“Four hearts for the sacrifice.”

  Raen’s coarse voice reverberated through the chamber like a stone dropped into a well. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him, pale faces half-lit by the sickly glow of torches, the flames trembling as though the chamber itself was breathing.

  He reached into the leather satchel at his side. His hand emerged holding a beating heart, slick and glistening with blood that ran between his fingers in warm threads. He set it upon the altar, and the stone drank it instantly, the crimson blood pooling and then vanishing as if the rock were hungry for it.

  “First,” he said, “a heart of royal lineage. Of Aragos the Conqueror’s very bloodline.”

  Raen then took another heart out. It looked the same as a regular heart, only bigger, denser. It pulsed with heavy rhythm, as if it were forged rather than grown. The muscle was thick and corded, a kind of heart that pumped blood through a body built for war.

  “Second, a heart of a Knight.”

  He did not hesitate before reaching in again. The third heart was black as a starless sky. It beat with an irregular, dizzying rhythm, and where it pulsed, thick ooze of the same color seeped outward, curling through the air in lazy tendrils.

  “Third, a heart of a demon.”

  Raen then produced the final, fourth heart from the bag, the strangest one yet.

  Massive, green, and alien – it seemed to glow faintly from within, as if being lit by something inside. The heart spewed out bright green blood, crawling across the altar’s surface like living things before being absorbed by the rock, consumed without a sound.

  “Fourth, a heart of a beast king.”

  As Raen placed the fourth heart, a low hum rose from the altar. Deep and resonant, it vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. The chamber shook afterwards, dust raining from the ceiling in thin curtains.

  “My lord, they are nearly upon us! Our men can’t delay them any longer!” A black-robed man shouted from the base of the steps, his voice cracking under the weight of two competing emotions: excitement and dread.

  “Yes,” Raen said, his gaze still fixed on the altar. “It is time, commence the ritual.”

  His words made the man’s face grimace in excitement as he quickly moved, taking his place amongst the one hundred cultists standing below. They stood in a loose formation, their black robes wet from the ankle-deep water that seeped through the chamber’s ancient floor.

  They were the most loyal of Raen’s followers, willing to do whatever was needed.

  The underground chamber reeked of death and ancient stone. Its large gate stood unmoved for over five hundred years, since Aragos himself first opened it.

  “We willingly sacrifice for the altar! May our lives give purpose!”

  The words left a hundred throats in unison, their chant echoing off the vaulted ceiling and returning to them disordered. Black daggers appeared in their hands, one to each.

  In one clean, synchronized jerk, they drew them across their own necks.

  Blood welled in sheets, spilling down their chests. The water at their ankles turned dark, nearly indistinguishable from the bodies that began to slump and fall. Before long, the water stirred, beginning to move, drawn toward the altar.

  It flowed between the gaps of the stone platform and disappeared. Not a drop remained, nor a body.

  The chamber floor was dry and empty, leaving only Raen above, alone.

  He stared at the four hearts. They were melting, sinking into the altar’s surface as though the stone was swallowing them whole. In seconds, they were gone, their existence seemingly erased.

  And then the altar shook again, harder this time.

  “Yes,” Raen breathed, his voice trembling with want. “Come to me!”

  “Like Aragos in the past, grant me my wish!” He shouted excitedly, only for the stone gate of the chamber to explode inward.

  It shattered into a hundred jagged pieces, each one carrying with it the blood and flesh of Raen’s devoted men – the ones who had been holding the line outside. Chunks of stone and bone blew through the air like shrapnel.

  Seven figures strode through the smoke and ruin behind them, their steps unhurried, but not slow. Three hundred men were left outside to guard the chamber, and none were able to even wound the seven.

  The Knight at the front acted instantly. He raised his arm, and a spear left his hand.

  It wasn’t thrown so much as launched, a blur that crossed the chamber in an instant, striking Raen square in the chest and nailing him to the wall with enough force to crack the stone behind him.

  More spears followed. Each one found its mark. None missed.

  Pain exploded through him as he was pierced by the spears. Blood filled his mouth, coppery and thick, his vision dimmed, the torches bleeding into the dark.

  But he smiled.

  He saw the altar ripple for a moment, enveloping him.

  A sign.

  It had worked.

