The dining hall is quiet, candlelight casting a golden glow over the long oak table set for three. It is too large for just a family dinner, a space meant for grand gatherings and noble guests, yet tonight it belongs only to us—Sven, Catharine, and me.

  The meal is carefully prepared, though the weight of the day still lingers like an unseen specter. A gentle warmth tries to settle between us, a fragile attempt at normalcy after an evening filled with unspoken fears. The clink of silverware against porcelain fills the silence between measured conversation.

  Sven, ever composed, cuts into his meat with deliberate ease, his expression unreadable. "The city was restless today," he says finally, his voice calm yet carrying the tone of observation. "The common folk celebrated, but the nobility... they watched. Waited. Calculated."

  “Some of them didn’t look pleased,” Catharine murmurs. “Some of them looked… expectant.”

  Sven exhales, shaking his head. “They were looking for weakness. We gave them none.”

  Catharine lets out a quiet breath, shifting me slightly in her arms. I sit upright on her lap, playing the part of a quiet infant, though the weight of the moment has settled into me too. She reaches for her glass, taking a sip of wine before responding. "They always do. That is their way. But tonight, let them pretend. Let them drink and whisper, let them wonder what it all means."

  Sven hums in agreement but says nothing further.

  I listen. I have done so all my lives, in courts, in war rooms, in the shadowed corners of distant empires where the words of powerful men dictated the fates of millions. This is no different. But tonight, for the first time in this life, it is personal.

  Catharine turns her attention to me, her fingers absently smoothing the fabric of my small tunic. "He was well-behaved today," she muses, casting a knowing look at Sven. "Not a single fuss."

  Sven finally glances up from his plate, his sharp eyes meeting hers before flicking to me. "A Larkin bears the weight given to them. Even this one, it seems."

  I remain still, sensing that I am being watched more closely than before.

  Catharine smiles faintly and presses a gentle kiss against my dark hair. "Still, I wonder what he thought of all of it. The grandeur, the ceremony."

  "He's a year old, Catharine," Sven replies, but there is something softer in his voice now. "Whatever thoughts he has, they will come in time."

  I bite back the urge to react. I have thoughts. More than they could ever imagine. But I stay quiet, content to let them believe I am just a child.

  Catharine reaches for a piece of soft bread, tearing it carefully before pressing a small morsel to my lips. "Eat, my love," she murmurs, encouraging me.

  I take it. I do not need to eat much, but my mother’s insistence is gentle, a warmth I have rarely known in past lives. She feeds me carefully, while Sven looks on, finishing his own meal in silence.

  The conversation drifts from the ceremony to idle talk of household affairs. The way the autumn air has settled over the gardens, the preparations for the colder months, the stability of our lands. Normal things, spoken in normal tones, meant to ease the heaviness of what transpired earlier.

  For this moment, at least, we allow ourselves to simply be a family.

  When the meal is finished, Catharine carefully lifts me from her lap, cradling me with ease. As she rises, Isla, ever watchful, hurries forward, her hands outstretched. "Your Grace, allow me to carry him. It's been a long day, and—"

  Catharine waves her off with a rare display of finality. "Not tonight, Isla. Today was a special day. I will be a doting mother for one night."

  Isla hesitates, lips pressing together in what might have been an unspoken protest, but she relents, bowing her head. "As you wish, Your Grace."

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  Catharine shifts me slightly, adjusting her grip. Sven watches her for a moment, then exhales softly, something unspoken passing between them. He does not object. She holds me tighter. She turns, stepping away with measured grace, but there is something different in the way she carries me now—closer, more protective. As if this moment will not last. The torches flicker as we pass, their glow casting elongated shadows along the ornate stone walls. The air is cool, a whisper of the coming winter, but in her arms, I am warm.

  She holds me close, resting her cheek against my head as we walk. "You were perfect today," she whispers, barely loud enough to be heard. "No matter what they say, you are perfect."

  I remain still, listening, absorbing.

  She does not expect me to understand. But I do.

  And as we reach the nursery, as she settles me carefully into my crib and smooths the blankets over me, I swear to myself that whatever it is my parents fear, whatever fate they seek to delay—I will not let it come to pass.

