End of The Beginning

by I_love_Callisto_Regulus

Summary:

After dying in a world twisted by betrayal, Penelope and Callisto open their eyes as children once more—haunted by memories of blood, love, and loss. Each believes they’re alone in remembering the tragic future, and each is determined to change it. As they navigate the dangerous game of nobility, power, and fate, they unknowingly circle closer to one another—two broken hearts trying to rewrite a doomed story... without realizing the other is doing the same.

Two timelines. One love. And a second chance that could break them all over again.

Notes:

Hiiii!! So how do I start? My older sister got married last week and that came with many (really many) family problems with my relatives and my grandma, besides I was passing the third semester exams for the past two weeks, the monthly exams— and anyway I'Il graduate middle school this year so I need to do much more effort as a nerd to get in a good high school.

This fic was supposed to come out after two other short fics but I accidentally deleted my writing app and all the fics saved there were lost (T＿T)

Anyway, hope u like this! I'll try to rewrite the genderbend's and the Sylus' crossover fics and post them as soon as I can ~(๑¯◡¯๑)~

!ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE!

Chapter 1: Villains are destined to die

Villains are destined to die.

Penelope knew that better than anyone — because she did. A villainess to the very end.

She hadn’t meant to run. Not really. But the moment she caught wind of what Leila had done — the brainwashing, the manipulation, the sickening sweetness that coated every lie — she bolted.

She thought distance might make it easier. Safer. Cleaner.

It wasn’t.

Because she ran straight into the arms of the one man who had never once asked her to be anything else.

Callisto.

God, how had she forgotten what he used to be like? Before the fall. Before she broke everything just trying to survive. Before the empire spat him like bitter wine.

Leila hadn’t stopped with the Eckarts. No, that would’ve been too easy. She sunk her claws into the royal family too. Somehow, she convinced the Emperor — Callisto’s father — to disown him. Just like that. Tossed him aside like garbage and handed the crown to the Second Prince, who barely knew how to hold a sword without slicing his own fingers.

Penelope had expected Callisto to be angry. Proud. Cold, maybe.

Instead, she found him shattered.

He laughed when he saw her. Not the kind of laugh you want to hear. The broken kind — like something inside him cracked and let all the sadness leak out.

So she told him.

Everything.

She told him she wasn’t the real Penelope. Not exactly. That she came from another world, another life. She rambled — about the regime, about her past, college exams, rainy nights spent hunched over archaeology books, her weird dream of digging up forgotten cities, her family and friends there, her real mother.

She didn’t mean to dump it all on him. She just wanted to make him feel less alone.

And then, quietly, softly, with a voice like a tremor in the dark, he said the:

> “I love you.”

 

She didn’t breathe for a moment.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t run.

Because deep down, she’d always known: she loved him too.

And he promised her.

Swore, with bloodied hands and fevered eyes, that he would never leave her. That he'd stay with her. That he’d get her out of this hellhole—even if it meant dragging her through the flames himself.

But he lied.

He left.

Not by choice. Not like a coward. But it didn’t matter. In the end, she was alone again—just like before.

Watching him die, murdered right in front of her. Because of her.

She didn’t have to be alone in the capital. She could’ve stayed hidden. But she was desperate—grasping for hope like a starving child with nothing but ash in their hands. She thought maybe Winter would know something, anything. Maybe he’d help.

How was she supposed to know Eckles was still hunting her?

Leila never let go. She sent Eckles to track her and Callisto like dogs, relentless and bloodthirsty. And he found her.

She was kidnapped.

And Callisto came for her. Of course he did. He always did.

But this time, the price was too high.

He showed up, bruised and half-healed, eyes blazing like a man with nothing left to lose. He was trying to buy her time—buy her freedom.

But the scales were stacked against him. His sword was dull, chipped. Eckles'? He wielded the one she’d once gifted him. Irony never missed its cue.

And maybe—just maybe—if Callisto had been stronger, faster, healthier, he would’ve survived. Maybe if she hadn’t been so reckless, she wouldn’t have had to see the sword pierce his chest. Wouldn’t have felt his blood splash across her hands like hot ink soaking into her skin. Wouldn’t have had to watch him crumble, still reaching for her.

> "Go..." he whispered, blood trailing from his lips. "Run, Penelope."

 

And she did.

She ran like a coward.

But the image never left her. Not for a second. It clung to her dreams and clawed at her sanity—the moment his body dropped, the sound his knees made hitting the ground, the warmth of his blood as it painted her skin.

She screamed. She cried. She cursed him.

"Liar!" she sobbed into the empty dark. "You promised you'd stay!"

But he was gone.

And who was left?

No one. Not a single soul.

Leila didn’t even get the pleasure of killing her. No—Penelope died the dumbest way imaginable.

Standing in the crowd, numb and hollow, watching the Second Prince be crowned instead of Callisto. The cheers echoed like knives in her ears.

And then—

Crack. Thud. Screams.

A carriage. One she never saw coming.

Fast. Heavy. Inevitable.

Just like fate.

But next? She opened her eyes—again.

Not as Cha Siyeon, like she had prayed for in the haze of death. No modern world. No textbooks or dusty museums.

Nope.

Still Penelope.

Still her.

And somewhere else, far away but tied to her, he opened his eyes too—not to fire, not to agony or blood—but to the soft glow of sunlight spilling through silk curtains. Warm. Alive.

Not hell.

Just… morning.

A second chance. Cruel or kind, she didn’t know yet.

But it was real. And it was theirs.

Chapter 2: “A Princess on Trial”

Summary:

Back in a child’s body with memories of a tragic future, Penelope takes her first careful steps to rewrite her fate. But trust is fragile, and even the smallest misstep could spark suspicion. In a house where kindness is rare and eyes are always watching, she learns fast: survival means playing the part—until it’s hers for real.

