I wake up screaming.

  Not from pain. Not from fear. Just the sheer, jarring violence of existing again.

  Breath floods my lungs, sharp and unbidden, dragging me into awareness with all the grace of a drowning man breaking the surface. My chest rises and falls in an unfamiliar rhythm, my body a trembling, weak thing. The first time I try to move my fingers, they do not obey me. The tendons pull sluggishly, the nerves untrained. My hand curls weakly, more reflex than intent.

  The frustration is instant, familiar. In so many lives, I have trained my body to fight, to build, to wield power. But here, now, I am trapped in flesh too soft, too fragile, again.

  The weight of swaddling cloth presses against my skin. The air is thick and warm, heavy with the scent of wax-polished wood, perfumed oils, and something floral—lavender, perhaps, or crushed rose petals steeped in the heat of candlelight. Murmuring voices surround me, a mixture of cooing and hushed conversation, the cadence of a language I do not yet understand.

  I know nothing of this world.

  Hands lift me, careful but firm, cradling me against warm flesh. A woman’s voice, low and tired but steady, murmurs words I cannot yet grasp. There is no desperation in her tone, no raw, gasping love—only quiet relief, a soft and measured acceptance. She does not know me. I do not know her. And yet she holds me with the certainty of someone who has already decided to care.

  That, at least, is something.

  Time drifts, unsteady. Eventually, another voice speaks—deeper, authoritative, edged with something that feels like expectation. A single word, clipped and final:

  Aurelius.

  A name. A title. A cage I will wear in this life.

  The first days are a slow, aching tedium, as they are every time I am reborn. I cannot speak. No infant can. The flesh I inhabit is too new, too weak, incapable of forming the words I am learning. So I do what I must. I watch. I listen. I learn.

  The world around me is ornate, excessive, every inch of it polished to reflect the wealth of those who inhabit it. The bedroom where I was born is enormous, draped in heavy brocade and velvet, its walls lined with dark-stained wood carved with intricate patterns. The bed is a towering thing, its posts wound with gold filigree, the sheets so fine they barely register against my newborn skin. Chandeliers hang above, their crystal teardrops refracting the soft glow of gas lamps mounted on the walls. Perfume clings to everything—roses, lavender, the faintest trace of myrrh—masking the natural musk of life, of breath, of sweat. Even here, in a room meant for the first gasps of a new existence, the air has been curated.

  I recognize wealth when I see it. I have lived wealth before.

  A memory stirs, unbidden—cold steel beneath my feet, the hum of a warship’s engines thrumming through the deck like a pulse.

  ***

  The Indomitable was not mine, not truly. It belonged to the Empire, as did I. But I was of the line, one of the noble houses whose coffers fed the war machine, whose blood ensured command. I was adorned in silk and armor alike, a living symbol of power, yet I had never fought a battle I could not pay someone else to win.

  I remember the expectation of command. Not the responsibility—no, that was for the captains, the tacticians, the officers bred for service. My duty was different, intangible, a legacy of name and influence that outweighed skill or competence. I was the embodiment of lineage, of the wealth that fueled the fleet, of the authority that ensured the Empire’s grip on the void.

  I remember standing in the war room, a grand space lined with hololithic displays and planetary maps, the scent of polished metal and synthetic leather clinging to every surface. The Indomitable was preparing for engagement—a border skirmish, a demonstration of force against some upstart colony that had forgotten its place. I had little interest in the details. It was another show of strength, another display of dominance that would end with fire raining from the skies.

  The captain stood before me, a man hardened by years of service, his uniform crisp, his posture perfect. He did not meet my gaze directly—none of them ever did—but his voice was steady.

  “My lord, the enemy fleet is positioning for retreat. If we push forward now, we can force them into the asteroid belt. They will have no escape.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back, nodding as if I had any say in the matter. “And the losses?”

  “Minimal. Some fighters, perhaps a frigate at worst.” A pause, measured. “Acceptable.”

  Acceptable.

  That was what it always came down to. The numbers, the balance of power, the cold calculation of who and what could be lost. The officers around me—men who had trained their entire lives for war—watched, waiting for my approval. A noble’s word carried weight, even when it meant nothing.

  I hesitated. Just for a moment. A hesitation so slight, so fleeting, that any other man might have missed it. But not the captain. His eyes flicked toward me, sharp, searching. A breath, held too long. A flicker of something I could not afford to show.

