Fate's Forgotten Trickster

Chapter 2: The Trickster's Awakening

A Soul Reclaimed

Darkness.

Not the quiet, peaceful kind, but an all-consuming void, stretching endlessly in every direction. Cold and suffocating.

Margrave Noctis Umbrael floated within it, weightless, his thoughts spiraling into the abyss. He could remember pain—the sharp burn of a sword driven through his ribs, the suffocating wetness of his own blood pooling beneath him. The sneering face of Duke Calladris as he watched Noctis die, another insignificant pawn removed from the board.

A meaningless death.

Just as the world had always seen him—forgettable, replaceable, unimportant.

Yet something was wrong. He should have ceased to exist. Instead, his consciousness lingered, drifting through the endless void, caught between life and nothingness.

Then, a voice.

Oh, little shadow… you died too soon, didn't you?

It was deep, smooth, and tinged with amusement. Not cruel, not kind—just curious.

Noctis tried to respond, but the abyss swallowed his voice.

You tried so hard to survive. But the world does not favor the clever, does it?

A chuckle, distant yet everywhere at once.

No, it favors the strong. The ruthless. But you? Oh, you could have been so much more…

Something shifted. The void tightened around him, coiling like unseen hands pressing against his skin.

Would you like to try again?

A pulse of heat surged through him. A strange sensation bloomed in his chest—power. It coiled within him, unfamiliar yet intoxicating, burning through his veins like liquid fire.

Well?

Noctis exhaled, letting the darkness settle around him. Then he smiled.

"Yes."

The void shattered.

~~~~~

A sharp gasp tore from his throat.

His lungs filled with air too quickly, too forcefully. He coughed, his body convulsing as sensation crashed over him all at once—his limbs heavy, his skin burning hot, his mind overwhelmed by memories both his and… not.

He was lying in a grand four-poster bed, the silk sheets damp with sweat. A cool breeze drifted in from the open balcony doors, rustling the deep indigo curtains stitched with the Umbrael crest. The scent of aged parchment, candle wax, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.

His chambers.

His body.

His life.

Noctis sat up, his breath uneven. He pressed a hand to his chest, expecting to find the fatal wound that had ended his life, but there was nothing. Smooth, unscarred skin. No evidence that he had ever been stabbed through the heart.

His gaze darted toward the full-length mirror across the room.

He barely recognized himself.

His skin, once fair, now held an unnatural sheen beneath the surface, as if kissed by moonlight. His dark hair had deepened in color, shifting like ink in water. But his eyes—they had changed the most.

Gone was the dull gray of his past life. Now his irises flickered between gold and crimson, like embers caught in the wind. And within them, something watched.

Something old.

Something trickster-born.

A sharp knock on the door jolted him from his thoughts.

"My lord?" The voice belonged to Valen, his steward. "Are you awake?"

Noctis hesitated. If he had truly died, if reality itself had been rewritten, then he had no way of knowing how much had changed.

"I… am." His voice was steady, but foreign to his own ears. It carried an underlying resonance, as if layered with whispers.

The door creaked open, and Valen stepped inside. The older man—graying hair, sharp eyes, dressed in the dark livery of House Umbrael—halted abruptly, his breath catching.

"My lord, your eyes—"

Noctis met his gaze, watching as unease flickered across Valen's face. A test, then.

"Lighting trick," he said smoothly, brushing his fingers across his temples. "I was ill last night. A fever dream, nothing more."

Valen hesitated, then bowed. "Of course, my lord."

Good. Noctis needed time to understand what had happened—why he was alive, what this power within him was.

And most importantly, what had changed.

~~~~~

The news was unsettling.

Nothing had changed. Or at least, no one remembered his death.

The night of his supposed execution at Duke Calladris's estate? It had never happened. In fact, according to the records, he hadn't even attended the gathering. The court still viewed him as the lesser noble, the forgotten Umbrael heir—irrelevant, disposable.

But Noctis remembered.

And now, with every passing hour, he could feel something inside him waking up.

The first incident happened by accident.

While reading in his study, he had grown frustrated at an old tome's vague wording. Without thinking, he muttered, "It should be clearer."

The ink shifted.

The words realigned, forming precise, detailed descriptions as if rewritten by an unseen hand.

Noctis froze. His fingers hovered above the page, heart pounding. He turned to another book, whispering an absent thought—make the text smaller.

It did.

A trick.

A trickster's power.

For the first time since waking, Noctis allowed himself a true, genuine smile.

He was no longer just a pawn in this world.

He was something more.

~~~~~

Over the following days, Noctis experimented.

He started small—shifting ink, altering minor perceptions, bending shadows in candlelight. His power was subtle, deceptive, requiring intent and precision. Unlike traditional magic, which required grand incantations and gestures, this ability felt instinctual—like a whisper to the world itself, persuading it to change.

But every use of it brought a price.

The more he twisted reality, the heavier his body felt. The world pushed back against his deception, as if reminding him that it was watching.

Still, limitations meant nothing. Every game had rules, and every rule could be bent.

And Noctis?

Noctis was a trickster.

One evening, he stood before his mirror, exhaling slowly. His reflection flickered. With a thought, his eyes shifted—returning to their original gray. The ember-like glow vanished, replaced by the dull, forgettable gaze of the man he used to be.

A mask.

He could hide.

And in doing so, he would move unseen, manipulating this world from the shadows.

For the first time in his life—his two lives—Noctis was no longer a pawn.

He was the player.

And the nobles of this kingdom had no idea what was coming for them.