Notes:

Heyy, did u like the last chapter? I haven't seen the comments yet bc I'm posting before going to school. Also, there's some canon things I'm gonna need to change so it matches the fic, hope it doesn't annoy you (´･̥̥̥̥ω･̥̥̥̥`)

Age Gap Clarification:
To better align with the timeline in my fic, I adjusted the ages of the characters. In the original manhwa, Callisto is sent to war at 12, and Penelope is accused of stealing the locket at 12. However, there’s a 4-5 year age gap between them, and by the time the locket incident occurs, Callisto is already at war. This didn’t fit the timeline I wanted for the fic, so I made the following changes:

Penelope: 8 years old

Callisto: 10 years old

Reynold: 9 years old

Derrick: 16 years old (same as in the manhwa)

Winter: 17 years old

Eckles: 7 years old

Second Prince: 8 years old

Have a good reading!

Penelope reached out, her small hand trembling as it touched the cold surface of the mirror. Her fingertips met the reflection—a girl. Pale. Thin. Fragile-looking. Eyes too big for her face, lips pressed into a familiar frown.

> "So this is what the original Penelope looked like..."
She muttered the words with a dry swallow, voice barely above a whisper. "Just a weak little noble girl. Pretty, but not for the common people."

 

Her face twisted bitterly, then softened into something closer to tired acceptance. She sighed.

> “Starting over from scratch? No... this is more like starting from below zero.”

 

The silence didn’t last long.

Knock knock.

The door creaked open hesitantly. A small head peeked through—Emily.

She slipped inside, silent as a shadow, clutching a tray with both hands. Penelope blinked slowly. Right. Emily was like this in the beginning... always quiet, always wary.

Emily placed the tray gently on the table and turned to leave without a word.

“Emily,” Penelope called softly.

 

The girl froze mid-step.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide and trembling, lips parting in shock.

“H-How do you know my name...?”

 

Penelope saw it then—the fear. The kind only a child could carry. Emily’s arms lifted instinctively to shield her face, as if waiting for something to be thrown.

Ah... so that’s why she hated me at first.

Something like this must’ve happened before. Cruel tantrums, flying objects... a spoiled noble’s rage. Penelope winced inwardly.

> I need her on my side. By any means necessary.

 

She tilted her head slightly, then dipped it lower into a small, graceful bow. Her eyes shimmered with the beginnings of tears—just enough to look real.

“I’m sorry, Emily. For everything I did before. For the yelling... for being mean. I really am.”

 

Emily blinked in horror, completely thrown off.

“Y-You’re a princess! You can’t b-bow!”

 

She flailed her tiny arms like a windmill, waving wildly for her to stop. It was almost... cute.

Penelope raised her head with a soft, amused smirk.

> Too easy.
Kids were so easy to read. And easier to fool.

 

She straightened, let her voice turn a little sweeter, more childish.

“Did you eat breakfast yet?”

 

Emily hesitated, eyes shifting. Then, a small, sheepish shake of the head. No.

“Let’s eat together,” Penelope offered, pointing to the tray. “I’m lonely.”

 

She reached out for a sweet from the plate—

But Emily lunged.

The tray was snatched away with way more force than necessary.

“I-I’ll go get you something else!”
She blurted, bowing and bolting from the room like her life depended on it.

 

Penelope blinked after her. Then, with a slow frown, she picked up the sweet Emily left behind and bit into it.

A pause.

Then a grimace.

“...Salty.”
She muttered with disgust, chewing mechanically.

 

“This might be the worst thing children can do.”

---

Penelope sat at the edge of her bed, hands resting in her lap, eyes unfocused. She’d just finished breakfast with Emily, but her mind was miles—years—away.

A memory kept replaying like a broken record in her head.

Callisto.

His voice. His blood. The weight of his body collapsing into her arms.

Can we really start over?
Her chest tightened. The thought that he wouldn’t remember her—not the real her—hurt more than she expected. He’d look at her like a stranger.

She sighed, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling.

“The best I can do now is survive this place again,” she muttered, “win over the dukedom… with this stupid tiny body.”

 

Determined, she stood up. First things first—safety check.

She locked the door, paced the room, scanning every corner like a paranoid cat.

“No traps. No eyes. No cursed mirror fragments, hopefully.”

 

She tore through drawers and cushions until her fingers closed around something cold and delicate.

A necklace.

Her heart sank.

“Oh. Of course. This necklace…”

 

The moment she saw it, she knew what was coming.

 

---

The next morning.

She was summoned.

And there she stood—alone. A child barely taller than the table.

Across from her: the Duke. His two lovely sons. A wall of palace staff with eyes sharp as blades.

So this… this is what the original Penelope had to face?

Reynold stepped forward, finger jabbing at her like a blade.

“She stole it! The necklace! I told you!”

 

The Duke raised a brow, his voice clipped.

“Reynold, silence.”

 

Then, his gaze shifted to her, unreadable.

“Penelope. Were you in the attic last night?”

 

Penelope opened her mouth—but someone beat her to it.

Pennel.

“Yes. I saw her there.”

 

“Ha!” Reynold snapped. “I told you!”

 

Before she could even breathe, Derrick added his weight to the storm.

“Did you take anything from there? Anything that wasn’t yours?”

 

Penelope nearly snorted. God, they’re really doing this.

But she kept her expression tight, chest rising and falling as she looked straight at the Duke.

“I didn’t!” she snapped. “I didn’t take anything!”

 

“Liar!” Reynold barked.

 

“I’m not lying!” she shouted back, voice cracking.

 

The Duke raised a hand again, calm but firm.

“Did you see a small blue necklace in the attic?”

 

She froze for half a second—but then shook her head.

“No. I didn’t. You can search my room if you don’t believe me.”

 

A tense pause.

The Duke let out a tired sigh and turned his head.

“Pennel. Go check.”

They found nothing.
Of course they didn’t—Penelope had returned the necklace last night, tucked it back like it had never left.

Reynold, still red-faced and screaming bloody murder, was finally cut off by the Duke’s sharp tone.

“Derrick, take your brother out.”