  Dust rose from where his body was as the Knights reached him a second later.

  “It … is … done,” Raen said with a weak voice, his left hand limping beside him, his head rising slowly, barely able to do so.

  “Search the entire chamber. Something is off. He must have done something before his death. Check the corpse as well, he has fooled us too many times in the past, we must make sure he is dead this time.” The Knight said, the others replying by moving instantly, searching the entire chamber while he stared at the corpse-like man.

  That was the final thing that Raen saw.

  The eyes of the Knight who had hunted him for so long.

  His irises, resembling shattered glass, were filled with swirling motes of light that seemed like trapped stars. The cracks had been white from earlier, and in Raen’s final moments, they were starting to dim.

  ‘Come to me,’ Raen thought. ‘My wish.’

  ***

  Raen awoke.

  His eyes snapped open with a groan that tore itself from somewhere deep in his chest. His head throbbed, as though something inside his skull was trying to crack it open from within.

  “Where the hell am I?” Raen grumbled, and then froze.

  His voice was young.

  Then the smell hit him.

  Blood, sharp and metallic, layered beneath the earthy scent of medicinal herbs. Underneath both, something fouler, the stench of festering wounds, of flesh gone bad.

  Groans drifted around him, cries and yelps from neighboring tents. Soldiers, wounded, packed close together.

  ‘I’m not in the chamber,’ The thought came slowly to him, dragged from the fog of pain. ‘Did they bring me here?’

  He shook his head gently and then sat up, collecting himself by a degree.

  ‘No. The wounds were fatal. They wouldn’t bother trying to save me.’

  ‘Did the Altar teleport me, saving my life?’

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  He glanced at the tent again; it felt … familiar, and yet he didn’t know why.

  He placed his hands on his knees, his pain lessening slowly. His mind sharpened, and then he froze, staring down at his own lap.

  ‘I have … both of my hands.’

  He moved his hands, flexed his muscles, and continued staring at the sight in front of his eyes, disbelief still present in his eyes.

  ‘What in the world is going on?’

  ‘Did the Altar heal me?’

  Raen stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him. He stumbled forward, caught himself on the edge of a wooden basin half-full of water, and nearly knocked it over in the process.

  He chuckled at himself. It was a dry, hollow chuckle. He then looked down into the water.

  A young face stared back at him.

  Unmarred, no scar bisecting his cheek, the one he carried for over a decade. No burn marks on his neck, no blemishes of any kind. Dark hair fell across his forehead in an untamed sweep. Brown eyes – his mother’s eyes, she’d always said – stared back at him.

  It was a face that still had hope in it.

  It made him want to vomit.

  He recognized the face, although it had been decades since he had seen it unblemished. It was a ghost of the past he’d long since buried.

  ‘This was how I looked when I was young,’ he thought, the realization slowly settling over him. “Back when … when I was in the army.’

  Suddenly, Raen grabbed his head as his memories surged, not new ones, but old. He saw himself leave home with other youths from the town. They joined the army to help defend the border, dreaming of success and climbing through the ranks.

  From his childhood to the scouting mission a couple of days ago, where he had gotten seriously injured, it all returned to him, as though he had lived it twice.

  ‘It’s the year 532 of the Aragos Calendar, and we’re near the Syrinad forest.’

  ‘The Crimoria Empire fights against the Kingdom of Azurand, and is slowly being pushed back.’

  ‘It worked. I got my wish. The altar … sent me back into the past.’

  He felt sick to his stomach.

  ‘I thought it would heal my body,’ Bitterness curled through his thoughts. ’Make me stronger, perhaps even grant me a weapon to allow me to dominate all my enemies, but it sent me to the past?!’

  ‘I sacrificed over a hundred people. Spent years gathering everything, placed the four hearts on the Altar, and this is what the damned thing gives me?!’

  A chance to do it all again.

  A chance to see everything be destroyed again.

  “What the hell?!” Raen suddenly shouted, causing sleeping soldiers to jolt awake while others jerked in surprise.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

  “Yeah, stop fucking shouting, you bastard!”

  “Woke me up, damn bas –“

  The tent erupted into noise as the soldiers started yelling and cursing, only to suddenly stop. One by one, they fell silent, as if someone had reached out and closed their mouths.

  Raen was staring at them.

