The Kingdom of Auir reset at dawn.

The sunrise painted the horizon with streaks of gold and pink, its beauty as relentless as it was meaningless. Asta stood on the balcony of his chambers, the cold morning wind playfully ruffling his disheveled black hair. His starlight-gold eyes, dull and distant, scanned the waking kingdom below.

The streets of Auir stirred to life with clockwork precision. Servants swept the cobbled pathways leading through the courtyards, their brooms moving in a practiced rhythm. Shopkeepers rolled up the wooden shutters of their stalls, arranging wares in the exact order they had countless times before. Men headed to work, their boots echoing against the stones, while women began their daily chores with the same tired motions. In the park, elders gathered beneath the oak trees, sharing stories and wisdom with the younger generation who listened wide-eyed. Townsfolk exchanged morning greetings, their words so familiar to Asta they might as well have been scripted.

Everything was as it always had been. Every face, every sound, every gesture—all locked in a cursed loop.

But Asta was not like them.

For two years, he had borne the weight of this curse alone, forced to relive the same three days over and over. The first day was always predictable: the market bustling with life, the palace humming with activity, and the nobles gathering in the great hall to discuss politics and power plays. The second day brought unease—a storm looming in the distance, both literal and metaphorical. By the third day, something always shattered: an argument escalated, a betrayal revealed, or, worse, a life lost.

And then, without fail, time would snap back like a cruel, unbreakable thread, resetting everything at the first light of dawn.

At first, Asta fought desperately against it. He scoured the palace archives, overturned ancient tomes in the hidden library’s forbidden section, and consulted every scholar and mage the kingdom had to offer. He begged, threatened, and pleaded, even venturing into the cursed forest at the kingdom’s edge, a place whispered to hold forbidden truths.

It was all for nothing. Every effort dissolved into failure, erased as if it had never happened.

Now, Asta no longer searched for answers. He no longer ran to the library or sought out the court mages. There was no point.

His hands gripped the cold stone railing of the balcony, knuckles whitening. His once-bright eyes were now clouded with exhaustion, the light within them dimmed. His shoulders slumped under the invisible weight of countless failures. At nineteen, he looked far older, his youth stolen by sleepless nights and the suffocating knowledge that no matter what he did, nothing would change.

Turning from the balcony, Asta retreated into his chambers. The silence pressed heavily on him, broken only by the faint creaks of the floorboards beneath his boots. Every detail of this room was burned into his memory: the flicker of the chandeliers swaying gently from the ceiling, the golden embroidery on the curtains, the faint scent of lavender that lingered from the maid’s daily cleaning. It was all so familiar, so unchanging, so maddening.

Sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed, Asta buried his face in his hands. How many times had he been here, at this exact moment, drowning in the same questions?

What had he done to deserve this? Was it punishment for a sin he didn’t remember committing? A test from the gods? Or was it simply the cruel hand of fate, uncaring and unrelenting?

The thoughts spiraled, suffocating him like a storm cloud. Every failure replayed in his mind like a haunting melody he couldn’t escape. He had tried to save his kingdom, tried to protect his people, but nothing worked. What kind of prince couldn’t even protect his own home?

A failure. That’s what he was.

A sharp knock shattered the silence, followed by a familiar voice. “Your Highness, the council is waiting.”

Asta didn’t lift his head. He knew who it was—Elder Butler Greyson, always punctual, always polite. He also knew the words that would follow, the cadence of the conversation, and even the precise moment Greyson’s footsteps would fade down the corridor.

The servants who bowed to him in the halls didn’t know they’d done it thousands of times before. The advisors in the council chamber didn’t realize their debates had played out in an endless cycle. But Asta remembered. He remembered everything.

Sighing heavily, he pushed himself to his feet, running his fingers through his messy hair in a futile attempt to tame it. His reflection in the full-length mirror met him with weary indifference. His appearance was still regal, though its sharpness had dulled. He wore a crisp white shirt, a black vest, and white trousers tucked into knee-high boots adorned with golden star-like engravings. A black jacket hung neatly over his shoulders, the golden embellishments glinting faintly in the dim light. His tie was fastened with a brooch—a golden star with a jewel in its center, swirling with hues of blue and violet like a captured galaxy.

He ignored the royal cape draped over the wooden stand in the corner. It was too heavy, a symbol of a role he no longer cared to uphold. As long as the royal signet ring—a golden band inlaid with a starry gemstone—remained on his finger, the kingdom would see him as their prince.

Opening the door, Asta was greeted by the sight of Elder Greyson, who bowed his head respectfully. “May the Sun shine brightly to chase the darkness away, Your Highness.”

Asta met the elder’s gaze with a hollow stare, his expression unreadable. ‘Yet it never chases away the curse,’ he thought bitterly.

“Thank you,” he said aloud, his voice flat, stripped of the warmth it once held. The words were meaningless, just like the cycle they were trapped in.

Without waiting for a response, Asta stepped past Greyson, his boots echoing down the corridor. Another day, another endless cycle.