 

Reynold sputtered, but Derrick grabbed his arm and dragged him out with a heavy sigh, muttering something about embarrassment.

Then, silence.

The Duke walked toward her, slow and deliberate, his expression tight and unreadable. He stopped in front of her, then knelt down with a soft, reluctant sigh.

“I’m… sorry,” he said gruffly. “Maybe Reynold just… dreamed it. Or made a mistake.”

 

Penelope stared at him, swallowing hard.

There was no fury in his eyes. No suspicion.

Just… regret?

It caught her off guard.

> He really does look sorry...

 

How strange.

Notes:

Hey, let me know if you liked the chapter and what you would like me to add from your guesses for the upcoming events!

Chapter 3: “Emily, You’re My Favorite Minion Now”

Summary:

The aftermath of the necklace incident.

Notes:

OH MYYY, OKAY YES I'M GUILTY OF GHOSTING THIS FIC LIKE LMAO—but you have to hear me out૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა..
Next week, I have national exams to graduate middle school which is kind of so hard to pass and just to say that I'm a really huge nerd so it's not that easy anyway`⎚⩊⎚´ -✧.
Aaand well, I shouldn't gossip here but yeah. My grandma, who tortured us during the wedding of my older sister just collapsed yesterday and everyone thought she died, I don't have anything much with my grandma honestly. I like her yeah but I have to pass a blind eye on so many of her actions since she's too old. Otherwise, my friends are getting in so much drama and trouble lately and for some reasons, I'm their non paid therapy.

GLUPE—Sorry for the rambling, anyway, today is Friday so I decided to take a break from studying and write a few chapters plus an extra fic later!

—𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑰𝑺𝑵'𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬—

Penelope sat stiffly, her small hands clenched in her lap.
If she didn’t act now… if she didn’t change something—anything—then it would all happen again. The same misery. The same ending. Again and again.

And yet…
The system window hadn’t appeared since she woke up in this timeline. No blinking missions, no rewards, no annoying Likeability -2 hovering above anyone’s head.
Nothing.
Not over Reynold. Not over Derrick.

Maybe it was broken.
Maybe it was done with her.

“Then make amends.”

 

Her voice came out sharper than she intended, cutting through the Duke’s soft, awkward apology.

He blinked.

“...Make amends?” he echoed, brows furrowed in confusion.

 

Penelope nodded firmly.
She had to start somewhere.

She already knew the truth, or at least most of it. The servants—they were in on it. They’d let Reynold sneak into her room. Turned a blind eye, if not helped directly.

Emily? A child, yes, but no child tampers with food that deliberately without being coached.

They didn’t want her here.
A stray, plucked from the streets and paraded as a princess—while the real one was gone, missing, abandoned.

And yet, instead of treating her like royalty… they’d caged her like an animal.

A pity, she thought bitterly, that adults can be so cruel to a child.

 

The Duke was still watching her, uncertain.

“Penelope… What do you mean, make it up to you?”

 

She raised her chin, her eyes meeting his with that eerie maturity that didn’t belong on a girl her size.

“I want to learn,” she said softly. “I want tutors. Like Reynold and Derrick.”

 

The Duke let out a quiet breath of relief, shoulders dropping as if he’d expected something worse.

But Penelope wasn’t done.

“I know I’m not your real daughter,” she added suddenly, voice cracking ever so slightly.

“I know I’m just… a substitute. But you promised I’d be happy here.”

“You lied.”

 

That hit him.
Hard.

The Duke’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Just a broken whisper—

“I… I didn’t know… I…”

 

“Everyone here treats me like I’m nothing,” she said, her voice small. “I’m always alone. I just wanted to go out and play like the others…”

 

She looked down. Her hands trembled.

“And I didn’t steal anything,” she muttered.

“But I used to. On the streets. Because I had to. So if I get accused of stealing here, that must mean your promise was fake. That I still have to steal to survive.”

 

Her voice cracked, and the tears came.

Hot, angry, helpless.

The Duke stared at her, stunned—then hesitated—then slowly, almost awkwardly, stepped forward and knelt in front of her.

“Penelope…”
His voice was hoarse.
“Don’t—"

He reached out and pulled her gently into his arms, her tiny frame fitting into his embrace like something he’d only just realized was breakable.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry—” he whispered, over and over, stroking her hair.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know it hurt you like this… I’ll fix it. I swear I will. You’ll have everything. Everything, my precious girl.”

 

Penelope didn’t expect the hug.
Didn’t expect to cry even harder into his shoulder.
She didn’t cry because she forgave him—no.
She cried because this warmth, this kindness…
It reminded her of someone else.
Of a golden sun…
Of a man who once held her just like this.

Of a beloved she had lost.

And maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of getting him back.

--------------------------------

Penelope's eyelids fluttered open with a faint groan.

Her head throbbed dully, and something cool and damp pressed gently against her forehead. She blinked, slowly scanning the room.

Her room?
Wait... when did she get back here?

“Princess—!!”

 

Emily’s voice hit her like a soft slap of panic. The little girl rushed to her side, wide-eyed and breathless, trying to coax her back down onto the bed.

“You need to rest—please don’t sit up!”

 

Penelope blinked slowly, her gaze still unfocused.

“...What happened?” she asked, her voice small and dazed.

 

Emily fumbled, visibly shaken.

“Y-You fainted,” she stammered.

“The Duke… the Duke brought you back himself. He ordered the doctor—he was really scared—!”

 

Penelope’s brow arched ever so slightly.

Oh.
So she fainted in the Duke’s arms… and he went full parental crisis mode in front of everyone? Doctor and all?

She couldn’t help it. Her lips twitched.

.... That must’ve stirred some gossip.
Good.

 

She sank back into the pillows, quietly savoring the aftershock of the moment. Emily, still hovering, wrung the cloth again and gently pressed it to her forehead.

Penelope turned her head, eyes resting on the younger girl.

“Emily.”

