Rose Bloodheart
Her scent hit him first—roses, warm and sweet, laced with something ancient and powerful. It wrapped around him like smoke from a distant memory, and it terrified him. Because it felt so… familiar.
"…It's really you," she whispered, voice breaking like glass under pressure. "My son… my son… you've returned to me."
Alex couldn't move.
Her words hit something within him—a silent tide slamming against the weak walls of his mind. He was there, naked, covered in blood, shivering as though the world had lost its sense. For an instant, he didn't realize where he stopped and this bizarre, dreamlike world started.
Then something within him snapped loose.
His body acted on instinct. Arms out, sweeping her toward him, holding her with a force he couldn't contain. She molded to him, her shape soft and cold and chillingly real.
He hugged someone he'd never known… and yet had always missed.
He didn't care that he wasn't clothed. That the cold kissed his flesh. That blood still leaked from his fingers. None of that mattered.
Only her.
The woman whose voice trembled with yearning as she uttered the word "son."
His heart hurt—not from memory, but from something deeper still. He shouldn't have known her. Logic cried out that she was a stranger, shrouded in darkness, her loveliness spectral and unearthly. He had only viewed her face in a broken dream—one that had felt like someone else's.
And yet… the second she opened her mouth, something deep within him broke asunder. As if a rusty lock thrust wide by the correct key.
He did not merely hear the sorrow in her voice.
He knew it. Lived it. Her grief flooded him like a torrent. It wrapped around his ribs, constricted his lungs, shuddered his soul. The spirit that now inhabited this borrowed flesh twitched—an echo of a life stirring from the blood.
Prince Alex Bloodheart.
The name resonated in his head. Not a title. A reality.
Memories came in on a wind of smoke—unfirm, shadowy, but indubitable. They seeped into his own mind like ink into water, remolding him from the inside out. He was still Alex River. But he was something else too. Someone else.
His fingers shook as they wrapped around her. Not out of fear. But because, for the first time since he had opened his eyes in that scarlet coffin, he felt genuine. Anchored. The heat of her arms, the strength with which she held him like something fragile, anchored him to the present.
She didn't step back either.
At the edge of the destroyed colosseum, two guards remained kneeling. Quiet. Heads bowed. They hadn't found the courage to move. But the softness in their position betrayed them. They were observing their Empress—the legendary woman immortalized in stories—cry silently within the arms of her lost son.
There was respect within their silence. But something more.
Knowledge.
A holy moment.
When finally the hug relaxed, Alex drew back, breath ragged, uncertain how long they stood there wrapped in each other's arms. It was hours. Or it was seconds. His heart pounded. And yet, as distance increased between them, the world became more clearly defined.
He saw her in all her glory now.
She stood straight—regal, commanding. Her bearing filled the room like music coming back into empty halls. The dress she wore glimmered in red and darkness, its material clinging to her body like living tissue. A floor-high slit up one leg exposed the white length of her leg, unblemished and shining in the sputtering torchlight.
Her steps slow. Each one deliberate. Each inhale controlled. She was perfect—full hips, small waist, the rise and fall of her breasts hypnotic in rhythm.
But it wasn't her form that left him winded.
It was her face.
A high cheekbone, a chiseled jawline, lips like crushed rose petals—rich and seductive. Her eyes did not let him go, though. Twin rubies shining softly under the darkness. There was still a sheen of tears there, unshed, held back only by willpower.
Her hair cascaded like a river of sakura petals—pale pink and silken, tumbling down her shoulders and back. Every lock glinted like spun moonlight. Against her unblemished ivory skin, she seemed carved from crystal and heat.
And Alex… stood nude.
His blood-stained body naked in her eyes.
And yet, she didn't wince. Didn't look away.
She smiled.
It's been a lot of years, my boy," she murmured, voice gentle but firm. "The last time I clasped you… you were so little. Delicate. Pure." Her eyes glided slowly along his body, her voice still flat. "But now… you've become powerful. A man.
Her gaze swept the length of him—dwelling on the curve of his chest, the rise of his abdomen, the tension in his arms. And lower. His thighs. The shadowy path of blood tracing its way down his leg.
And then… where he was between his legs.
He watched it occur. The way her eyes settled there. Not brutally. Not shamefully. But with a mixture of reverence and curiosity.
His length had stirred, half-awake in the cold air, and her eyes lingered for a second too long.
His breath caught.
She looked up again, locking eyes with him.
"You've become a man," she said again, her voice rich with something he couldn't name.
