Dorian awoke with a start, instinctively reaching for his sword. His body, however, did not respond as it should. Instead of the cold, reassuring grip of steel, his tiny fingers latched onto something soft... and jiggly.

  A wave of confusion crashed over him. He looked up, and his vision was filled with the face of a woman—her expression frozen somewhere between shock and amusement.

  His mind scrambled to form an apology, but when he opened his mouth, the only sound that escaped was:

  “WAAH! WAAH! WAAAAH!”

  What in the hell? His thoughts stumbled over themselves. Had he hit his head? Why couldn’t he speak?

  It was then that he noticed his own hand. Small. Incredibly small. His entire arm was a chubby, useless limb. His legs kicked, but they too were weak, uncoordinated.

  Panic clawed at him, his adult mind trapped in a helpless body. His senses were raw, the world too bright, too loud. He squirmed, and the woman cradled him closer, her voice soft and soothing.

  Slowly, a horrifying realization dawned on him. He had been reborn.

  The great Emperor Dorian, conqueror of nations, was now an infant.

  "Look at how cute he is," the woman cooed, her voice warm and soft. Dorian blinked up at her, his vision hazy and edges blurred. Her face was kind, framed by loose strands of hair, sweat-soaked and wild. His mother, he realized, a strange warmth filling the hollow space in his chest.

  A man stepped closer, his shadow falling over them both. His features were sharp, skin tanned and weathered, with a hardness to his expression that spoke of a life spent fighting the world. "Thank goodness it’s a boy," he said, his tone edged with relief. "He’ll be useful. Able to work, and fight if need be."

  Dorian’s mind reeled. I was just born and this guy is already thinking about me working? What is wrong with these people? His thoughts buzzed beneath the fog of infancy, his instincts railing against the helplessness of his new form.

  "Aaron, stop," the woman said, her voice firmer now. She cradled him closer, a barrier between him and the harshness of the world. "We need to enjoy this "Just for now."

  Her words hung in the air, a fragile shield against reality. Dorian’s tiny body squirmed, and she soothed him with a gentle hum. There was love there—a raw, unfiltered affection—but beneath it lay the tightness of fear. Even he could feel it, the tension that hung in the room like smoke, a heaviness that pressed down on them all.

  The man—Aaron—grunted, his resistance muted but not extinguished. His rough, calloused hand settled on the woman’s shoulder, a brief, silent promise. His eyes, however, lingered on Dorian, cold and calculating. These were not the eyes of a father meeting his newborn son with joy. No, this was a man measuring the worth of another set of hands to pull the plow or wield a blade when the time came.

  So, I did it, Dorian thought. I’ve been cast down from an emperor to a nobody.

  His infant eyes drifted around the room, struggling to take in the crude surroundings. The walls were nothing more than uneven logs, poorly fitted together, with gaps where the wind slipped through and gnawed at the warmth. The roof was thatched, straw and mud clumped together in a desperate attempt to keep the elements at bay. Every corner of the hut seemed to lean, as if the entire structure might fold in on itself at any moment.

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  It was a far cry from the towering spires and gilded halls of his former life. He had commanded legions, walked among marble statues, and sat upon a throne of polished gold. Now he lay swaddled in rough cloth, the scent of smoke and damp wood filling his tiny lungs.

  Aaron’s handiwork was apparent in every crooked beam and sagging wall. Whoever built this place clearly had no real skill, only the stubborn determination of a man who had nothing but his own hands to rely on. There were no flourishes, no signs of wealth or trade—just the bare bones of survival.

  And then there was the air. Cold, even with the meager fire crackling not steps away. The flames danced weakly, casting jittery shadows that made the walls seem to breathe. It did little to warm the room, the heat lost to the drafts that slipped through the hut’s many imperfections.

  Dorian’s small body shivered, and the woman—his mother, he supposed—pulled him closer, shielding him from the bite of the air. Her warmth was the only true comfort in this place. Yet even as she held him, he could feel the hardness of her arms, the wiry strength of someone who had known hard labor and hunger.

  He was not happy about any of this. The cold, the squalor, the vulnerability—it gnawed at him, feeding the ember of frustration smoldering deep within. His new life was a far cry from the empire he had once ruled, and the contrast stung like a fresh wound.

  But beneath the discomfort, a part of him whispered that this was what he needed. A chance to see the world from the bottom up. To understand the weight of his old sins—the lives crushed under his imperial boot, the commoners who had suffered under his laws, and the king who had shattered his empire and left him so helpless.

  His thoughts coiled and twisted, a tangle of bitterness and curiosity. He was adrift, unmoored in this strange new life, and he wasn’t even certain if he was in the same world or some place entirely different. His memories of death were a blur, dark and cold, and now—now he was an infant, staring at rough-hewn logs and breathing in the smoke of a dying fire.

  “Honey, he’s cold. Warm him up.”

  The woman’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. She held him closer, her arms gentle but strong, a barrier against the draft that gnawed at the room. The man—Aaron—nodded, his expression unreadable. He knelt by the small, struggling fire, his broad shoulders hunched as he whispered softly.

  Dorian’s eyes narrowed. What is he—

  A faint murmur reached him, the words slipping through the air like threads of smoke.

  "Kindle and rise”

  The flames stirred.

  It wasn’t a simple stoking, not the rough shove of a poker or the addition of fresh wood. The fire moved as if it had heard the man’s voice, as if the words themselves were kindling. Sparks shot upward, trailing light like tiny comets, and hung in the air longer than they should have. The flames themselves twisted, their orange glow turning a shade deeper, richer, as if life had breathed into them.

  The warmth flooded the room, a gentle wave that rolled over Dorian’s small form. His muscles relaxed, his shivers stilled, and for a moment, the biting cold seemed like nothing more than a distant memory.

  Magic.

  It had to be. The realization unfurled slowly, like a blossom in the dark. His old world had magic too—wild and dangerous, a force that had needed to be controlled. He had seen mages summon infernos, bend shadows, and twist the very air into blades. But this? This was different. The magic here was subtle, woven into the ordinary. It didn’t rage or demand; it whispered.

  So there is magic in this world as well, he thought, his mind racing. But where is this world? Is it mine, twisted by time and fate? Or somewhere new altogether?

  The uncertainty gnawed at him, a quiet fear beneath the surface of his thoughts. If this was his old world, what had become of his empire? His name? Was he remembered as a hero, a villain, or not at all? And if it was a new world... then what rules did it hold? What dangers, what opportunities?

  Aaron rose from the fire, the spell complete. The room remained warm, the flames steady and bright, a quiet promise of comfort. His eyes drifted to Dorian, still holding that sharp, appraising look. Dorian forced himself to remain still, his infant body a prison.

  Those words... He turned them over in his mind, memorizing them. They might be nothing, a simple charm, but they could also be the key to understanding the magic of this world. He needed to hear more, learn more.

  The path ahead was shrouded in shadows. But shadows were nothing new to him. He had built empires in them.

  He would watch, he would learn, and when the time was right, he would rise again. Because whether this world was his own or another entirely, it held magic—and magic would become his power.