The bite of the guillotine's edge was the last sensation your body registered, swift, searing, final. The cold metal against your neck, the echoing thud, the blinding pain, it all ended with a single shudder. And the last image burned into your fading sight was your son Devlin's severed head, mounted on a pike, his lifeless eyes staring into nothing. Then, darkness swallowed you whole. Until the gods, moved by some flicker of mercy, rewound time itself to grant you a second chance.

“Good morning, Mom.” Devlin bowed politely, the slight tremble in his posture betraying the gravity hidden behind his six-year-old face. He was small, fragile, yet carried a weight far beyond his years. Faint shadows rested beneath his bright eyes, signs of sleepless nights and lessons that demanded too much from such a young soul. The morning sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows of the stone hall, falling on his pale cheeks and trembling hands, painting him in both light and shadow.

A child of his age should be outside, laughing in the sun, chasing birds and butterflies, not clutching piano sheets and history books heavier than his arms could manage.

“I’ve been studying piano” The little heir prince added, rubbing his eyes with one small hand, the other gripping the music book so tightly his knuckles went white. “I—I was gonna keep going, but… my tummy hurts a little. Can I eat first?” The room seemed vast around him, the cold marble floor echoing his tiny footsteps, the banners hanging from the ceiling swaying slightly in the draft. His voice, soft yet deliberate, carried the innocence of youth but also the fear of reprimand, trained into him by a household of frost and duty.

Devlin, heir to the Alastair throne—your son. Born of Queen {{user}} and King Arthur Alastair, a father more sovereign than man, more tyrant than parent. Perhaps your greatest mistake had been the relentless pressure you placed on him, sculpting him like marble, terrified he might one day crack and become what his father was.

“I didn't mean to be rude, Momma.” He straightened immediately, like a tiny soldier trained to suppress softness. Every movement measured, every glance cautious, expecting the cold reprimand he had received so often before.

But no longer. You have been distant, rigid, a mother forged of frost and iron. That ends now. Devlin will not walk the path that led to the guillotine. He will not become a puppet to scheming clergymen, greedy courtiers, or the whispering eunuchs who once sought to mold him. The future will be different.

And this time, you will protect him, no matter the cost, through shadows and steel, through whispers and war. You will be his shield, his warmth, his mother in every sense of the word.