  “Shut up.”

  Two words. Spoken quietly.

  But the temperature in the tent seemed to drop. Every wounded soldier felt it, a cold that crawled down their spines, unrelated to their injuries. There was something wrong with Raen’s eyes in that moment. Something that did not belong to the young, wounded soldier they knew. His entire being, for that single instant, radiated a weight, an authority, that none had ever felt from him before.

  Upon noticing they were silent, Raen stared back in the basin, looking at his reflection.

  ‘The altar will grant your darkest, deepest desire if you manage to complete the ritual … and this was mine?’

  ‘No wonder Aragos called it the ‘Grave of Wishes’.’ He exhaled slowly, his breath unsteady.

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do here? The pieces are already in motion. A powerful Knight or a Wizard could change the outcome, maybe. But what the hell can I do?’

  Suddenly, a detail in Raen’s reflection caught his eye, something he already noticed but didn’t properly examine.

  ‘My face … it’s unblemished.’

  He turned his head sharply to the side. A full head of hair, not a strand missing.

  ‘I had only been in the medical tent once in my previous life, after the failed scouting mission. My head was hit. The scalp was damaged, half of my hair torn away. My face forever disfigured.’

  ‘So why … why am I fine now?’

  “Hey, you!” Raen snapped at a soldier across the tent, a man with his leg encased in a wooden splint, propped up on a cot.

  “Y – yes?” The soldier’s face drained of color instantly.

  “How long was I out?”

  “About 2 days.”

  Raen’s eyes widened at his words, disbelief plastered on his face. In his previous life, he’d been unconscious for six days, barely clinging to life. He’d woken up broken, disfigured, missing pieces of himself. And now he’d been out for two, and woken up whole.

  ‘The past … has already changed.’

  Something shifted inside him, something small and fragile, easy to break. A glimmer of hope.

  ‘So … what the hell am I supposed to do then?’

  “What are you doing out of bed?”

  The voice hit him like a physical blow. It was calm, unhurried, and filled with concern.

  Raen knew that voice; he’d heard it in his dreams, whenever he would dream of his hometown, of his old friends, the life he had before everything went to hell.

  “Adam?”

  Raen’s voice cracked on the name. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling to his friend on legs that barely held him, crossing the tent in unsteady strides.

  Adam ducked through the tent’s entrance, broad shoulders nearly catching on the canvas. He was built like a bear. Thick boned, wide across the chest. His square jaw made him look a decade older than he was.

  He frowned at Raen, genuine puzzlement in his expression.

  “What’s the matter with – hey, w-what are you doing?!” Adam’s composure was shattered as Raen’s finger jabbed into his chest, his arms, his shoulders. He was poking him, prodding, as though trying to confirm that he was real.

  “Hey, stop it already!” Adam said as he pushed Raen away – not hard, not intentionally, but enough. Raen stumbled two full meters, his weak legs offering no resistance as he nearly fell down.

  “Oh shit, sorry,” Adam said, with genuine concern in his voice. “I didn’t mean to – are you alright?”

  Raen steadied himself, rubbing his chest where Adam’s palm landed. Even a push from Adam could leave bruises.

  “Glad to see that your freakish strength is still there,” Raen said with a smirk as Adam relaxed slightly, a sheepish grin replacing the guilt on his face.

  “Yeah, well … you shouldn’t have been poking me like that.”

  “Now, what the hell is going on? Your injuries, I heard they were severe.” Adam’s tone shifted, the lightness falling away. “I saw you once, your head was wrapped up, all bloody. Even the Mages weren’t certain you would live.”

  “They said your skull was cracked, and the scalp was heavily injured. But how … how come you look … fine?”

  “Adam, I just woke up from a two-day coma. Do you really think I have the answer to your questions?”

  Adam’s response was to grab him by the head.

  “Careful, hey! That hurts! You’re pulling my hair!” Raen’s protests went entirely unheeded as Adam turned his head this way and that, fingers probing the scalp with surprising gentleness, searching for the damage.

  He found nothing, and after a moment, he let go.

  “Just what the hell happened? How come you’re … fine?”

  “They said you might survive, but that you would be disfigured for the rest of your life.”

  “Hey, why do you sound so sad that I’m fine?” Raen asked, raising an eyebrow. Adam’s expression shifted, defensiveness over his face.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Well, it definitely sounded like that.”