 

The girl stiffened at her name, glancing up warily. Her shoulders shrunk like she was bracing for a slap.

Penelope just patted the edge of the bed.

“Sit with me,” she said, softer now.

 

Hesitant, Emily obeyed. She perched like a curled-up kitten on the edge of the mattress, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

Penelope feigned innocence, blinking at her sweetly.

“What are brothers doing now?”

 

Emily tilted her head, puzzled.

“...You mean Lord Reynold and Lord Derrick?”

 

Penelope nodded.
Emily gave a nervous swallow before reciting like a tiny soldier:

“They’re in fencing practice right now, then tutoring, then homework. And sometimes—” she raised a small finger, proudly, “—they get to make announcements on the Duke’s behalf. Lord Derrick even joins him for official events, since he’s the heir.”

 

Penelope’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Any events coming up soon?”

 

Emily looked up, thoughtful, then her eyes lit up.

“Ah! The hunting competition! It’s next week. It’s also the Second Prince’s birthday.”

 

Penelope shot up like she’d been hit by lightning.

“What?!”

 

Emily jolted in pure fear and scrambled back a step, but Penelope froze mid-sit, her heart thudding hard.

—The hunt... the prince's birthday... then that means—
Callisto.

 

Her chest twisted. Just hearing the name hurt. Like a ghost whispering in her bones.

“Princess?” Emily whispered, creeping forward with wide eyes. “Are... are you okay?”

 

Penelope didn’t answer at first. Her lips barely moved when she murmured,

“...Could I go?”

 

Emily blinked.

> “Y-You mean... ask Sir Pennel to tell the Duke you want to attend?”
“I… I can try.”

 

Penelope turned to her, stunned.

“You can?”

 

Emily gave the tiniest nod, cheeks pink.

“I mean… I’ll do my best.”

 

A grin slowly bloomed on Penelope’s face—bright, beaming, and entirely unguarded.

Emily’s eyes widened.

It was the first time she’d seen the princess smile.
A real smile.

Penelope opened her drawer and pulled out a hair clip—a small, jeweled piece hair clip.

She gently placed it into Emily’s hands.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice warm and light.

 

Emily stared at the clip in her palms like it was a royal medal. Then she looked back up.

And she smiled too.

“I’ll go tell him right now!” she said with newfound determination, already darting off toward the door.

“I’ll make them say yes, you’ll see!”

 

Penelope leaned back into the pillows with a soft breath, her hand brushing her chest.

 

Callisto…
Just wait a little longer.

This time, she’d be ready.

Notes:

Hope u liked the chapter! Next chapter is coming soon ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა !!

Chapter 4: Liar, Thief, Replacement.

Summary:

"Was it my fault that he chose me instead? Why am I being punished for something I had no hand in?"

“You're the only light that melted the cold that covers my world.”

Notes:

As promised, chapter 4 is came out quick after chapter 3, tho I still think I need to really improve my writing.

—𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑰𝑺𝑵'𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬—

After Emily scurried off on her new “mission,” Penelope flopped backwards onto the mountain of cushions like a limp pancake.

She stared at the ceiling, arms spread wide, her thoughts louder than the silence in the room.

If Emily succeeded—if she managed to convince the Duke to bring her along to the Second Prince’s birthday celebration—then maybe, just maybe, Penelope could meet him again.

Callisto.

She could warn him about the forest. Keep him away from the blade.

Start building their bond from scratch, step by precious step.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

 

Her throat tightened.

 

The memories bled through like cracks in glass.

She curled up around a pillow, clutching it like it was her last lifeline and burying her face in the softness.

Callisto...

Just thinking of him hurt. That look in his eyes—when he told her to run. The way his blood soaked through his uniform.

How he used the last of his strength to hold off Eckles for her. All of it, still branded into her heart.

He had been through too much—assassins, poison, war, betrayals, being the First Prince in a palace that treated him like a ticking bomb.

A mother who hated him.
A father who ignored him.
A brother who would kill him without blinking.

Not this time.

This time, she’d protect him.

She’d make sure he lived. She’d help him become emperor—not because of his title, but because he earned it. Because he deserved it.

But then... her brain did that thing.
It betrayed her with an intrusive thought so cute it physically made her squeak.

Little Callisto.

A tiny, bite-sized version of the cold, gorgeous prince she remembered. Same gold hair. Same sharp eyes—but wider, rounder. Innocent. Big pouty lips. Chubby cheeks she could squish like mochi. Probably shorter than her, too.

She immediately buried her face into the pillow again, kicking her feet like a schoolgirl.

“Ughhh,” she groaned, voice muffled by fabric.

The idea of seeing him as a kid—her Callisto—before he became all jagged edges and sharp words... It melted something inside her.

Warm. Soft. Ridiculously sweet.

She whispered his name aloud into the quiet room like a little prayer.

“Callisto...”

He was alive.
Somewhere out there, her idiot, beautiful prince was alive.

And this time, she was going to reach him first.

While Penelope was still floating in her warm little daydreams—visions of a tiny Callisto with soft cheeks and grumpy little tsks—a voice barged in like a rock thrown through stained glass.

“Who are you talking to?”

She lifted her head from the pillow slowly, already feeling the sunshine in her mind dim.

Reynold.
Standing at her door with that signature scowl like he was permanently allergic to her existence.

Penelope blinked lazily, brushing strands of hair from her face—her curls had turned wild from all her rolling on the bed. “Did you seriously come here just to insult me?”

Reynold flinched, taken aback.

“Tch. No! I came to check if you were really sick or just pretending again. Looks like I was right. You’re fine. Drama queen.”

He jabbed an accusatory finger toward her like she’d committed a war crime.

Penelope arched an unimpressed brow and turned her head away. “Get out.”

Reynold blinked. “...What did you just say to me?”

She met his gaze with a chilling calm.

“I said: get. out.”

His fists clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff.

“You don’t have the right to kick me out!”

“This is my room.”

“And you don’t belong here.”

