.
But it wasn’t the same.
After yet more planning, they decided to try once more to take Duke Drakefell out. This time, they succeeded.
But it wasn’t the end of it. One of the Fairmont boys married Selene instead, and the exact same thing happened again. There was always someone waiting in the wings, ready to thwart them, ready to exploit her.
“Why don’t you try marrying her next time?” Soren suggested, only half-seriously.
Unfortunately, Dorian didn’t know Selene well enough to tempt her away from the Duke and the glittering world he promised. He tried to befriend her, to speak with her more, but he wasn’t exactly charming, and he had a habit of getting a little tongue-tied around her.
He’d wasted an entire year in one loop trying to get to know her—and came away with so little it made his stomach twist. A thousand conversations rehearsed, barely a dozen exchanged.
He knew how she held her teacup, how she stared too long at empty corridors like they whispered back, how she said thank you even when no one was listening.
Soren found this almost as amusing as it was exasperating. “Does the fate of the realm honestly rest on your ability to speak to a woman?”
“At least it rests on my ability, and not yours.”
Soren clutched his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel.”
Dorian didn’t laugh. He didn’t believe the fate of the realm depended on charm or declarations of love. He believed it would come down to cunning. To patience. To sheer, bone-deep determination.
In the next cycle, he returned to Nocturne Hall with Soren.
They committed every detail to memory—every map, every tunnel, the number of miners, staff, guards.
They camped in the temple’s shadow, poring over its cracked stones for answers, hunting for the story beneath the silence.
They raided libraries until the clerks grew suspicious.
Questioned townsfolk until their voices were recognised.
They learned nothing.
But they remembered everything .
Their sabotage remained subtle. They’d learned the cost of delaying too well and didn’t want to risk returning after the engagement… not that they’d had any luck preventing it so far.
Selene . He’d learnt which room was hers, and often found his gaze wandering to the light there long after dark.
She spent a lot of time in the bower house as well, drifting on the edge of the estate.
It was a shabby place for her, but she sought it out nonetheless.
He wondered time and time again what would happen if he went to her, if she would welcome him or the imitation of a rescue he offered. He didn’t know, so he left her alone.
Until the day of the invasion came again.
Smoke twisted into the sky. Screams fractured the air. He and Soren slipped through the shadows, blades drawn and hearts hammering. They’d promised each other they would stay out of it and just focus on getting to the temple—
Then he heard her .
A scream—raw, terrified.
He didn’t hesitate.
“Dorian—damn it!” Soren shouted, but Dorian was already gone, shoving through rubble, leaping over flame. He slammed into a soldier’s back, drove a knife deep, and kept moving.
“Selene!”
Something cracked through the ear. Pain tore through his gut like fire. He gasped, stumbled. His knees hit stone.
His eyes found hers.
She was standing in the middle of it all, dust and blood on her gown, her hair loose, wild. Her lips parted in a breathless cry.
“Dorian!”
The world blurred. His limbs refused him.
And then she was there, her arms around him, pulling him back, dragging him toward the temple. He tried to help, tried to stand, but his legs buckled. She half-carried, half-dragged him before the shattered altar, cradling him against the cold stone.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said softly, “you just… you just rest there for a little bit…”
He blinked slowly, teeth clenched against the agony. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t save you.”
Her hands pressed hard to his side. “What are you talking about?”
And somehow, gods only knew how, he told her. Not everything—but enough. Enough that the disbelief in her eyes gave way to something else. Something fragile. Something aching.
She let out a breath, shaky. “Well… if that’s true, maybe next time, you could stop me from marrying him. ”
He let out a pained laugh. “And how do I do that?”
“You could tell me the truth.”
He reached up—his fingers brushed her jaw. “Next time,” he promised. “I’ll move the stars if I have to.”
There was a silence.
Her fingers curled tighter around his. Her other hand never left the wound, though it was soaked now, crimson seeping between her fingers.
“Selene?” he breathed, voice faint.
“Yes?” Her voice cracked.
“You’re very beautiful when you cry.”
The world faded to the sight of her shining face.