Asta strode through the long corridors of the palace, his boots clicking sharply against the polished marble floors. The grand hallway was illuminated by sunlight streaming through towering stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns of blues, violets, and golds across the walls. Ornate tapestries adorned the stone, depicting the history of the Kingdom of Auir in vivid threads—scenes of heroic battles, prosperous harvests, and the royal family reigning in harmony. Yet, to Asta, they were as lifeless as the routine he endured. 

Servants and maids paused in their tasks as he passed, bowing deeply, their faces serene and courteous. Some whispered hushed blessings under their breath, hoping to curry favor with the young prince. Asta didn’t so much as glanced at them, his golden eyes fixed ahead, distant and unseeing. The words they murmured and the deference they showed had long since lost meaning to him. To them, this was a new day. To him, it was the thousandth repetition. 

Behind him, Elder Butler Greyson followed at a respectful distance, his hands clasped behind his back. The older man’s measured footsteps echoed faintly in tandem with Asta’s own. He, too, had spoken these same pleasantries and followed this same path countless times before. Asta could predict the slight clearing of Greyson’s throat before it even happened, and sure enough, the elder bulter’s low cough punctuated the quiet. 

Finally, they arrived at the double doors leading to the council chamber. The doors were grand, carved from dark mahogany and inlaid with intricate golden designs of sunbursts and constellations—symbols of the kingdom’s enduring light. Two armored guards flanked the entrance, standing at rigid attention as Asta approached. They saluted in perfect synchronization, their gauntleted fists striking their chests with a metallic thud. 

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Elder Greyson stepped forward and pulled open the heavy doors with a practiced grace. “The council awaits, Your Highness.” He said, bowing his head. 

Asta inclined his head slightly, the barest acknowledgment, and stepped inside. The doors creaked as they swung shut behind him, sealing him in the opulent chamber. 

The council hall was vast and imposing, its high vaulted ceiling adorned with a fresco of the celestial heavens. Chandeliers of wrought gold hung above, their hundreds of tiny candles are unlit since the early morning sunlight provided ray of light in the room. At the center of the room stood a massive circular table, its polished surface gleaming like liquid ebony. Around it sat the most powerful figures of the kingdom: his father, King Laird, at the head; the five Noble Heads of Clans, each resplendent in their familial colors and symbols, the Court Advisor, an elderly man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue; and the Court Heard Mage, draped in deep indigo robes embroidered with arcane sigils. 

Asta moved to his chair, its high back carved with the royal crest of the sun Burt and stars. He settled into it silently, his posture straight and composed. He could feel the weight of their gazes on him, assessing, calculating. Yet his expression remained impassive, a mask of quiet dignity. Inside, however, a wave of apathy rolled over him. He already knew how this meeting would unfold—word for word, gesture for gesture. The curse ensured that nothing here would ever change.

The king, a board-shouldered man with a commanding presence and a crown of silver-streaked hair, opened the meeting. His deep voice resonated through the hall. “The council is convened to discuss matters of importance regarding the future of Auir. As you all know, the prince’s twentieth birthday approaches, and with it, the time for his ascension to the throne.” 

The nobles murmured their agreement, some nodding solemnly, others casting sidelong glances at Asta. The eldest of the Noble Heads, Lord Sade of House Belrose, spoke first. His voice was gravelly, each word weighted with the authority of decades of service. “its is imperative that the prince’s coronation be a grand affair, one that solidifies the kingdom’s unity and strength. We must send invitations to the neighboring realms, prepare the royal decree, and ensure the treasury allocates sufficient funds.” 

The Court Advisor leaned forward, his bony fingers steepled. “Indeed. The coronation is not merely a ceremonial rite—it is a declaration of Auir’s stability to our allies and rivals alike. Any sign of weakness could invite… undesirable consequences.” 

Asta’s gaze drifted to the Advisor, his golden eyes betraying no reaction. He already knew the man would suggest increasing security measures at the borders—a proposal that would lead to a heated debate among the nobles. 

As expected, the discussion shifted to military expenditures. Lord Julius of House Duval, a noble with a fiery temperament, slammed his fist on the table. “The coronation is a celebration, not a show of force! Redirecting resources to the borders will only incite unnecessary tensions.”

”And leaving them unprotected could spell disaster.” Lady Cecil of House Everett, a stern woman clad in deep magenta cloak that covered her modest dress. “With the prince ascending, we must anticipate potential challenges to his rule.”

Asta listened to their voices rise and fall, the same arguments playing out as they always did. Even Lord Elon of House Stonewell joined in. The only one who never speak the entire meeting was the youngest Lord who is close to Asta’s age; Lord Jaxon of House Lawson with a blank and stoic face as usual. Asta’s gaze flickered to his father, who maintained a stoic expression, occasionally nodding or interjecting with measured authority. The king had weathered these debates for years, and even he seemed weary of their repetition. 

Inwardly, Asta tuned them out. Their words blurred into a monotonous hum, their faces indistinguishable in the fog of his apathy. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of his ring. The golden star-shaped gemstone glinted faintly in the ray of sunlight, a reminder of his station and his curse. 

