I Have Reincarnated Yet Once Again-Chapter 13: – The Prophecy.

The night fell like ink spilled across parchment—slow, thick, and inevitable.

Black Rose Palace lay hushed in shadow, the air thick with the kind of silence only the deep hours of night could carry.

Its stone walls were bathed in silver moonlight, the rain from earlier having cleared, leaving the skies clean and sharp. The roses in the garden—midnight-black with glistening petals—stood still, their scent damp and heavy.

A pale glow dripped through the latticed windows, bathing Evelyn's room in silver. No breeze stirred the drapes. No footsteps echoed in the corridors.

Evelyn slept in her chamber, curled beneath soft quilts, her breathing slow and even. The candle at her bedside had long since flickered out, leaving only the cool light of the moon to spill across the floor.

Her tiny form shifted beneath the embroidered quilt, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly as she twisted in her sleep. The stillness around her was deceptive, for within her slumber, a storm raged.

But her mind was not at peace.

A dream clung to her like the scent of blood on silk.

______

Blood.

It marred the marble like molten rubies—thick, hot, and unforgiving.

A girl no older than sixteen stood amidst chaos.

Screams echoed faintly, as if from a great distance. The clash of steel had long died down, replaced by the silence of death. The great throne hall lay ruined, corpses scattered like discarded dolls, the crimson trail of slaughter leading to the foot of the dais.

Upon the throne, a lone figure still sat.

A man.

With a crown on his head.

Aging but proud, his crown sat heavy on his brow, eyes locked onto the girl who had become death incarnate.

He did not tremble. Did not call for mercy.

He was injured, his robe torn, his crown tilted. Yet he smiled.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips as she approached, sword gripped tight in her hand.

"So,"

he said, voice low, tired, almost fond.

"It ends with you, then."

The girl stepped forward slowly, sword dragging behind her with a metallic hiss. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, never left his. She said nothing.

Armored guards lay strewn across the hall—none spared, none standing.

"A pity..." he rasped, voice tinged with both weariness and pride.

"But... I always knew this day would come eventually."

He slowly raised his gaze to meet the girl's eyes, not with fear—but recognition.

"I expected no less from my blood."

A pause.

"This throne," he murmured, "is not given... it is taken."

With one final step, she raised her blade. It gleamed, red and wet, under the flickering light of dying flames.

And then—

A single, clean stroke.

—and his head fell to the floor with a soft thud.

His crown rolled from his head with a hollow clang, coming to a rest near her blood-soaked feet.

She stood alone—surrounded by death.

Soaked in red.

________

Evelyn's eyes flew open. She jolted upright, her chest heaving.

She sat up sharply, her breathing shallow. Her white hair clung to her temple with sweat, and her fingers clutched at the sheets, knuckles pale. She remained motionless for a while, listening—to the night. To the nothingness. To the past that refused to let her go.

For a long moment, she sat still in the darkness, her pale hair damp against her forehead. The room was quiet—too quiet. Only the wind whispered past the shutters.

She reached up, pressing a hand to her chest.

The heartbeat beneath her ribs was too fast, too loud. She could still smell the iron tang of blood.

But there was no blood here.

No blood.

Only the distant howl of wind and the moonlight pooling on the rug like pale silk spread across the floor.

She exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders fall.

Then, with practiced ease that belied her years, she slipped out of bed and padded barefoot to the tall window that overlooked the garden.

Her feet made no sound as she moved. She pushed open the window just enough to let the cool air kiss her cheeks. Her small hands trembled slightly as she rested them on the frame.

Outside, the moon hung low and full, casting silver light upon the world below. The black roses, drenched from the earlier rain, glittered like obsidian under moonlight. Not a soul stirred in the garden. The world seemed asleep.

But Evelyn was not.

She pressed her palm to the cold glass, resting her forehead beside it. Her eyes—those hauntingly mature blue eyes—stared not at the moon, but through it. Beyond it.

Her breath slowly steadied, but sleep would not return.

She didn't expect it to.

It's really tiring.

Even after so many years...

It's still haunting.

She didn't speak aloud. There was no need to. The moon was her only audience.

She closed her eyes slowly.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The girl stood still, watching the stars move ever so slightly across the sky. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled quietly, marking the fifth hour.

She didn't move.

___________

Morning came.

Far from Black Rose Palace, in the heart of the palace, the Grand Hall of Cristiane awakened to a formal gathering.

Sunlight poured in through the tall stained-glass windows, painting the chamber in hues of ruby and gold. The murmur of courtiers filled the air—nobles in rich garments, scribes with scrolls, and guards in polished armor all taking their places.

At the far end of the hall, beneath the twin banners of the Empire, stood the imperial thrones.

Empress Florina De W. La Cristiane sat upon the higher seat, sovereign of the land, cloaked in the finery of her station. Her posture was sharp, regal, commanding the chamber without uttering a word. Her gaze swept across the court—cold and discerning, missing nothing.

At her side sat Emperor Curtis Rosenberg, her consort, a figure of calm and elegance. Auburn hair fell in soft waves to his collar, catching faint traces of light. His expression remained inscrutable, green eyes flickering with unread thoughts.