That snapped something in him.

“You don’t belong in the palace at all!” he shouted, his voice cracking from the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

Penelope’s lips tightened. That stung. But he wasn’t done.

“You’re a liar!” Reynold snapped, voice rising in volume and emotion.

“You just want Father’s attention! You’re trying to take Yvonne’s place like you’re her or something—”

She laughed. Short and sharp.

“Oh, you’re calling me a liar?” she snapped, turning fully toward him now.

“Coming from the boy who stole a necklace, planted it in my room, and lied straight to the Duke’s face about it?”

Reynold froze mid-step, face draining of color. “W-what…? How did you—?”

She cut him off with a bitter scoff, eyes burning.

Penelope saw it clearly now—his rage wasn’t just about her.

It was about the ghost of a sister who was gone, and a girl in her place who was never meant to be.

“You’re angry. You lost your sister. And now there’s this… this stranger standing where she should be. It feels like I’m trying to erase her.”

Reynold’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

“But I’m not trying to steal Yvonne’s place.”

His bitter laugh broke the silence.

“Right. Playing innocent again? I heard you, you know. That day—you wished Yvonne would never come back.”

Her chest tightened.

She clenched her fists and stood up on the bed, her voice trembling as she shouted, “Because of you!”

He flinched.

“You call me a replacement, treat me like trash. Like I’m some cheap knockoff who doesn’t deserve to be here!”

“You think I wanted this? To be adopted into some family where everyone looks at me like I don’t belong? I was cold. I was starving. I lived off scraps in the streets. And now I’m here, but I’m not really here, am I?”

Tears began to sting her eyes.

“Because the second Yvonne comes back, I’ll be tossed out again, won’t I? Back to that alley. Back to digging in garbage. That’s what you want, right? For the fake to disappear when the real thing returns.”

She looked at him, voice dropping into a fragile whisper.

“The Duke said he’d give me a better life. So why does everyone else act like I don’t deserve it?”

Her knees shook, but her emotions held her upright.

“It’s not fair…” she whispered.

“Why do you get to hate me when I’ve done nothing wrong? Why do you get to stay, and I always have to leave?”

Her vision blurred.

“I don’t want to live like that again. I won’t.”

Not like her past lives.

The strength in her legs vanished, and her voice grew small—barely audible now.

“I’m just… scared…”

And then the world tilted.

The floor beneath her seemed to vanish.

Reynold's figure blurred into smudges of color, his voice faint.

“PENELOPE—!”

Too late.

Darkness crept in from the corners of her vision, and her body gave in.

Reynold reached for her—his first instinctive movement driven not by hate, but horror.

Her body, weakened by days of emotional turmoil and a lifetime of malnutrition, gave up at last.

And just like that…

She fell again.

Notes:

The next point of view will be from Callisto's side, as I'm making a fair comparison between Callisto and Penelope in this situation. Callisto's point of view within the imperial palace is more interesting and complex than Penelope's within the duchy, as Penelope suffers from frequent misunderstanding and rejection, and neglect.

But Callisto gets caught in a very complicated vortex inside the Imperial Palace—not spoiling next chapters but yeah.

STOP A MOMENT AND PLEASE READ DAWN THERE PLEASE!!

I feel like my writing is dule and dry but I'm not quite sure, so I wanted to ask you if my writing is successfully conveying any feelings to you based on this fic and other fics if you've read some.

I really don't know what I should improve on and I need advices, like, what bothers you or feels lacking in my writing style or how can I convey feelings better??

I apologize for how bad my writing is.

Chapter 5: The Cut That Always Bleed

Summary:

Taste the bitterness from both the Duke and Reynold and how does the guilt creep in.

Notes:

Actually, I wasn't planning on writing this chapter but because I knew a lot of people liked the Eckharts drama and wanted to see how does Penelope's change affect them in this timeline.

—𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑰𝑺𝑵'𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬—

REYNOLD

Reynold didn’t move.

He stood there—fists clenched, heart pounding, throat dry like he’d swallowed a fistful of dust.

Penelope’s body had gone limp mid-scream, and before he could even process it, she was just lying there, her little hands trembling, face pale like snow.

“Penelope?”
He said her name.

For the first time.
And it tasted wrong in his mouth, like saying it now could undo the things he’d said earlier. It couldn’t.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering over her like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch her or not.

He wasn’t.

Not after what he did.

She wasn’t faking.

She wasn’t pretending.

She was breaking right in front of him and he—

“REYNOLD!!”

The Duke’s voice sliced through the air like a sword. He came after he heard that Reynold was there knowing what kind of trouble is going to come, his eyes are wide in panic at the sight of her collapsed on the floor.

He shoved Reynold aside without hesitation, scooping her into his arms.

Reynold watched silently, his body heavy with guilt.

DUKE ECKART

He held her close like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

“She’s burning up,” he muttered, more to himself than to Reynold.

“Why didn’t you call someone?!”

His voice cracked like a man who just realized he might’ve already failed again.

Reynold opened his mouth to speak but… he didn’t even know what to say.

That he came here to accuse her? That he yelled? That he told her she didn’t belong?

The Duke didn’t wait for an answer.

He barked for a doctor, cradling Penelope against his chest like she was something fragile he’d broken and now didn’t know how to fix.

REYNOLD (LATER, OUTSIDE HER ROOM)

He stood outside her door long after the doctor left, hearing the soft sounds of Emily taking care of her, the Duke pacing inside.

Every word she screamed kept echoing in his skull.

“If I’m just a replacement, then I’ll be thrown out again.”

 

“I don’t want to go back to stealing garbage leftovers.”

 

He had never thought about what it felt like from her side.

All he saw was the replacement. The imposter. The not-Yvonne.

But… she was also the hungry, lonely girl who had to steal to survive.

And maybe—maybe he’d become the kind of person who’d rather protect a memory than acknowledge the living person standing in front of him.

DUKE ECKART (LATER THAT NIGHT)

The Duke sat in his office, holding a glass of brandy he didn’t drink.