“Your Highness.” The Court Head Mage’s voice cut through the din, pulling Asta from his reverie. The mage’s pale, piercing eyes fixed on him. “Have you any thoughts on the matter? The council would benefit from your insight.”

All eyes turned to Asta, their anticipation palpable. He straightened, his expression unreadable. “The kingdom’s future is in capable hands.” He said smoothly, his voice steady but devoid of true conviction. “I trust this council will do what is necessary.” 

It was the same response he had given countless times before, and yet it still satisfied them. They nodded, murmuring their agreement, as if his approval carried some weight. Asta fought the ruse to laugh—bitter, hollow laughter at the absurdity of it all. 

The meeting droned on, but Asta’s mind was elsewhere. The same mothertions, the same faces, the same unchanging dawn. Would he ever break free from this cursed cycle? Or was he doomed to relive these hollow days for eternity?

When the meeting adjourned, Asta rose from his seat, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor echoing in the chamber. He bowed his head slightly to his father and the council members, who returned the gesture. As he turned to leave, Elder Greyson was already waiting by the doors, his expression as calm and unchanging as ever. 

The doors of the council hall shut behind him with a heavy finality, muffling the fading voices of the nobles as they discussed the morning’s proceedings among themselves. The long corridor stretched out before Asta, its marble floors gleaming under the light of the ornate chandeliers above. The towering windows along the wall framed a tranquil morning sky, yet the stillness only served to amplify the storm brewing in his thoughts.

Elder Butler Greyson stepped into pace beside him, his hands folded neatly in front of him, the very picture of dignified servitude. Asta slowed his stride and spoke without looking at the man. “Greyson, I’d like to be alone for a while.”

The elder butler inclined his head, his expression unchanged but his tone quietly understanding. “As you wish, Your Highness. If you require anything, you need only summon me.”

Asta gave the faintest nod, barely acknowledging the response as Greyson turned away, heading down a side corridor to attend to his duties. For the first time in hours, silence enveloped him. He walked on, his footsteps echoing faintly as he headed for the one place he could find a moment’s reprieve: the kitchen.

The dining hall was out of the question. He knew without needing to check that his father would be there, seated at the head of the long, polished table, surrounded by the clinking of silverware and the rustle of servants pouring tea. And as always, the king would steer the conversation to a topic Asta dreaded—the inevitable, looming shadow of marriage.

Finding a bride. Securing an alliance. Doing his duty as the crown prince. Asta could already hear the words as if they had been spoken aloud. He clenched his fists, pushing away the irritation that bubbled beneath his calm exterior. He wasn’t going to sit through another lecture about how his future hinged on his ability to wed a suitable noblewoman. Not today.

When Asta reached the door to the kitchen, he bypassed the main entrance, instead approaching the smaller, unassuming door at the back—a path used by the servants and cooks as they came and went with trays of food and supplies. He reached for the handle, his hand hovering for a moment before he drew a breath and pushed the door open.

The door swung inward—but before he could step through, it collided with someone on the other side. Asta stumbled back slightly, steadying himself, and looked up.

Standing before him was a young man he didn’t recognize.

He had long, flowing black hair, faintly tinged with blue in the light, cascading loosely down his back and tied into a low ponytail. His piercing silver-grey eyes, luminous like the full moon, locked briefly with Asta’s before glancing downward in deference. His skin was a striking golden-bronze, a shade that contrasted with the stark white of the simple buttoned shirt he wore. Black trousers and scuffed boots completed his humble attire, marking him unmistakably as one of the palace workers.

The young man stepped back quickly, his movements graceful despite the collision, and bowed deeply. “My apologies, Your Highness.” he said, his voice low but steady. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Without waiting for a response, the man straightened and moved past Asta, his footsteps light and deliberate as he disappeared down the corridor leading away from the kitchen.

Asta stood frozen for a moment, his golden eyes lingering on the empty space where the man had been. He had dismissed the encounter at first as another meaningless interaction in the repetitive cycle of his life—but then, something struck him.

That young man… he was new.

In the two years since Asta had been trapped in this unending curse, he had memorized every face in the palace. Every servant, every guard, every cook, and every maid had crossed his path at one point or another, their routines as predictable as the sunrise. He had never bumped into that young man before. Not once.

The realization sent a jolt through him, snapping him out of his apathy. Turning on his heel, Asta strode out of the kitchen, his earlier plans forgotten. His footsteps quickened as he followed the path the young man had taken, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead.

He reached the next intersection, where the corridor branched off in three directions. He paused, his breath steady but his mind racing. Where had the young man gone? Asta glanced left, then right, straining to catch any hint of movement or the faint sound of footsteps.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Asta felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. Anticipation. Curiosity. Even the faintest edge of hope.

Who was that man? Why had he appeared now, after two years of endless repetition? Was he an anomaly, a clue to breaking the curse? Or was he simply a new worker, hired without Asta’s knowledge?

Whatever the answer, Asta knew one thing for certain: he had to find him.