Henry's sudden, ecstatic shouting echoed through the stone corridor, immediately drawing the attention of Mia, who had been waiting just a short distance away for him to wake.
A sharp knock sounded at the heavy oak door. "Young Master? Is something the matter?" she called out, her voice laced with a familiar concern.
"Nothing's wrong!" Henry shouted back, his voice cracking with a manic, joyous energy he hadn't felt in a lifetime. "Everything's perfect, Mia!"
Surprised by the sheer enthusiasm in his voice, Mia paused. "Perfect? Well, in that case, may I come in?"
"Yes!" Henry blurted out, but as he moved to greet her, he suddenly looked down and realized he was standing there in nothing but his thin linen drawers. "Wait! No—don't! Just... give me a moment!"
Panic sparked a frantic burst of movement. He scrambled to his wardrobe, his younger, sober hands moving with precision. He threw on his tunic and pulled up his trousers, his heart hammering against his ribs the entire time. Once he was decent, he took a shaky breath and called out, "Okay, you can come in now!"
The door swung open, and Mia stepped into the room. She looked radiant, her presence filling the space with the scent of fresh herbs and roses. With a wide, genuine smile that reached her eyes, she looked at Henry standing before her.
"Well," she beamed, her gaze warm and full of affection. "Happy sixteenth birthday, Henry!"
His heart was swelling with gratitude. Without thinking, he closed the distance between them and pulled Mia into a tight, warm embrace.
Mia froze, her breath hitching in surprise. Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a second. The Henry she knew was often aloof, sometimes even prickly, and he had never once offered her a gesture of such raw, unshielded affection. But as she felt the genuine warmth in his hold, her tension melted, and she tentatively wrapped her arms around his back, her face flushing with a mix of confusion and an emotion she couldn't quite name.
"My word, Henry," she whispered, a small, breathless laugh escaping her. "You really have woken up a different young man today, haven't you?"
As he held her, Henry closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of roses that he had once treated with such cold indifference. The hug wasn't just a thank you; it was a silent apology for a lifetime of cruelty that hadn't happened yet—and now, never would.
But as he pulled away, a cold, sharp clarity settled over him.
Mia's cheerful "Happy Birthday" hadn't just been a greeting; it was a coordinate.
He had been sent back even further than he'd realized. At sixteen, the rotting of his soul hadn't set in yet. He hadn't yet become the Henry who lived at the end of a jug. This was the year he was supposed to discover the gambling dens, the year when he would first begin to harbor resentment and feelings of inferiority toward his brother Howard.
"I'm different, Mia," Henry said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding far older than sixteen. "You have no idea how much."
Mia blinked, her eyes wide with wonder. "Well, sixteen is a big year, Henry. Now, hurry along, Lady Sinclair is waiting for you in the dining room."
Henry offered Mia a final, sharp nod of gratitude. "Thank you, Mia. For letting me know—I wouldn't want to keep mother waiting another second."
He didn't wait for her to leave with him stepping to her side, Henry bolted towards the door. But as his hand gripped the heavy iron latch, he skidded to a halt. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing the woman who had stayed kind to him even as he had spiraled into a drunken shadow of a man.
"And Mia?" he called out, his voice clear and remarkably steady. "You look beautiful today. Truly."
The compliment hit the room like a lightning strike. Mia's eyes went wide, and a deep, crimson blush instantly flooded her cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. She fumbled with her apron, her gaze dropping to the floor in a sudden, flustered shyness. She opened her mouth to stammer out a reply—perhaps a modest deflection or a soft thank you—but the words died in her throat.
By the time she looked up, the doorway was empty.
Henry was already sprinting down the stone corridors of Sinclair Castle with the powerful strides he had learned during the morning runs in the garrison.
As the double doors of the dining room came into view, he felt a surge of pure, unfiltered adrenaline.
Behind those doors sat his mother, the woman whose birthday he had once overlooked; he looked forward to correcting his mistakes, vowing to himself that he would make amends.
The heavy oak doors of the dining room swung open, and for a split second, Henry's breath hitched. The room was bathed in the warm, golden light of a morning that should have been a hazy memory, but instead, it was his reality.
Before he could even process the sight of the table, he was hit by a whirlwind of motion.
"Happy birthday, Henry!" a booming, joyous voice rang out.
Suddenly, Henry found himself enveloped in a crushing, enthusiastic hug. It was Howard. He smelled of leather from his training armor, his grip strong and devoid of any hesitation.
"Sixteen!" Howard laughed, pulling back just enough to grip Henry's shoulders, his eyes searching his younger brother's face. "The big one. Tell me, are you ready for the Coming of Age ceremony? I heard that Father will personally oversee your aptitude assessment."
Henry flinched for a second, but he didn't pull away with the prickly inferiority that had defined his first life. Instead, he leaned into the contact, returning the hug with a strength that seemed to surprise Howard for a moment.
"I'm ready, Howard," Henry said, his voice steady and devoid of the old resentment. "More than you know. I can't wait for the ceremony later.