Alex swallowed hard, his throat parched. The heat radiated across his face. He wanted to turn away, to conceal—but something deep within him wouldn't allow it. A soft voice at the back of his mind spoke:
"You're not supposed to be ashamed."
Even so, he remained quiet.
She inclined her head, a flicker of amusement tracing her lips. "What is it, my son?" Her smile grew. "Wait… are you blushing?"
He massaged the nape of his neck, agitated. "I—It's just… it feels strange. Being here like this… naked…"
She smiled softly, a melodic sound like silver bells at twilight. And then she drew near, her hand going to his cheek, cool fingers tracing his skin.
"You're mine," she said quietly, softly. "I held you each night. I bathed you. I sang to you when you cried out. I kissed your brow when you had fevers. There is no part of you I haven't loved."
His chest thudded once. Hard. Her words were shameless. Only raw, maternal love—and something else he couldn't put his finger on.
Before he could respond, she smiled again—smiled wider this time. As if the years between them had never been.
"Come," she said. "Let's go in. You require a decent bath. Attire. And more than that… we have years to reclaim."
Her fingers stroked a strand of pink hair off his forehead—hair of the same color as hers.
He breathed out, powerless to stop. The moment carried him onward. He could be angry and question everything later.
"…Come on… Mom."
With a sweep, she turned toward the guards, her voice again steel.
"You are off duty. Rest until I call."
"As you order, Supreme Empress," they answered as one, bowing and disappearing into the darkness like mist.
There was a return to silence in the ruins.
She held out her hand to him.
He wavered.
Then, cautiously, his hand claped hers.
Her fingers were soft and chilled—like snow that never melted.
The instant their hands touched, a surge of scarlet mist wrapped itself around their feet, encasing them in a shell of heat and darkness. Smoke billowed up, heavy as velvet.
And then. everything was gone.
When the mist dissipated, he opened his eyes.
No ruins left. No stone.
He stood in bare feet on red carpet, soft and thick under his toes. The room around him had been carved out of excess—high walls covered in gold-veined silk, radiating blood-red sigils. Chandeliers hung high up, running with rubies like splashed tears.
A towering bed stood in the center—covered in black velvet and gold-threaded bedding. Every flat area glowed with magic. The mirrors rippled. The shadows sang.
But… it all was familiar.
He turned slowly, eyes following each line, each corner.
That chair—where she would comb his hair.
That bed—where she would read him tales of blood and moonlight.
That balcony—where she once spoke to him of old secrets in a whisper while stars blazed above.
He knew it in his chest. Like echoes frozen in time.
Rose stood next to him, watching him in silence.
Her eyes followed his face, the way he watched the room.
Then she reached out and brushed another strand of pink hair from his cheek. "Your hair… it's grown longer. And softer."
He looked at her… then down at his own hair. It reached past his shoulders now—shining pale pink, just like hers. They matched. From behind, someone might mistake them for the same person. Their height nearly identical—her just an inch taller at most.
She smiled not knowing what he was thinking and continued, "Do you recognize this room?"
He looked at her and nodded deliberately. "…I remember."
Her smile grew wistful. "You should. You stayed here for fifteen years."
He turned once more, examining the walls, the bed, the candles that danced softly on intricately ornamented stands.
"It's odd," he whispered to himself. "Like I'm someone else… and still me."
He remembered reading novels on Earth—about reincarnation, transmigration. Worlds where people awakened in new bodies, with new destinies. It had seemed like fiction.
But now… it felt like those myths had swallowed him whole.
He didn't notice her turn, gliding toward a smaller golden door across the room—until she paused at the threshold, hand resting on the frame etched with blooming roses.
"Come," she said. "Let's take a bath. We'll talk afterward."
He stepped over to follow. His footsteps quiet on the carpet.
But then—
"I'll help you."
He stiffened.
"What?" he demanded, turning around in surprise.
She glanced back at him with an unperturbed smile. "I said I'll help you with your bath."
His heart missed a beat. "No—I mean, no need. I can take care of myself. I'm not a child anymore."
She laughed softly. "You've become shy."
"It's not that," he grumbled. "It's just… bathing together? Seriously?"
She bridged the gap between them, her eyes quiet and unyielding.
"You are my son," she told him softly. "I bathed you earlier. I can do so again."
His lips parted—but no sound emerged. Her fingers brushed against them, quieting him with the lightest pressure.
"No arguments."
Her touch froze him. His breathing regulated. The protest dissolved.
She led him by the hand.
"Come, my son."
They moved together toward the bath.