Sion John Ragnar

The room was quiet.
 
Dim light filtered through a high-arched window, casting fractured shadows across the cold stone walls. Dust hung suspended in the still air—untouched, undisturbed. There were no servants. No guards. No family.
 
Just the soft rise and fall of breath.
 
Allen's breath—tied now to a body that was not his own.
 
He sat up slowly, muscles screaming as if he'd been trampled by horses. Pain rippled down his spine like aftershocks from an ancient wound.
 
But pain was familiar. Pain meant he was alive.
 
And yet, it wasn’t the ache that disturbed him. It was the silence.
 
“Raphaël,” he called, voice dry and rough like parchment.
 
No response.
 
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. A stumble. A grunt. He caught himself on the carved wooden frame. The garments clinging to his body were too fine—velvet stitched with gold, noble embroidery… but the room was anything but noble.
 
Cold. Bare. Forgotten.
 
A prince's chamber without warmth. A tomb dressed as a bedroom.
 
“Raphaël!” he barked, louder this time.
 
A shimmer of light bloomed midair, slow and graceful. The little angel appeared, floating with an annoyed expression and a glowing feather quill clutched in one hand.
 
“Took you long enough,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “How do you feel?”
 
“Like I’ve been reborn in a corpse,” Allen muttered.
 
He flexed his fingers—Sion’s fingers. They responded, barely.
 
“Tell me about this boy. I need to know what kind of life I’m stepping into. His mannerisms. His past. Who he trusted.”
 
Raphaël's teasing demeanor faded. She floated toward the window, where sunlight bathed her wings in gold.
 
"It’s complicated,” she said softly. “But… you deserve to know.”
 
The Tragedy of Sion Ragnar
 
“Sion Ragnar,” she began. “Firstborn son of Duke John Ragnar—head of the Persia Dukedom. One of the most powerful noble houses under the Clover Kingdom’s crown.”
 
Allen remained silent, listening.
 
“But power doesn’t mean happiness.”
 
She paused, then continued.
 
“His story begins with love. Doomed love. His father, Duke John, once defied the crown to marry a woman not of court, but of heart—Lady Mary. Your mother.”
 
Raphaël’s voice dimmed.
 
“She was strong, kind, radiant… but she carried a curse heavier than any spell.”
 
Allen’s brow furrowed.
 
“Mary was the daughter of Count Jacob, lord of Neriah County. A man accused—perhaps falsely—of treason. Executed for conspiring to assassinate the crown prince.”
 
“And though Mary had no part in it,” she continued, “her bloodline was poison in the eyes of the court. Her name blackened. Her marriage to John turned scandal.”
 
“The king threatened to strip John of title if he didn’t renounce her. And though he never divorced her outright… his love rotted. Quietly. Cruelly.”
 
Allen’s jaw clenched. “He abandoned her.”
 
“Yes,” Raphaël said. “And more.”


A Childhood of Silence
 
“You were born into that shame,” she said. “You—Sion. Then your sister, Janet. Two children of a broken union. Innocent… yet despised.”
 
Allen’s expression darkened. “And the Duke?”
 
“Cold. Distant. Ashamed of the blood his children carried. He allowed his knights to harass you. The servants mocked you. Spit at you. Even your tutors refused to teach you.”
 
Memories Allen had never lived surged into his mind. Sion’s memories.
 
A boy, no older than nine, throwing himself in front of his sister. Taking armored fists meant for her. Crying out. Bleeding. Guards laughing.
 
“They punished you for protecting her,” Raphaël said gently. “And your mother… she withdrew. Locked herself away in grief. Your father… watched. And said nothing.”
 
Allen’s stomach twisted. His hands—Sion’s hands—trembled.
 
“Coward,” he muttered.
 
Raphaël nodded. “Sion never stopped trying to protect them. But it was a war he couldn’t win.”
 
The End of the Boy
 
“Three days ago,” she said, “an assassin infiltrated the estate. Found Sion training alone in the courtyard. Stabbed him in the gut. The guards ‘saw nothing.’ The healer ‘arrived too late.’ And the Duke…”
 
She looked away.
 
“…never came. Not even once.”
 
Allen looked down at his borrowed hands—bruised, scarred, forgotten. A boy discarded by his own blood.
 
But now, inhabited by the soul of a king.
 
“Is Janet alive?” he asked suddenly.
 
“Yes,” Raphaël said. “But barely. The servants target her now, assuming you’re dead.”
 
Allen rose fully, strength returning to him like a gathering storm.
 
“Not anymore,” he said coldly. “Sion may have died… but I’m not him.”
 
---
 
The Mirror
 
He stepped toward the tall mirror in the corner.
 
The reflection that stared back wasn’t Allen Rike, King of Valor.
 
It was a young man with silver-white hair, storm-blue eyes, and the quiet fury of someone who had known too much pain too young.
 
He didn’t recognize the face. But he understood the soul behind it.
 
“Sion Ragnar is dead,” he whispered. “But the world doesn’t know what’s just been reborn.”
 
Raphaël hovered beside him, wings flickering in the golden light.
 
“So,” she asked softly, “what will you do first?”
 
Allen turned, eyes sharp.
 
“I’ll learn how he walked. How he spoke. I’ll become the boy they forgot… until they remember they should have feared him.”
 
A smile tugged at her lips. “You really are a king.”
 
“No,” Allen said. “Not anymore. I’m his sword. And for Janet… and for Mary…”
 
His voice hardened.
 
“…I’ll burn this damned house down if I have to.”
 
Raphaël’s light dimmed slightly as she floated back. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
 
“Then be careful, Allen. Because not everyone wants Sion Ragnar to wake up.”
 
Her eyes narrowed.
 
“And the first angel watches from the shadows.”
 
All
en didn’t flinch.
 
“Let them come.”