  I swallowed it down. “Proceed.”

  Later, I sat alone in the ready room, the lights dimmed to near darkness, the glow of the starfield beyond the viewport casting long shadows across the floor. I stared out into the void, watching the debris drift, the remnants of another skirmish, another nameless battle in an endless war.

  The door slid open behind me. I did not turn. I knew who it was.

  The captain stepped inside, his boots soft against the metal. He hesitated before speaking. “You hesitated today.”

  I closed my eyes for a brief moment. “Did I?”

  “You did.” His voice was calm, without accusation. “I’ve served under nobles my entire career, my lord. Men born into power. Men who issue orders without a thought. You’re not like them.”

  I exhaled slowly. “It doesn’t matter what I am.”

  He took another step forward, his reflection faint in the viewport beside mine. “It does. To the men. To me.” A pause. “We believe in you more than we believe in the Empire.”

  A quiet admission. A dangerous one.

  I turned to look at him then, meeting his gaze fully. A commoner, bound by duty, by orders, by a chain he could never break. He had risen as far as he could, and still, he was beneath me. And yet, in that moment, I envied him.

  I could have stayed silent. I could have ignored what had been growing in my mind for years, the slow erosion of belief, the truth I could no longer deny. Instead, I spoke the words that sealed my fate.

  “The Empire is rotten.”

  He did not flinch. “Aye.”

  In each life I live, I still carry the core of myself, and that core holds ideals that often bring me into conflict with the power structure of whatever world I am born into. Always, I must wait, learn, and build power and support to find the time to strike. Often, I am successful at enacting change or inspiring it in people, leading reforms.

  But not this time.

  The bridge burned around us, smoke curling like dying breaths. The captain’s hands gripped the console, his knuckles white, his gaze steady. The console flared with dying light, warning sirens screeching into a final, static death rattle. The hull screamed, molten metal liquefying as we breached the atmosphere. We had seconds left, but neither of us looked away. The core world’s defense grid lit up, alarms blaring—too late. Too late to stop the tide of fire, too late to undo what we had set in motion. The capital city loomed below—towers of marble and glass, the seat of an empire that had thrived on blood. The last thing I saw was fire swallowing the spires whole.

  We would not survive.

  But the Empire would bleed.

  ***

  And now—reborn into another gilded cage, another name—I find myself once more surrounded by wealth and power.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  I have lived among nobles before. Kings, warlords, emperors, oligarchs. I have played the part of heir and usurper, of ruler and exile. The trappings of power are different in every world, but they all share a fundamental truth: wealth does not exist to comfort—it exists to control.

  Here, in House Larkin, I do not yet know which form that control takes.

  But I will.

  The household is measured in its wealth, not ostentatious, not chaotic. The servants move with quiet efficiency, their voices hushed but not fearful. Their hands are steady, their steps neither rushed nor hesitant. This is not a house of cruelty, but neither is it one of carelessness. This is a house where power is wielded with precision, not brutality.

  That tells me much.

  The first name I hear beyond my own is my father’s: Archduke Larkin. The way the servants say it—with deference, with certainty, never with fear—marks him as a man who commands loyalty before terror. That is valuable information.

  More words reach me, their structure familiar now, the puzzle of language slowly clicking into place. I am the firstborn son. The heir. That, too, tells me much. A noble family does not invest in an heir unless there is something to inherit.

  They speak of me when they think I cannot understand.

  "He’s quiet," one murmurs, a woman whose voice carries the soft lilt of someone accustomed to gossip. "Most infants cry more."

  "He listens," another replies. Younger, thoughtful. "His eyes—he watches everything."

  I do not react. I close my eyes, feigning sleep, playing the role expected of me.

  Let them think I am quiet.

  Let them think I am unknowing.

  Let them see only what I allow.

  I have played this game before.

  Time drifts. I observe.

  The walls are paneled in dark, polished wood, carved with intricate filigree, the grain swirling beneath the varnish like captured smoke. Gas lamps flicker in sconces, their glow casting long shadows over the heavy brocade curtains that frame tall, arched windows. The ceiling is high, adorned with moldings—not gilded, not painted, but carved, the detail so fine that it speaks of craftsmanship over excess.