Although Henry knew his aptitude wasn't great, it was still about average and allowed him to pursue his own power.
Howard beamed, giving Henry's shoulder a final, firm squeeze before letting go. "That's the spirit, brother!"
As Howard stepped aside, Henry's gaze drifted to the far side of the long mahogany table. There stood his mother, Sarah.
She looked breathtaking. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant arrangement, and her green eyes—the same eyes that had looked at him with such crushing disappointment in the Third Door—were currently shimmering with a soft, maternal pride. She watched her two sons with a small, contented smile as they got along better than she had ever witnessed.
"Happy birthday, my—"
She didn't get to finish. Henry didn't just walk to her; he rushed. He crossed the distance in a few long strides, closing the gap before she could even take a step toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, burying his face against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her signature lavender perfume—the scent of home he had once traded for the smell of stale wine.
"—son," she finished mid-hug, her voice a soft, muffled trill of surprise.
She laughed gently, her arms wrapping around him and holding him back with a fierce, protective warmth. She ran a hand through his hair, her touch light and grounding.
As he finally pulled back from his mother, his eyes met hers with a clarity that made her pause. "You look beautiful today, Mother," he said softly, repeating the kindness he'd shown Mia. "Thank you for everything."
Sarah blinked, a light blush touching her cheeks. "Oh, Henry... you really are growing up, aren't you?"
"I guess so, Mom," Henry said
The breakfast table was a sprawling, golden spread of everything the old Henry had once taken for granted. He dug into the eggs sunny-side up, the yolks rich and vibrant, pairing them with thick cuts of salty bacon, savory sausage, and a stack of pancakes drizzled in syrup.
Between bites, the room was filled with the kind of easy, genuine laughter that Henry had spent a lifetime avoiding. But as the meal drew to a close, a nagging absence tugged at his mind.
"Mother," Henry said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "Where is Father? I expected him to be here for breakfast."
Sarah's expression softened. "Arnold is at the Winslow Barony. He's been there since dawn trying to settle a few details for your future. He promised he'd be back before the Coming of Age ceremony begins."
Hearing his mother's words, Henry knew that his father was setting up his eventual engagement to Ashley Winslow, whom he still felt mixed feelings about. On one hand, she was stunningly beautiful and talented, but on the other hand, she also had a dominant and independent personality and had embarrassed him so harshly it had set off the dominoes that had ended his last life.
He was different now, though he wouldn't let her words in his last life become his future in this one.
As Henry stood and began to walk toward the exit, his mother's voice stopped him.
"Henry? Where are you off to in such a rush? It's your birthday—I thought you'd want to spend the morning lounging around."
Henry paused at the threshold of the exit, his hand resting on the cool stone of the doorframe. "I'm going for a run," he said, his voice level and certain. "And then I'm heading to the training yard for a few hours."
The clink of silverware stopped. Sarah blinked, her fork hovering in mid-air as she exchanged a bewildered look with Howard. Henry had always dodged his tutors and feigned stomach aches to avoid the grueling Sinclair training drills.
"Since when do you train, Henry?" she asked, her voice tilted with genuine surprise. "I thought you found the yard 'tedious and dusty.'"
Henry turned back to her, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. It wasn't the arrogant smirk of a boy, but the grim, focused look of a man who had seen exactly what happens when a person is caught unprepared.
"Since today, Mother," Henry replied. "Sixteen seems as good a time as any to start."
The run was an exercise in pure, unadulterated agony. His sixteen-year-old lungs, unaccustomed to such violent demand, felt as though they were being filled with molten lead. Each of the ten laps around the Sinclair estate was a battle of wills. By the fifth lap, his legs felt like dead weight; by the eighth, his vision blurred at the edges.
But as the pain intensified, Henry leaned into it. It was nothing compared to the first run at the garrison after four extra years of being sedentary and drinking. The pain was a cleansing fire for his new self.
After a grueling thirty minutes of gasping for air on the cool grass, Henry didn't retreat to his room. He forced himself into a bodyweight circuit that left his muscles quivering.
Finally, he stood before the training post, a weighted wooden practice sword in his grip.
He didn't just swing. He channeled the memories of Adar's perfect demonstrations from his past life. He focused on the pivot of his hips and the snap of his wrists. By the time he hit five hundred, his arms weren't just sore; they felt disconnected from his shoulders.
The bath was a sanctuary of steam and silence after the training he had pushed himself through. As he sank into the hot water, the deep, throbbing ache in his muscles began to dull. He looked at his hands—red and beginning to blister, but steady. No tremors from withdrawal.
After a long, refreshing bath, Henry realized it wasn't too long before his coming-of-age ceremony began so he quickly made his way to his room to put on his outfit, a deep midnight-blue tunic embroidered with silver thread, charcoal trousers, and boots polished to a mirror shine.
As he adjusted his cuffs, a knock sounded at the door—not the soft tap of Mia, but the heavy, rhythmic thud of a Knight. "Young Master Henry? The Lord and Lady are waiting in the Great Hall. The ceremony is ready to commence."
Henry took one last breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.