Dorian slept that night, and for the first time in a long while—even when he had ruled his kingdom, slept in the finest undergarments, in the grandest room, within the most fortified castle of his empire—he slept like a baby. His small body settled into the gentle warmth of his mother’s arms, his tiny fingers curled into the rough fabric of his swaddle. His breathing evened, and the world faded to black.

  But in the darkness, dreams came.

  His ruined castle stretched before him, its once-majestic walls now shattered and scorched. Stone crumbled beneath his feet, and the grand tapestries that had lined the halls were reduced to ash, curling in the cold wind. He stood in the courtyard, surrounded by the fallen.

  His finest advisors lay scattered across the stones, their bodies twisted in unnatural poses. Some were missing limbs, blood smearing the ground in dark, crusted streaks. Others were untouched—whole and pristine—but their glassy, lifeless eyes stared up at him, unblinking. Their faces frozen in expressions of betrayal, pain, or worse, acceptance.

  He turned, his heart a stone in his chest. Beyond the corpses, past the debris and smoke, a shadow loomed.

  It rose against the horizon, a silhouette draped over the battlefield like a shroud. It had shape, but no true form—its edges blurred, as if reality itself recoiled from it. The shadow seemed to breathe, its mass shifting, coiling, as if tasting the air.

  Dorian squinted, his instincts honed from a lifetime of war and conquest screaming at him. Had it been there during the battle? He couldn’t remember. His memories were a fractured mirror, shards of clarity mixed with smears of confusion.

  The shadow shifted. It saw him.

  He stepped back, his boot crunching over the arm of a fallen soldier. The sound cracked through the silence, and the shadow moved, its entire form rippling as if stirred by an unseen wind. It didn’t glide or float—it flowed, pouring itself over the ground, its tendrils stretching towards him.

  Panic surged through him. He turned, legs pumping, breath ragged. The ground felt too close, his steps short and awkward. He stumbled, his arms flailing, and he hit the ground hard. The world seemed to swell around him, the shadows of corpses and stone walls growing taller, wider.

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  Why couldn’t he run? Why were his legs so weak?

  He looked down, and the truth struck him like a blade. His limbs were small, his hands chubby and useless. His tiny fingers clawed at the dirt, unable to find purchase.

  "Shit, I’m still a baby!"

  The shadow closed in, a wave of blackness swallowing the light. Dorian’s vision narrowed, his world shrinking to a pinprick as the darkness wrapped around him, cold and hungry.

  He woke with a start, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to him like cobwebs. His tiny chest rose and fell, each breath too shallow, too fragile. His eyes darted around the room—his mother was nowhere to be found. The hut was eerily still, only the crackling of the fire breaking the silence.

  The flames still held the warmth from the spell his father had uttered, a steady glow that painted the rough-hewn walls in soft, dancing light. Dorian’s mind raced, the echo of Aaron’s voice lingering in his memory.

  "Kindle and rise."

  The words had stirred the fire, coaxing it to life. Could it really be that simple? Could he, too, control the flames? Bend them to his will, not for destruction as he had known magic before, but for warmth and protection?

  The idea settled in him, an ember of possibility. He had seen magic as a weapon, a force to dominate and destroy. But this world’s magic whispered instead of roared. It served, but not through chains—it followed the will, the intent behind the words.

  Without thinking, he parted his lips. His tiny tongue moved, his infant vocal cords struggling to obey his mind’s commands.

  “WINLLE WN RES.”

  The words spilled out, a garbled mess. He grimaced, his tiny face scrunching in frustration. Damn this baby’s body! His mind was sharp, his will unyielding, but his form was nothing but a prison of weakness. How could he reclaim his power, his dignity, if he couldn’t even form a simple phrase?

  He tried again.

  “Lndwlle DN Rwis.”

  His voice was a garbled mess, his tongue stumbling over the syllables, but this time his intent poured out with the words. The weight of his losses, the ache of his failures, and the raw, unyielding need for control surged through him. He was a king without a crown, a warrior without a sword—stripped of everything but his will.

  He needed strength. He needed control. He needed something, anything, to prove that he was not as helpless as this tiny body suggested.

  The flames trembled.

  A single ember broke free, a pinprick of orange against the dimness. It rose slowly, spiraling upward like a lazy firefly, hanging in the air long enough for Dorian to believe—truly believe—that he had done it.

  The ember winked out, swallowed by the shadows. The fire returned to its steady burn, the room still and quiet once more.

  But the spark had been real. His lips curled into the smallest of smiles, a grim, hard-earned victory. His first step.

  Dorian let his eyes drift closed, exhaustion pulling at him, but this time, he welcomed the darkness. Because now he had a goal, a purpose.

  He had lost his kingdom, his name, his power—but not his will. And where there was will, there was fire.