  The absence of certain things speaks just as loudly. No electric fixtures. No mechanical hum in the walls. The warmth in the room comes from the iron radiator set beneath the window, its pipes hissing faintly. They do not have electricity, but they are beyond the medieval. The craftsmanship, the elegance, the very structure of the world I glimpse suggests a refined age, one of industry and controlled ambition.

  The air itself hums with something else entirely.

  Magic.

  It is subtle, woven into the very fabric of the atmosphere. I have known magic before—arcane sigils carved into the bones of a dying world, eldritch forces lurking beneath the skin of reality, the raw and violent energy of sorcery tearing through existence like a blade.

  This is none of those things.

  This mana is structured, not wild. It does not crackle or roar, but lingers, like a hidden current beneath still waters. I do not recognize it. That alone is unsettling. In all the lives I have lived, across empires that spanned stars and worlds swallowed by darkness, I have never encountered this.

  I push my awareness further, testing the edges of it. It does not respond to me. That is more telling than anything. It is not inert, nor is it simply energy waiting to be shaped—it is woven into the foundation of this world, part of its very breath and being.

  I do not yet understand it.

  The first time I see my father, he is a presence before he is a man.

  Boots against polished wood. The low murmur of dismissed servants. The scent of something sharp—ink and clove smoke, layered over the crispness of fine wool.

  I do not open my eyes immediately. I let the moment stretch, gathering details.

  His breathing is even, measured. His presence does not demand, but expects. He does not fidget. He does not pace. When he moves, it is with the deliberation of a man who has never once questioned whether the world will make way for him.

  I had met men like him before, a man like him. Kings, emperors, warlords who never raised their voices because the world itself bent to them. My father did not threaten, did not demand.

  He simply expected.

  I open my eyes.

  For a long moment, we regard each other.

  His eyes are dark like polished onyx, sharp and assessing. His hair, black with the faintest trace of silver at the temples, is neatly combed, untouched by powder or excess. His clothing is impeccable—a tailored waistcoat of deep navy, embroidered subtly with thread that glints in the gaslight, a high-collared jacket with buttons of black pearl. Wealth, but not ostentation. Power, but not indulgence.

  He studies me as I study him.

  Then, he speaks.

  "You are quiet."

  It is not quite a question. Not quite an observation.

  I do not answer. I cannot—not yet—but even if I could, I would not.

  A flicker of something crosses his face. Amusement? Thoughtfulness? It is gone too quickly to tell. He turns slightly, and my mother steps into view.

  She is not the soft-voiced warmth I had first assumed. Now, in the presence of my father, she stands straight-backed and composed, her gown an elegant cascade of deep wine-red silk, her hands gloved in fine lace. She does not shrink beside him, nor does she defer—there is steel in the way she holds his gaze, in the way he does not question her presence beside him.

  "Aurelius."

  My name. Spoken with expectation, with weight.

  The firstborn son of an archduke is not a title to be worn lightly.

  My father watches me for a moment longer, then inclines his head—not quite a bow, not quite mere acknowledgment. Something in between.

  "You will do."

  Then, he turns and leaves, his boots echoing against the wooden floor.

  My mother remains a moment longer. She looks down at me, unreadable. Then, slowly, she reaches out and touches my hand, her fingers gliding over my palm in a single, measured gesture. A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze—thoughtfulness, assessment, something softer beneath it all.

  Then, she too turns and follows my father out.

  The door closes softly behind them.

  I stare at the empty space they leave behind.

  I do not yet know what they expect of me.

  I do not yet know if I will disappoint them.

  I do not yet know what place House Larkin holds in this world.

  But I have seen power before. I have lived beneath it, worked for it, built the tools that let it thrive. And I have been cast aside by it.

  ***

  The forge was alive.

  Heat coiled against my back, sweat slicking my skin, the air thick with the scent of molten iron and burning coal. The rhythmic clang of my hammer against steel echoed through the workshop, a steady drumbeat to the symphony of creation. Sparks danced in the dim light, illuminating the cavernous stone chamber carved into the mountainside.

  They called me Forge-Master.

  Not "lord," not "master" in the way the nobles wielded the word. It was a title earned, not given. A mark of skill, of years spent shaping the bones of the earth into something greater. A name that meant nothing when the right people decided it did not.

