The first thing I remember is the warmth of sunlight on my face, soft and golden, spilling through a large window I couldn't yet name. The room smelled faintly of polished wood and flowers I couldn't identify, and I was swaddled so tightly in silk I could barely move. My limbs felt strange, new, and yet I was aware of every small movement, every tiny breath I took.
I had memories. Not faint echoes, but full, detailed recollections of John Warner's life: the hospital room, the mistakes, the loneliness, the desperate wish I had made. And now, I was here. Newborn, fragile, and yet aware. A child born into a house I didn't yet understand, carrying a lifetime of knowledge and regrets.
A figure approached the cradle. She was tall, kind-eyed, and moved with a grace that made me instinctively aware of the difference between her world and the one I had left behind.
"Draven," she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. "It's time to wake."
I tried to respond, to say something, but nothing came out. Not that it mattered. I could sense everything—her emotions, the tension in the room, the quiet hum of magic just beneath the surface of the walls. This was no ordinary home.
My tiny chest pulsed with warmth, the faint glow inside me stirring for the first time. Starborn Light. A hum of energy, almost imperceptible, but there. Alive, and waiting. I didn't understand it fully, but I felt it resonate with my very being. It felt like home, like the stars I had once gazed at in my Earth life, distant yet always present.
Days passed. Time was strange. I was learning to move, to see, to feel, all with the awareness of someone far older. I remembered words I hadn't learned yet, emotions I hadn't earned. I watched the servants, the nurses, and the occasional tutor come and go, trying to make sense of their routines, their expectations. I learned quickly how to cry to get attention, how to reach for objects, how to make small gestures that drew smiles from those around me.
And then it happened—the first whisper of my magic.
I was staring at the sunlight streaming through the window when it moved differently that day. Brighter, almost golden, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed to respond to me. My tiny hand reached toward it instinctively, and the warmth of the light deepened. The glow inside my chest pulsed stronger, and I felt a surge of something I couldn't yet name, a connection between myself and the world around me.
A servant had paused nearby, noticing my gaze. "Ah," she murmured, bowing slightly. "The child is… unusual."
I didn't understand what she meant. Unusual? Of course I was unusual. I was Draven Valehart, a being reborn with memories of another life, carrying the regrets and hopes of someone who had died wishing for this chance. I had always been unusual. I would always be unusual.
My parents—well, the people I would come to think of as my parents—were often busy with affairs of state, discussions of alliances, finances, and the subtle games of nobility. They doted on me in a measured way, but I could sense the distance. Love here was measured, tied to status and duty. But it didn't matter. I was alive, and I could learn to navigate this world.
At night, when the household slept, I would lie in my cradle, feeling the pulse of the Starborn Light within me. I couldn't control it yet, but it hummed in harmony with my thoughts. I imagined the stars, just as I had on Earth, and in that faint, eternal glow, I felt the first whispers of power. A life that had once been wasted was now a canvas, unspoiled, waiting for me to draw upon it.
Sometimes, I remembered the hospital. The cold sheets, the harsh lights, the smell of antiseptic. I remembered my final words, my desperate wish. And I understood, in a way that made my tiny chest ache, that everything I had suffered had been preparation. For what, I didn't yet know. But I would not waste this chance.
I began to notice small things in the household that no ordinary newborn could perceive. The way the tutors whispered about me in hushed tones, the way some of the servants' eyes lingered with unease, the quiet murmurs of magic that floated along the corridors. I knew, somehow, that my presence here was significant. That I was meant for something greater than mere survival. And yet, I was still a child, still learning to control my own body, still fragile and dependent.
It was a strange, bittersweet tension. Awareness without the ability to act fully. Knowledge without the means to wield it. Power that hummed beneath the surface, waiting. I spent hours focusing on the faint glow in my chest, experimenting with concentration, feeling it pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, trying to guide it. Tiny sparks of light would flicker around my fingers, faint as candle flames, and I would gasp with the thrill of discovery.
"Ah," said one of the servants quietly, as if speaking to herself. "The Starborn Light… it is awakening."
The words didn't frighten me. I had known, somehow, that this power was mine. I had been reborn for a reason, given the gift of knowledge, the memory of another life, and the pulse of something far greater than myself. I had been given the tools to succeed where John Warner had failed. And I intended to use them.
Even as a newborn, I understood the stakes. This world was not gentle. Magic, politics, prophecy—they were all dangerous. And I had already been marked, in some way, by forces I could not yet see. I would need to grow. I would need to learn. I would need to survive. And I would master the Starborn Light, no matter the cost.
For the first time, I smiled, a small, knowing expression that carried all the weight of someone who had lived before, who had failed, who had been given a second chance. I was Draven Valehart. I was reborn. And this life, unlike the last, would be mine to command.
The sunlight shifted through the window, golden and eternal, and for a moment, I felt it respond to me. A promise, faint but undeniable. That promise would guide me. That promise would shape me. And I would not fail again.
I was ready.