He kept remembering her voice—
That shaky, angry, exhausted voice telling him she’d rather die than be thrown away again.

He had meant well when he took her in.

 

But meaning well wasn’t the same as doing well.

 

“I promised her a better life,” he whispered to himself, “and I gave her a better cage.”

 

For a long time, Duke Eckart sat there alone, staring at the fire like it might burn away the shame that wrapped around his chest like chains.

Notes:

I download Discord but I didn't know how to use it probably tho. If you wanted to check in for it anyway here you go!!
My username is: evengaleen.t_96072

I apologize for my poor writing. Please share any advices you think I need to improve my writing.

Chapter 6: The Golden Cage.(Callisto's POV)

Summary:

Callisto opens his eyes once again and realizes that the hell he is in is not the afterlife's hell.

Notes:

I loved this chapter especially when writing it for some reason, I don't have anything to say right now so I hope you enjoy reading!

—𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑯 𝑰𝑺𝑵'𝑻 𝑴𝒀 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑺𝑻 𝑳𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑼𝑨𝑮𝑬—

Darkness.

Heavy. Thick. Crushing.

He was sinking.

Drowning.

The weight pressing on his chest wasn’t just fear—no, it was something colder.

Deeper. Like being pulled beneath black water with no surface in sight.

And then—
Snap.

He was yanked out of it like a puppet on a string.

Callisto’s eyes flew open.

His body jerked violently upright, his lungs heaving like they were trying to escape his chest.

He coughed—loud, dry, painful. A firework of ache exploded through his ribs and spine as he gasped for air.

His hands trembled.

His skin was burning.

What the hell—?!

Callisto gritted his teeth, trying to ground himself. But everything felt… off.

Wrong. Too soft. Too small.

He ripped off the blanket tangled around his limbs and stood—except his legs buckled beneath him, barely catching himself against the edge of the bedframe. His knees hit the marble floor with a painful thud.

He groaned, sweat sliding down his neck.

Something’s wrong.

Everything's wrong.

He dragged himself up, legs shaking like twigs in a storm, stumbling toward the mirror at the far side of the room.

Every step was a war.

His body wasn’t cooperating—it was sluggish, weak, too light.

He grabbed the edge of the dresser, breath catching in his throat.

His reflection—

No.

No, no, no.

A boy. A boy was staring back at him.

Big eyes, wide with horror. Puffy cheeks flushed from fever. Golden hair messy from sleep.

 

Ten. Maybe eleven at most. But those eyes—

Those eyes were his.

Callisto reeled back like he’d been punched.

“What the f—”

He didn’t even finish the thought. His voice cracked.
Too high. Too young.

His hand flew to his chest—no blood, no sword hilt, no ragged hole where Eckles had driven a blade through him. Just smooth, unscarred skin.

His heart thudded wildly under his palm.
Alive.
He was alive.

His breath came out broken.

A laugh? A sob? He couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

Is this a dream?
A hallucination?
Am I in hell?

Was this his punishment? Was he trapped in some cursed vision before death? Left to relive his childhood like some sick joke?

His thoughts spiraled. Fast. Loud. Cracking in his skull.

“No,” he muttered hoarsely, shaking his head.

“No, no, no—this is a lie, a trick. Who did this?”

He had to move.

He had to find someone. Anyone.

He didn’t care if it killed him.

Callisto bolted from the room.

His bare feet slapped against the palace floors, his breath wheezing through his throat as he ran, vision spinning.

He knew these halls.
He’d memorized them after years of surviving in them.

But everything looked newer. Shinier. Less haunted.

His mind screamed.

This can’t be real.
This can’t be now.

His body protested with every step, joints aching, lungs rattling, but he pushed through until—

BANG.

He slammed his foot against a familiar door, bursting it open.

 

There they were.

His father. Younger. Healthier. Sitting behind a mountain of papers like some benevolent ruler instead of the monster who—

Callisto’s fists clenched.

 

Next to him stood the Chancellor, mid-sentence, who paled the moment he saw the prince.

 

“Y-Your Highness…?” he stammered, completely thrown off by the boy’s sweat-soaked face and wide, crazed eyes.

Callisto’s legs gave out.

He fell hard to his knees in the middle of the polished floor, hands planted in front of him.

He looked up, panting, glaring. A firestorm behind those ten-year-old eyes.

The Emperor stood slowly, confused.

“Callisto? What are you doing here? Running around like a mad—”

“Don’t touch me,” Callisto growled, voice dripping with venom.

The Emperor’s hand froze mid-air.

That glare—that wasn’t the look of a ten-year-old boy.

Callisto’s breath hitched. His vision flickered.

He was hot. So hot.

His whole body was burning up.

The room tilted sideways.

 

The Chancellor called out something. The Emperor stepped closer again. But Callisto’s body wouldn’t hold him up anymore.

He hit the floor with a quiet thud, muttering one last bitter word before the blackness claimed him again:

“…Bastard.”

...

 

The Emperor stood frozen.

His hand still halfway extended, his expression unreadable—but there was a flicker, barely there, behind those eyes. Shock? Guilt?

Who knew what the man was feeling—if he even felt anything.

He had beaten the hell out of his firstborn just last night.

Drunken rage, fists like thunder, the stench of alcohol heavy in the air.

Callisto had taken it without a word. Just like always.

But this morning, barely 9:00 AM… that same child had burst through his door.

Panting. Feverish. And glaring at him like a soldier returning from war.

Then collapsed.

Right there on the cold, polished floor.

And now… now the Emperor just stood there, unmoving.

 

---

Callisto’s eyes fluttered open.

His vision was a foggy mess of light and shadows, like trying to see underwater.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Again. Until the shapes around him sharpened into the familiar ceiling of his childhood chambers.

He let out a low groan.

Everything hurt—his head, his chest, his pride.

His limbs ached with the dull weight of fever.

He turned his head slowly to the right. Then to the left.