  "The gauntlet, Forge-Master. Will it hold?"

  I looked up from my work, meeting the expectant gaze of Lord Cedric Vaelor, the expedition’s leader. His silk-trimmed tunic was dusted lightly with the soot of the forge, though he had never once lifted a hammer.

  I did not answer immediately. Instead, I turned my gaze to the artifact resting upon the anvil—a gauntlet of blackened steel, veins of silver-threaded glyphs pulsing faintly with power.

  "It will hold," I said at last, voice hoarse from the smoke and heat. "But the runes require attunement. Without a wielder who understands the flow of mana, it will be little more than fine armor."

  Lord Cedric scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. "Magic is the domain of scholars and priests, not warriors. My knights will wear it regardless."

  I exhaled slowly, biting back frustration. It was always the same with them.

  Still, I had no power to deny him. With careful hands, I lifted the gauntlet, slipping it onto my arm. The metal adjusted to my grip, sensing the touch of its maker, and for a moment, the runes blazed to life, the energy within rippling through my veins.

  Cedric’s eyes gleamed with interest. "Impressive."

  Not you are impressive. Not your work is invaluable. The credit belonged to the artifact, to the magic—never to the hands that shaped it.

  Across the chamber, the other nobles dined at a long table, golden goblets reflecting the forge’s glow. Their voices rose in laughter, in idle debate over whose family name would be immortalized in the expedition’s records.

  I had heard my name once, long ago, spoken with admiration, with need. But not now. Not anymore.

  I had no place at that table.

  The sickness came in the cold months.

  It began as a fever, slow and creeping, until it burned through my veins like molten iron. The strength I had once wielded so easily—the strength that made me valuable—vanished.

  I remember the days spent in my tent, the fever-wracked nights, the way my hammer grew too heavy to lift. I remember the priests coming, pressing cool hands to my forehead, murmuring prayers that did nothing.

  And I remember the moment I realized I would not recover.

  The infection spread. My arm blackened. The pain became unbearable.

  "We must cut it away," said the surgeon, voice low, uncertain.

  I laughed, dry and bitter. "And what is a forge-master without his hands?"

  There was no answer.

  They did it anyway. I was too weak to stop them.

  I survived, but in the eyes of the expedition, I was already dead.

  I was no longer a master of the forge, no longer the one who built their weapons, their enchanted armor, their tools of conquest.

  I was useless.

  And I should have known what that meant.

  The night was cold when they left me.

  I woke to silence.

  The fires had burned low, their embers barely flickering in the wind. The forge—my forge—was cold stone and forgotten echoes.

  For a moment, I thought I had awoken early. That they were simply still sleeping.

  Then I stepped out of my tent.

  The camp was empty.

  No laughter from the noble's table. No clinking of armor, no quiet murmurs of the servants. Only the wind, carrying the distant scent of burning torches, of wagons already miles away.

  They had taken everything. Every weapon I had crafted, every enchanted piece of armor, every artifact infused with the magic of my hands.

  But not me.

  A forge-master without a forge is nothing. A tool that can no longer shape steel has no worth. And so they left me, without ceremony, without a word.

  They did not even grant me the dignity of an execution.

  Perhaps they thought I would die quickly.

  ***

  And now, I am here. Reborn in silk and shadow, in wealth and quiet whispers. I have a name, a title, a mother who holds me with something like care. But I do not yet know if I am one of them, or merely another tool waiting to be discarded.

  I have played this game before.

  I have given my skill, my strength, my very life to those in power, believing I could make a difference. Believing that I could change the system from within.

  I was wrong.

  So I listen.

  The days pass, and the words become clearer. The structure of the language takes shape in my mind, each phrase a puzzle piece fitting into place. I absorb the way the servants speak to my mother, the way she responds—quiet, measured, a woman accustomed to control.

  She never rushes when she holds me. Never hands me off like a duty completed. There is patience in the way she touches my hand, traces idle patterns against my palm. Not a mother desperately in love with her child, but a woman who did not turn away. I do not love her, but perhaps, in some quiet way, I do care.

  She is not cruel.

  She does not ignore me.

  It is more than I have had in some lives.

  And so, I take what I can.

  For now, I remain silent. Watching. Waiting. Learning.

  One day, I will know where I stand, and what I must do in this world.