The beginning of the end

"Even when there is no hope left in the world, there is always room for a miracle, woven from starlight and the whisper of ancient magic. And though the night may shroud the path in a veil of mist, the stars will always guide the chosen hearts."

In this world, books about magic are neither fiction nor fantasy—they are merely a reflection of reality. People here live by the light magic, drawing strength and peace from it, while they fear those who wield the dark. It is not unusual for them to see mages commanding the elements, making barren lands bloom, or even controlling life itself. After all, magic here is not a secret—it is the very breath of the world.

When I found myself in this place, it took me a long time to come to my senses. When I opened my eyes, a healer was leaning over me, his hands glowing with the soft radiance of regenerative magic. I didn't recognize the people gathered around me; their voices sounded distant, as if coming from far away. When I tried to move, I was instantly struck by a wave of searing pain—my body refused to obey, and my lips could not form a single word. For two long months, I remained bedridden, condemned only to see and hear. And it was in this forced confinement, among unfamiliar faces and strange voices, that I finally realized where I had ended up.

This novel shook society, leaving an indelible mark on the hearts of its readers. It won prestigious awards, topped bestseller lists, and became the book that was discussed everywhere—in cozy cafés, on bustling streets, in university lecture halls. Its author gained fame not only in their homeland but beyond its borders as well. Bathing in the glow of recognition, they amassed countless awards and accolades. People called them a genius, and their work—a literary phenomenon.

But for me, this story began long before its widespread acclaim. Because I was the first person to read this book. And its author was my younger sister—the same girl who once ran after me around the house, her eyes burning with excitement, desperately begging me to read her manuscript. Back then, I had only smiled indulgently, not realizing that I was holding in my hands not just a notebook filled with her neat handwriting, but a true story capable of changing the world.

At first, I was genuinely happy for my sister. Pride overwhelmed me, and I did everything I could to support her, to inspire her, to celebrate her every achievement. With each passing day, her fame grew, her name echoed louder, and eager readers awaited her next masterpiece. Our parents were overjoyed—their daughter had become a celebrity, the pride of the family. They surrounded her with care, love, and respect, the kind they had never shown anyone before.

But in her shadow, I gradually faded away. In my parents' eyes, I became nothing more than an afterthought—something insignificant, unnecessary. They looked at me as if I were a burden, a failure who had not lived up to their expectations. Unlike my sister, I had achieved nothing great, had not excelled in life, and did not even have a job worthy of praise. Just an extra in the background, earning pennies, neither admired nor respected.

It crushed my self-esteem, ate away at me from the inside. Over time, I seemed to fall out of the world, retreating into my own darkness. I shut myself away, losing all desire to fight for a place in the sun.

Now, lying in bed and listening to the hushed whispers of the servants, I finally understood who I was. Eliot du Mortier—the younger son of Marquis Valdemar du Mortier.

If everything is correct, then this is only the beginning of the story. The pain in my right side only confirms my suspicions—during a hunt, my elder brother, Cedric du Mortier, had accidentally pierced me with a spear. I lost a lot of blood, and the long weeks spent motionless were a true trial. Time passed slowly, but it worked in my favor.

Almost three months have gone by. My body is still weak, but I can feel that soon I will be able to rise. And when that moment comes, everything will truly begin to unfold.

If fate has given me a second chance, I will not let it go to waste. I will not be a shadow, I will not let anyone overshadow me as they did before. I do not wish to be the sun that fades beneath the moon of someone else's success. No, now I will achieve greatness myself—I will make this world remember me.

For two long months, as I lay bedridden, my thoughts never gave me peace. How did I end up here? The answer was simple yet bitter.

I had died.

Not by my own will, not by accident—someone had taken my previous life in exchange for this one.

Before my death, I had heard a voice. It came from the darkness—cold, foreign, devoid of emotion. I never saw its owner, but I understood: this was no dream, no trick of the imagination. It was an agreement, a bargain, sealed with my life.

And then—a touch.

Someone's hands pressed against my chest, and in the next moment, I was thrown down. I fell, not even having the time to comprehend that it was over.

Another month passed before I finally felt strength returning to me. My fingers no longer felt foreign, my body obeyed, and the agonizing emptiness that had plagued me since awakening had begun to fade. Yet still, I had not spoken a word. From the moment I awoke, my lips remained silent.

During all this time, not a single member of my family had come to visit me. Not my father, not my mother, not even Cedric. No kind words, no glance filled with concern. To them, it seemed, I simply did not exist. I was unwanted, unnecessary.