  She brushes a final kiss to my forehead before she stands, lingering for only a moment more before turning toward the door.

  The nursery door closes with a soft click, and the house falls into silence.

  But I am awake now.

  And the night is mine to begin.

  The stillness of the nursery is absolute. The steady rhythm of Isla’s breathing, the faint crackle of the fireplace—none of it disturbs the quiet determination settling over me. I flex my fingers, feeling the sluggishness of an infant’s body resisting my command. But tonight, that changes.

  The mana responds now. It flows beneath my skin, hesitant at first, sluggish like water breaking free from ice. But when I call to it, it stirs. I reach inward, drawing upon lifetimes of knowledge—breathing techniques to refine my strength, subtle enchantments to reinforce my bones, careful control of energy to accelerate the hardening of a young body. There is no rush. A child must grow naturally, but I can ease the process, make myself stronger, more resilient. It is slow, delicate work, but I have done this before.

  I start small—controlling my breath, coaxing mana through my limbs, aligning it with the rhythm of my pulse. The techniques are familiar, drawn from worlds that valued strength in different ways—monks who wielded their bodies like weapons, mages who inscribed runes beneath their skin, warriors who reforged their bones with ritual magic. Each approach had its merits, and I sift through them, adjusting, refining, shaping what I need for this life.

  I begin with my core, regulating my breathing, pulling mana inward with each slow inhale. The energy pools in my center, warm but unformed.

  With it comes a memory—

  No, not now.

  A soft hand against my chest. Fingers tracing lazy circles over my heart.

  I shudder. The sensation is too real, too immediate, as if it is happening now instead of in a life long past.

  I shake it away and, with practiced precision, push the mana outward, directing it into my limbs. My bones, soft and pliable in youth, must be strengthened gradually, hardened without disrupting their natural growth. Too much reinforcement too soon could cause issues later. I layer the mana like tempered steel, wrapping it around each fragile structure in thin, measured increments.

  Next, I focus on my muscles. At this stage, they are weak, undeveloped, unable to support anything beyond simple movement. I coax mana into the fibers, encouraging natural fortification rather than forced expansion. In another life, I learned from desert warriors who relied on endurance over brute strength, channeling energy into longevity rather than raw power. I use their methods now—slow, deliberate, fostering gradual growth over unnatural enhancement.

  The training with those desert warriors in barren, dry wastes beneath twin moons bring another memory. Luminous eyes watching me, filled with warmth beyond anything I have ever known.

  Again, I shove it down.

  My skin follows. I remember a time when I lived among spellcrafters who etched their flesh with protective runes, their very skin resistant to harm. I do not have ink or tools, but I can mimic their sigils in mana, embedding the concept of resilience just beneath the surface. A passive reinforcement, one that will grow with me rather than stand apart from my natural form. My skin sharpens, sensing the air more keenly, but grows tougher too, absorbing and dispersing force rather than simply resisting it.

  The whisper of a breeze across my cheek—the ghost of a touch. The feeling of white hair, so long it drifted about me like silk in the wind.

  I screw my eyes shut against the memory, forcing it back down, binding it into the depths of my heart. That life was sacred, something I could not afford to dwell on. It is too important, too raw. If I let myself recall it fully, I will break my focus. And I cannot afford that.

  The more I shape the mana, repeating the steps, the more it begins to settle, taking to my form with surprising ease. First my core, drawing mana into my center, letting it settle before spreading outward. Bones then, like tempered steel, subtle but firm. Next, muscles, coaxed to strengthen, fiber by fiber, not for power, but for endurance. Finally, my skin—etched with unseen wards, a slow reinforcement against the world beyond this crib. It is as if my body already expects this, as if it was always meant to be shaped in this way. The realization sends a shiver down my spine, but I push past it.

  I breathe in, steadying myself. The past must stay buried for now.

  Tonight, I grow stronger.

  I will not let them die.

  I blink, shocked at my own resolution. It is no wonder that past is trying so hard to surface—I have moved from simply caring about Sven and Catharine to something approaching love.