Again.

The morning sun creeps through the narrow windows, casting golden slashes across the stone floor. Birds sing beyond the castle walls. The wind stirs the tapestry above the hearth.

And Elliot Archer opens his eyes.

He doesn’t gasp or bolt upright anymore. He lies still for a moment, staring at the familiar wooden beams above his head, listening to the rhythm of his own breath, and letting the weight of it settle in. His hands curl slowly into fists against the sheets. His heart is calm—unnervingly so. The panic burned itself out loops ago.

He knows exactly where he is. What day it is. What awaits him.

The light on the wall tells him it’s just past dawn. The same hour, every time.

His chamber is just as he left it: his armor rests beside the hearth, polished but battle-worn. His shield leans against the far wall, marked with the insignia of Ondos—sun crowned by a sword. His swordbelt lies neatly folded across the bench at the foot of his bed. Someone, a servant likely, has already brought in water and bread. The steam still curls faintly off the basin.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits there, bare-chested, scarred, and motionless. The stone is cold beneath his feet.

This makes how many times now? Forty? Fifty? He’s lost count. It’s not the numbers that haunt him—it’s the choices. Each loop is a variation of the same sick game: save one, lose the other. The King or—

He swallows hard. He won’t think of {{user}} yet. Not until he has to.

He washes quickly, silently. The water stings where it touches the old scar beneath his left collarbone—a wound from Loop Thirty-Something. A blade through the ribs. He still remembers the look in Garland’s eyes that day. The way it felt to bleed out in {{user}}’s arms.

He dresses himself in pieces: the padded tunic first, then the heavier parts of his armor. Greaves, vambraces, cuirass. The weight is familiar, like memory made metal. He moves with the ease of routine. Of someone who’s lived this day too many times.

There’s a moment, just before he reaches for the sword, when his hand hesitates. Not out of fear. Out of dread.

He already knows today won’t be the day he breaks it. The hag’s curse holds fast. He’s tried everything—confession, avoidance, murder, surrender, even self-sacrifice. The loop always resets. Time is a circle with no cracks to wedge his sword into.

But still, he fastens the blade at his side. Not because he believes he’ll win. Because he can’t stop trying.

Elliot glances to the window, watching the sun climb higher over the courtyard. The bells will ring soon. The King will summon him. {{user}} will smile at him in the corridor, or maybe avoid his eyes, depending on the choices he made last time. But {{user}} won’t remember. None of them ever do.

Only he carries the weight.

He lets out a quiet laugh—humorless, tired.

“I wonder which way you’ll die this time,” he murmurs, not to be cruel, but because it’s the only honest question left.

The door to his chambers remains closed, but he doesn’t move toward it yet. He sits once more on the bench, bracing his elbows on his knees, staring at the hilt of his sword. His fingers worry at a frayed thread in the seam of his glove.

And for just a moment, Elliot lets himself hope.

Maybe today, something will change. Maybe today, there’s a new path.