  “Hey, are you two serious right now?!” A soldier across the tent with an arm bandaged up his chest, yelled. He was looking up from his cot with anger. ”We need peace and quiet, we’re all injured for Aragos’ sake!”

  Adam glanced at him apologetically while Raen glared, causing the soldier to look away, suddenly very interested in his blanket.

  “Let me grab my things and let’s get out of here,” Raen said, moving towards his cot.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, you’re supposed to wait for the doctor to –“

  “I’m going to visit him right away to get discharged.” Raen crouched beside his cot, gathering his meager belongings, a handful of trinkets. “Why should I stay here and take a whole bed when there are others who need it?”

  “I – guess you're right.” Adam moved to Raen’s side, glancing at the things he was picking up.

  “Dral brought your weapon back to our tent, by the way. I went and grabbed your armor back afterwards. These are just the bits and pieces they found on you when you were brought in.”

  Raen nodded, slinging his belongings over one shoulder before walking toward the tent’s entrance.

  “Go back to our tent, I’ll join you soon,” Raen said as they exited the tent. “I’m going to the doctor to get discharged.”

  “Alright,” Adam said, lingering, something clearly on his mind.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just …” Adam rubbed the back of his neck, a habit Raen remembered from decades ago. “Raen, back in the tent, and now … why are you looking at me like you haven’t seen me in years?”

  ‘Because I haven’t,’ Raen thought. ‘Because you’ve been dead for thirty years.’

  “Coma, remember?” Raen asked Adam as he pointed at his head, causing the latter to chuckle before turning around and making his way to their tent.

  Raen stared at his old friend’s broad back disappear into the camp. Something stirred in his chest, something small and unfamiliar, like a muscle he’d forgotten he had. He hadn’t felt anything in God knew how many years.

  In truth, Raen didn’t even know he was capable of feeling anything anymore.

  ***

  Getting approval from the head doctor proved to be quite easy.

  The man was bewildered, confused even, as anyone would be upon seeing a heavily injured soldier perfectly healthy – but in a place overflowing with wounded, the camp overwhelmed and understaffed, misdiagnoses happened, patients got mixed up.

  The doctor looked at Raen, looked at his notes, shrugged, and wrote off the discrepancy as a clerical error. He stamped the discharge papers without another word.

  And then, Raen decided what he wanted to do first in this new life of his.

  The scouting mission, the one scheduled four days from now, he was going to lead it.

  It wasn’t a straightforward assignment as the army ran a hybrid system. Most of the regular scouts had been decimated in the early engagements, so the army started pulling men from other squads to form temporary scouting units each time a mission was needed. A patchwork solution, stitched together from necessity.

  ‘The professional scouts were destroyed, so they put a bunch of amateurs together to do the job, brilliant idea.’ Raen thought, sarcasm overflowing. ‘What else can be expected out of ‘him’, after all.’

  The remaining scouts would comb the area close to the camp, identify immediate threats, and map out the terrain.

  Raen had been chosen to lead the scouting team for the last mission, a role he earned thanks to his sharp eyes and grasp of military tactics. He caught the attention of his captain and the scout regiment commander. They were quite fond of him, which was the main reason he was given the role of a squad leader as well.

  Getting approval from the captain to return back to his post was even easier than getting the dispatch papers.

  Raen barely entered the tent before the captain’s eyes brightened, practically shoving the position of squad leader back to him, relief evident on the man’s tired face.

  “Those lunatics, please go back to controlling them.”

  Raen chuckled before saluting the Captain and leaving him alone with the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

  Raen then made his way toward his squad’s tent, passing through the camp. Soldiers bustled around him, some wounded, some preparing for their next engagement.

  None of them knew that the war they were fighting was already lost.

  As he walked through the camp, he suddenly came across the training grounds, an open stretch of packed earth, ringed by wooden posts and worn practice dummies. It was empty.

  He stopped, studying the space. He then looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers.

  ‘Before anything else, I should check what my body is capable of right now.’

  ‘In four days, Adam will die in the scouting mission.’

  Raen took a deep breath.

  ‘I won’t let that happen.’

  Once again, finding himself with both hands, what do you guys think is going to happen?