Empty.

Of course.

He was alone.

He pushed himself upright, every muscle in protest.

The sheets clung to his damp skin, and his breath came in shallow gasps.

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck before reaching for the glass of water on the bedside table.

His throat burned.

He downed the water in two large gulps—then choked. His eyes widened, and he spat the rest out onto the floor.

His hands—
Small.
His voice—
Young.

The reflection in the water.
The bed. The room.
Everything.

His breathing quickened.

“No… no, no, no—” he whispered, chest rising and falling too fast.

He looked down at his palms. Trembling. Unscarred. Soft.

“This isn’t—”

His mouth clamped shut.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MEANING OF—"

He slapped both hands over his mouth and held the scream there, shaking, chest still rising and falling in uneven jerks.

They can’t hear him.

He can’t let them hear.

He dropped his hands and stared at the wall. He was really here.

Alive. Ten. Trapped.

Again.

He swallowed the scream that was threatening to rise again.

 

“What god,” he whispered, voice cracked and quiet, “what god thought this was mercy?”

His eyes glazed for a moment—then his body froze, like ice racing through his veins.

The sword.

His chest.

The feeling of metal tearing through him.
Eckles.

That damn mutt.

He hadn't even used proper technique—just brute force. A messy, careless kill.

The blood.
Her scream.

Penelope.

His heart skipped.

She had screamed his name like it would bring him back to life.

Callisto sat bolt upright, eyes darting toward the far wall where a calendar hung.

“What happened to her?” he muttered, eyes scanning the date.

“Did she escape? Did Leila catch her? Did anyone help her?”

Was she alone?

He gripped the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles turned white.

She was alive when he died. That meant… she might still be out there.

His princess.

His chest filled with hope so fast it almost broke him.

But then—

No.

Wait.

His hands lowered slowly.

She’s not his.

She wasn’t herself.

Her voice echoed in his head, sharp and bright:

 

"I reincarnated as Penelope one year before the Coming of Age ceremony."

 

"I’m not Penelope Eckhart."

 

"My real name is Cha Siyeon."

 

His breath caught in his throat.

The girl who stood by him, who cried for him, who told him to run, to live, to be more than what the world made of him—she wasn’t even meant to exist in this time.

She was gone.

Not here.

Not yet.

And maybe…

Maybe she wouldn’t ever be again.

Callisto sank back against the pillows. Silent. Broken.

The fever still gripping his skin, but the cold in his chest burned hotter.

He was ten.

Alone.

And not even his most cherished person existed anymore.

At least, not yet.

Notes:

My Discord's account if you wanna check:
evengaleen.t_96072

HAAA, this is the first time I've written this many chapters in one day. I feel like my knuckles are so broken (ᵕ—ᴗ—)....

I apologize for my poor writing, please share any advices you think I need to improve my writing!

Chapter 7: Last Goodbye

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

The sound echoed in his ears like a metronome counting down to something awful.

Blood.
Thick. Warm. Heavy.
Running down his arm, staining the hilt of his sword, soaking into the gravel beneath his feet.

His knees buckled—but he didn’t fall.

Not yet.

“Your Highness—!!”

That voice.
That scream.
Her.

Penelope.

There was terror in it. No—desperation. He could hear it through the fog pounding in his damn skull.

Callisto’s eyes snapped open wide as if his brain had just caught up. Focus slammed back into place like ice water to the face, and just in time—he brought up his sword.

CLANG!

The shock of Eckles’ strike rattled his arms. His weapon cracked down the middle, steel screaming under the pressure.

“Shit—!” he hissed between his teeth.

That bastard’s sword—he remembered now—it fed on mana. A weapon built to tear through even elite knights. And Callisto—Callisto was injured. Slower. Weaker.

His muscles were screaming. Blood loss. Mana depletion. He was pushing past human limits that were past any other human already.

But Eckles wasn’t giving him time.

Another strike. Another block.
Another crack.

Callisto growled, grinding his boots into the mud, holding his ground. His body burned with effort. Too slow. Too tired. Every breath was fire in his lungs.

“Your Highness—!” Penelope’s voice again. Closer.

He glanced over his shoulder. There she was, eyes wide, trembling, hands glowing faintly with suppressed power. No—she can’t. She’s saving it for later. She has to.

“Don’t use your powers!” he barked at her, voice strained, raw. “Run, Penelope Eckhart! Get out of here—NOW!”

She didn’t move.

Her face twisted, torn between fear and refusal. Her lips quivered.

“Are you seriously asking me to leave you?!” she shouted.

Damn it. She was stubborn. Even now. So he was.

“You have to.” His voice cracked—not from weakness, but emotion.

“I’ll be right behind you. Just GO. Before his men get here.”

She clenched her fists. He saw it—the hesitation, the fear, the thing she never let anyone see.

But she nodded. Swallowed it all down. Spun on her heel and ran.

Callisto felt his breath hitch in his chest—but only for a second. No time for this. His focus returned to Eckles.

But the second Penelope turned her back—

“NO!” Eckles’ voice broke, like something inside him shattered.

His whole body twitched—then lunged.

“You can’t leave me again, Master!” he screamed.

He ran after her, eyes wide with obsession, with madness.

Callisto didn’t think.

He moved.

Steel met steel again, Callisto throwing himself in Eckles’ path, blocking him. They crashed against each other like beasts.

Callisto struck low, dragging his cracked blade across Eckles' thigh, slicing through skin and muscle.

The slave cried out, rage twisted into his features.

Then—snap.

Eckles' mind broke. It already was.

There was no technique. No calculation.

Just raw, wild, hate.

He howled and plunged the blade into Callisto’s chest, straight through muscle and bone, piercing his heart.

Callisto gasped—then choked.

Pain.

It wasn’t like a fire or a shock—it was cold. Numbing. His fingers loosened around his sword. His knees collapsed.

He turned his head. Just slightly.

Penelope.

She was at the exit. Her eyes locked with his. Frozen.