Guards aligned the perimeter with steel discipline. Robed officials shuffled scrolls. A guard stepped forward to announce the arrival of the High Priest Harven.

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The guard's voice rang out, clear and respectful.

"Announcing High Priest Harven of the Temple of Spirits."

A stir rippled through the court. The man who entered was seldom seen outside the Temple of Spirits.

Clad in flowing lavender and silver, the elderly priest moved slowly, each step deliberate. His hands were wrinkled like dry parchment. His eyes—though faded—were unwavering.

Surprised murmurs stirred at the sight of him.

The Empress's brow lifted slightly.

Empress Florina: "You rarely leave the Temple. What brings you here with such urgency, High Priest?"

High Priest Harven bowed deeply, voice solemn.

Harven: "Forgive the abrupt visit, Your Majesty. Last night, a prophecy has descended—one I could not ignore."

A flicker passed through Curtis's gaze, though his face remained still.

The Empress gave a slight nod.

Empress Florina: "Oh, a prophecy. That's rare. What was it?"

The High Priest stood upright, voice resonating clearly in the hushed chamber.

Harven: "This prophecy bore no name, only words."

He began to recite:

"The stars shall blink, the sun shall fade,

When blood once lost calls fate unswayed.

Veiled in white through shadowed skies,

Born of silence, death, and lies.

She walks where broken empires rise,

With hands to bless or hands to burn,

The world shall shift when silence turns."

Silence descended over the court.

Curtis's gaze sharpened. Slowly, he turned his head toward the Empress, but she remained still, unreadable.

As the prophecy was recited, Curtis found his mind drifting—unbidden—to an image of a girl with white hair.

Then, just as quickly, he dismissed the thought.

The forgotten one.

The daughter of the late Emperor consort.

Evelyn.

He frowned. It had been years since he last thought of her. Rumors said she lived quietly in Black Rose Palace, powerless and insignificant. No one of consequence.

But still—

Curtis's thoughts drifted back to the prophecy.

Veiled in white... born of silence...

Curtis: [ Just because she has white hair doesn't mean she is the one. The prophecy might not even be speaking of color or appearance.]

He exhaled slightly, shaking off the absurdity of the idea.

And yet, despite himself, the image of Evelyn lingered. A forgotten child in an abandoned palace.

Then he shook his head, scoffing inwardly.

Curtis: [ No. That child? Impossible. A powerless, discarded child. There is no reason to connect her with such divine words.]

He clenched his jaw and turned his focus back to the court, refusing to let the stray thought take root.

The words of the prophecy hung in the air, their weight suffocating as the High Priest stood still.

Curtis's fingers twitched slightly, but he kept his composure. His mind raced, but his expression remained cold as marble.

Harven: "I believe the prophecy speaks of a child whose fate will bring either great salvation or ruin. We do not know her name, nor her face, only the words that came through the divine. But her presence will bring change, either to restore—or to devastate."

The silence in the hall was almost tangible. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, eyes flicking between the Empress and Emperor.

The Empress's gaze remained fixed on the High Priest, her lips thinning.

Empress Florina: "A child, then. God speaks in riddles, and they're often more trouble than they're worth. But you say she will either restore or ruin. That speaks of great power."

Curtis shifted uncomfortably. A quiet stirring inside him threatened to give voice to thoughts he knew better than to entertain.

Curtis: [ Why does that child keep appearing in my mind? Hah... am I going mad? There's no way... Absolutely no way she's related.]

Still, the words of the prophecy lingered like smoke in his lungs.

Curtis: "Prophecies are like storms. Some can be solved, some cannot. Why press on it too soon?"

The High Priest lowered his gaze.

Harven: "Yet this one feels different, Your Majesty. It does not speak of the future alone, but of a blessing. The Empire has long been... unraveling. Perhaps this child is the thread to mend it—or to pull it apart entirely."

The room fell into another silence—but this time, it trembled with unease. The nobles exchanged glances, sensing that the undercurrents running through the court were shifting.

The High Priest's words were not lost on Curtis, who couldn't help but reflect on the vague murmurs from the court.

Curtis: "Enough. This is idle speculation. We are an empire, not a gathering of fortune-tellers. The prophecy, like all others, will remain a riddle."

He rose to his feet, signaling the end of the discussion. His tone had hardened, as had his posture.

Curtis: "Prophecies are riddles. They bend to the interpretations of those who wish to see something in them. We must not waste time chasing phantoms."

The Empress remained seated, her face unreadable.

Empress Florina: "Very well, High Priest. We will treat this prophecy as we have treated all before it—until it proves itself worthy of attention."

The High Priest bowed deeply, his expression solemn.

High Priest Harven: "As you wish, Your Majesty. We shall leave the interpretation to time."

The court resumed, turning toward mundane affairs—border disputes, merchant complaints, diplomatic letters. But the mood had shifted.

The prophecy lingered.

Curtis sat in thoughtful silence, though he listened to the voices around him. His gaze, now distant, remained troubled.

A child who can bless or ruin...