In the novel, little was said about him. Only scattered mentions from which one could piece together the image of a man worthy of respect. He earned sympathy from other characters, not because he was miserable. On the contrary, he was grateful to fate for being born into this family. Eliot loved his father, his mother, even his brother, but he never demanded love in return. He simply lived to love.

Noble.

But unlike him, I did not intend to be a victim of this story.

"My lord, it is too soon for you to be standing! Your muscles have not yet regained their strength!" The maid exclaimed, rushing toward me with obvious concern in her voice. Her eyes widened in horror as she saw me trying to rise.

"Please, lie down! Your stitches could reopen!" Her voice trembled, and hesitation was evident in her movements, but I could no longer remain in bed.

My body ached, my limbs were weak as if they were not my own, but that no longer mattered. I was tired of being a prisoner of my own helplessness.

"It's alright. I can move on my own," these were the first words to leave my lips after my long silence. My voice sounded foreign—hoarse, weakened.

The maid froze, seemingly unable to believe that I had actually spoken.

"I need to go to the restroom," I added, taking a careful step forward.

The pain was present, but it no longer paralyzed me. I moved toward the door, ignoring the worried gaze of the servant, and opened it.

Before me stretched a grand corridor—truly luxurious. High walls adorned with exquisite tapestries, expensive candelabras, intricate patterns on the marble floor—everything looked as if it had stepped off the pages of a historical novel.

I stood there, momentarily stunned.

Yeah… I had almost forgotten that Marquis du Mortier was one of the richest men in the south. Truly, opulence in everything.

But where the hell is the restroom?

I looked around, but in this corridor stretching for several dozen meters, there wasn't a single door that hinted at the room I needed. Everything around seemed designed purely for grandeur and a display of status—paintings, massive columns, an ornate carpet sinking into the depths of shadows.

Great. My first goal in this world—finding a bathroom. What a fantastic start to a new life.

"Milord! Where are you going?! I can't keep up with you!" came the maid's anxious voice from behind.

I didn't slow down, though moving was harder than I expected. My whole body ached from prolonged inactivity, and the bandages tightly wrapped around my chest reminded me of the severity of my injury.

"Where's the bathroom?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

The maid froze, as if I had just asked her something utterly unimaginable. Then, her face flushed red, and she hastily lowered her gaze.

"U-um… allow me to escort you, milord," she mumbled, torn between embarrassment and duty.

I sighed. Was even relieving myself in this world some kind of quest?

It took a little over five minutes, but I finally found peace. What a relief! I felt absolutely fantastic, enjoying the freedom of movement—until my stomach loudly reminded me of its needs with a treacherous growl.

I turned sharply to the maid, who looked as though she was ready to rush to my side at any moment should I suddenly decide to faint.

"Is there anything to eat? I want meat."

The girl hesitated for a moment, as if she couldn't believe her ears.

"Meat?.. But, milord, you're not allowed to eat solid food yet," she said cautiously, almost pleadingly.

I frowned but quickly found a solution.

"Then tell the cooks to prepare meat for His Excellency Cedric. And… make sure they don't add onions. I don't like them."

The maid blinked, clearly not understanding where I was going with this.

"Milord, but…"

***

Now I can finally eat to my heart's content…

Before me, on a massive oak table, sat an enormous marbled steak. A perfectly seared edge, a juicy pink center that quivered at the slightest movement—a masterpiece of culinary art. The aroma of roasted meat filled the room, awakening an even greater hunger within me.

I licked my lips in anticipation of the tender flavor, but I couldn't help but notice the cooks sneaking glances in my direction. They exchanged looks, clearly puzzled as to why I was the one sitting at the table and not His Excellency Cedric.

I was enjoying this delicious meal thanks to my little lie. If not for that, they would have served me something that probably tasted like a fried boot.

I cut another juicy piece, savoring every moment. The meat melted in my mouth, its rich aroma intertwined with subtle notes of spices, while the heat soaked into every fiber. This—this was true bliss.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the maids shifting nervously, clearly unsure whether she should intervene. Obviously, they still didn't understand what was happening.

Oh well. I wasn't planning on explaining, anyway. The golden rule of survival—never turn down good food.

Everything remained peaceful until I heard footsteps behind me.

Heavy. Confident. Measured. The kind of steps that could only belong to someone accustomed to power. Someone before whom others bowed their heads. Someone no one dared to disobey.

In an instant, the entire hall—just moments ago filled with the aroma of roasted meat and hushed whispers—fell into tense silence. The cooks and servants froze, as if afraid to even breathe.

I didn't rush to turn around, simply cutting another piece of steak and bringing it to my lips, letting the juices spread over my tongue.

"What audacity…" came a cold, low voice.

I smirked, finally turning my head lazily.

Before me stood Cedric du Mortier.