His lips moved.

“Run.”

Barely a whisper.

She did.

She turned and ran.

Callisto coughed blood. He couldn’t feel his left hand anymore, but his right clutched the hilt tight.

He forced himself back to his feet—one more time.

If he could just give her another ten seconds.

If he could just stall.

Eckles growled behind him. Furious. Animal.

Then—everything went white in less than five minutes.

Pain exploded at his throat.

Something ripped.

And Callisto—

Callisto fell.

Back. Against the stone wall. His blood painting it like a mural.

His last breath gurgled out.

 

---

GASP!

Callisto jolted upright in bed.

His hand flew to his throat, eyes wide, breath shuddering. He was trembling. Cold sweat soaked his hair. His fingers dug into the skin of his neck, as if expecting to find the gash.

But there was nothing.

No blood.

No blade.

Just skin. Smooth. Whole.

He was in his bed. In the palace. A child.

He stared ahead, pupils blown, the echoes of Eckles’ voice still crawling through his ears like a phantom.

That wasn’t a dream.

No—

That was memory.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His breathing wouldn’t steady.

He had died.

He remembered it.

He remembered everything.

Chapter 8: Met Daddy cool

Callisto rose from the oversized bed like a ghost.
His body ached—maybe from how he’d slept, or maybe just from the weight of remembering how he’d died.

Either way, he couldn't stay in that bed another second. He needed air. Movement. Anything.

The palace was dead quiet. Perfect.
No guards. No curious eyes.
Just silence.
Good.

He wandered aimlessly until his feet took him to the back garden. Cold air nipped at his skin.

He wasn’t even sure what he felt, not really. A week had passed since he’d opened his eyes in this damn body—a child’s again. Ten years old. Too small. Too fragile. And yet—too aware.

He kept thinking,

“If she’s not here yet… Do I protect the Penelope that exists now?”

So when she does come—if she ever comes—she’ll have a body worth living in?

But what if she never comes?

Callisto squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head violently, like the thought itself offended him.

 

He didn’t want to think about “ifs.” He wanted something solid. Something real.

So he went into the stables, yanked a training sword from the wall—light, wooden, useless—and stepped back outside.

The cold bit deeper now, but he welcomed it.

THWACK.
One swing.
THWACK.
Another.
THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.
Again.
And again.
And again.

He advanced across the grass like it was a battlefield. His breath was ragged. His hands blistered. His eyes—hollow.

“If only I was stronger…” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

THWACK.

“If I knew then what I know now—!”

THWACK.

“If I hadn’t let that bitch Leila get her claws into that weak old fool!”

THWACK.

“If I was just… too strong to die in front of her…”

His vision blurred.

He swung again.

And again.

And—

“...What do you think you’re doing?”

A cold voice.
Callisto flinched.

Mid-swing, his body tensed like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

That voice—he didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Still, he did.

Behind him stood the Emperor. No guards, no fanfare, just shadows and frost behind his steps. His silver hair caught the moonlight, his black cloak drifting slightly in the wind.

That same look on his face.

As if everything Callisto did annoyed him.

As if he was an inconvenience in his own life.

“You’re out of your wing. In the middle of the night,” the Emperor said flatly.

“Instead of sleeping. Care to explain?”

Callisto was already panting, face damp with sweat, hair stuck to his forehead.

His nightclothes were soaked through, the hem dragging in the wet grass. He looked like hell.

“I… couldn’t sleep,” he muttered quietly, trying to catch his breath.

“So I was just… training.”

The Emperor narrowed his eyes.

“You look like you just rolled out of a grave. What’s with your appearance?”

Callisto froze.
Don’t snap. Don’t talk back. Don’t do what you always did.

“...Apologies,” he said instead, bowing slightly.

The Emperor blinked.
Caught off guard.
That was new.

He stared at the boy.

“Are you still sick or what?”

Callisto shook his head. “The physician said I’m well enough.”

“Hmph.” The Emperor grunted and turned, as if already bored.

“Get back to bed—”

“Your Majesty.”

His voice stopped him. The Emperor looked back lazily, half-lidded.

“What?”

Callisto hesitated. “May I leave tomorrow morning… before the Haunt?”

A pause.

The Haunting competition. The Second Prince’s birthday. Erast.
His half-brother.

That spoiled bitch.
Two-faced bitch.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I want to buy him a gift. I didn’t have time before.”
A beat.
“And I… was sick.”

The Emperor stared.

Longer this time.

His gaze sharpened, as if trying to cut something open with just his eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”

Callisto blinked. “...Ah?”

“You, trying to buy gifts? You don’t even know the capital.”

He scoffed. “There’s no need.”

“I’d still like to go,” Callisto said, a bit more firmly this time.

The Emperor sighed loudly and rubbed his temple.

“Tch. Fine. I have business in the capital tomorrow anyway. You’ll come with me.”

Callisto froze.
What.
No—

“No need, I could just go with a knight. It won’t take long, I just—”

“I said,” the Emperor cut him off, voice sharp, “you’ll come with me. Or not at all.”

Callisto’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t dare.

But his face… oh, his face said everything. Sour. Unwilling. Disgusted, even. Barely masking it behind his polite little nod.

The Emperor narrowed his eyes.

Unbelievable.

This brat. This same damn brat who was crawling out of bed each morning to greet him like a well-trained dog—even after being beaten black and blue a week ago—was now giving him that look?

A bitter laugh escaped his nose.
“...Still got that attitude,” he muttered under his breath.

Callisto didn’t answer. He didn’t flinch.

He just lowered his eyes, bowing his head again. Silent.

But inside, he was screaming.

Notes:

Did you like the fic? I hope you did!

I made a long story outline to give all the characters their due. Let me know what kind of mood you're looking for like family drama? Romance? Friends bonding? Whatever you're thinking of, I'm happy to put it in mind ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ!

Btw, I was struggling with the title but my playlist saved me with one of my favorite songs so yep.