Sound came first.
Not the thunder of artillery or the screams of the dying—but a dull, rhythmic thumping, slow and steady. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere at once, like the heartbeat of the world itself. I tried to focus, to open my eyes, but my thoughts felt wrapped in thick cotton.
Heavy. Sluggish.
Cold air brushed against my skin, and I flinched instinctively.
Skin.
That was wrong.
I remembered pain. I remembered steel tearing through my back. I remembered Philip's face twisted in grief as he drove the blade home. I remembered the weight of twenty-four knives, each one a farewell disguised as betrayal.
I remembered dying.
So why did I feel… cold?
Light stabbed into my vision without warning. It was harsh, white, and blinding. My eyes burned as though they had never seen light before—because they hadn't. Panic surged through me, sharp and animalistic, and I tried to raise a hand to shield my face.
My hand barely moved.
No—it didn't move at all.
Something was deeply wrong.
I tried again, willing my body to respond the way it always had. This body that had endured starvation, torture, poison, and wounds that should have killed any man twice over. This body that had crushed cities and reshaped continents.
Nothing happened.
A wave of terror hit me—not the calm, measured fear of a commander on the battlefield, but raw, helpless panic. I opened my mouth to shout, to demand answers from the universe that had never dared defy me before.
What came out was a thin, high-pitched wail.
"Waah—! Waah—!"
The sound was sharp, high-pitched, humiliating. My body convulsed without coordination, limbs flailing uselessly.
Stop, I ordered.
It didn't listen.
Light pierced my vision—harsh and unforgiving. My eyes burned instantly, tears flooding without permission. Shapes moved above me, distorted by the blur.
Women.
Only women.
Their voices overlapped in hurried whispers and strained relief.
"He's breathing."
"Wrap him carefully."
"The Lady is exhausted."
No men.
No soldiers.
No doctors in white coats.
This was wrong.
Hands lifted me, rough at first, then careful. Warm cloth wrapped around my body, the texture coarse and unfamiliar. Not sterile. Not modern.
I tried to move—to lift my arms, to clench my fists—but my body responded slowly, clumsily.
Something was very wrong.
I forced my eyes downward.
What I saw froze my mind.
My hands were small.
Tiny, weak, pink things with wrinkled skin and blunt fingers. They trembled as they moved, opening and closing without precision.
No.
This was impossible.
These hands had once signed orders that erased nations. They had held weapons capable of leveling cities. They had carried the weight of the world.
Now—
They could barely grasp air.
Panic surged violently.
I tried to speak, to demand answers, to curse the universe for mocking me.
Another wail tore from my throat.
"Wa —!"
The realization burned worse than any blade.
A pair of arms lifted me again.
This time, the hold was different—gentler, trembling. I was pressed against something warm, soft, alive. My body reacted instantly, my frantic heartbeat slowing, my breathing evening out against my will.
I hated it.
I hated the way my thoughts calmed.
I hated the warmth spreading through me.
I hated the unfamiliar ache tightening my chest.
The woman holding me was shaking. Exhaustion radiated from her, heavy and deep. Her scent filled my senses—blood, sweat, and something faintly floral.
She was crying.
"My baby…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "You're alive…"
Her hair brushed against my face as she held me closer. It was black—long, damp, clinging to her skin. When I forced my eyes upward, I saw them.
Her eyes.
Red.
Not bloodshot.
Not unnatural.
Just red.
Striking. Deep. Alive.
Against my will, my tiny fingers curled, gripping her clothing. The movement shocked me—I hadn't commanded it.
She gasped softly.
"He's holding me…"
Disgust flared inside me.
Get a hold of yourself.
But my body betrayed me again, settling into her warmth as though it belonged there.
Time lost meaning after that.
Darkness came and went in waves. Each time I surfaced, the world felt clearer.
Stone walls.
Candlelight.
Iron fixtures.
No electricity.
No machines.
No signs of the world I knew.
This was not a hospital.
Hours later, the door opened again.
The air shifted.
Something entered the room—something heavy.
The women fell silent.
Slow footsteps echoed against stone, deliberate and unhurried. Each step carried authority sharpened by something colder.
I felt it before I saw him.
An old man stood near the bed.
Tall. Thin. Rigid.
His hair was white, pulled back tightly. Deep lines carved his face, giving him a permanently severe expression.
But his eyes—
Red.
Darker than my mother's. Colder. Watching.
They fixed on her first.
"Clara," he said, his voice rough and unyielding. "Is the child healthy?"
She swallowed.
"Yes, father," she replied softly. "He's healthy."
The old man stepped closer, his gaze shifting to me. His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied my face, my breathing, my stillness.
For a moment—
Pressure.
Subtle. Invasive.
It brushed against my mind like unseen fingers testing the surface.
My instincts screamed.
I reacted instantly, pulling inward, retreating deeper into myself.
The pressure vanished.
The old man's eyes flickered—just for a fraction of a second.
Interesting.
"Hm," he muttered.
He straightened.
"This child will be called Azel," he said flatly. "It is a fitting name."
Azel.
The sound echoed through me.
It wasn't comforting.
It wasn't cruel.
It felt heavy.
Deliberate.
Clara nodded, clutching me closer. "Azel…"
The old man turned away without another word and left the room, his footsteps fading into silence.
Days passed.
I watched. I listened.
The language spoken around me was unfamiliar—yet I understood it. Not through memory, but instinct, as though this body had been born knowing it.
Another anomaly.
I noticed more.
Strange symbols etched into stone.
Crystals embedded into walls.
Lights that glowed without fire.
Still, I did not jump to conclusions.
In my previous life, there was no magic.
Only science.
Only technology.
Only power built by human hands.
So I dismissed the strange details as cultural differences.
Until the night I saw it.
Clara sat beside my cradle, exhaustion weighing heavily on her. She sighed softly and raised her hand.
Light gathered around her fingers.
Not reflection.
Not illusion.
Light.
It shimmered—deep crimson, matching her eyes—curling gently around her hand like living flame. The air hummed softly.
I froze.
My mind went completely still.
She whispered something under her breath, and the light faded, leaving the room warm and calm.
No wires.
No devices.
No explanation.
Magic.
Real magic.
My breath caught.
Understanding crashed into me with terrifying clarity.
This world was not mine.
And magic—something that never existed in my previous life—was real here.
For the first time since my rebirth, a spark of genuine curiosity ignited within me.
A world where magic exists.
How fascinating.