The light was...so warm.
It bathed my fragile form as if to welcome me to a world I never asked for. A soft, golden glow poured in from the tall windows above, casting halos over dust particles that danced through the air like spirits. I couldn't see clearly....my vision was hazy, fragmented like cracked glass. My world was shapes and shadows, outlines blurred by tears that hadn't fallen.
But through the haze, I saw only her.
Her arms cradled me delicately, like I was something precious. Her voice whispered in soft, melodic hums. Her skin was pale, luminous in the sunlight, and her white hair shimmered with an ethereal grace that felt almost divine. She was smiling....smiling at me.
I wanted to look away....
The murmurs in the background meant nothing at first. Low, fragmented voices—cheers, praises, names I couldn't decipher. But then a faint echo drifted toward me, a whisper from women I couldn't see.
"The third…"
"That's him… the third son…"
Their voices vanished into the haze. Yet something inside me tightened. The third. Was that what I was now?
No. I wasn't supposed to be here. I wasn't supposed to be anything.
I died. I know I did!
So why…?!
Her fingers ran gently across my cheek, pulling me back into her embrace. The way she held me...it wasn't just instinct. It was affection. It was love. But it was love not meant for me. Her warmth bled into my skin like a crime I hadn't yet confessed.
"My… mother…" I thought bitterly. "No. She's not mine."
She cooed at me softly, adjusting her position as she sat back against her silken sheets. I was nestled against her chest now, my tiny body pulled close as she breastfed me.
How can it?....OK I won't.....
I won't describe it.
I can't.
But the warmth, the taste—it was soothing. And that made it worse.
Shame clawed at me. What am I doing? I wasn't a child. I wasn't a blank slate waiting to be nurtured. I was a grown man—hardened, bloodied, damned—and now… this? Being coddled and fed like an innocent? My stomach churned. The contradiction was unbearable.
And yet, I couldn't fight it. My body was too small, too weak. All I could do was lie there… and exist.
Her eyes met mine—soft, shimmering, full of unspeakable affection. The sun caught the edge of her irises, turning them into golden pools of hope. And then she whispered, voice trembling with emotion.
"Aww, Gabriel… don't cry…"
I hadn't even realized I was. My eyes were wet. Not because of the light… but because of her. I wanted to speak. I wanted to say, I'm sorry.
But I couldn't move my lips. I couldn't even lift my arm.
I was trapped inside this tiny, cursed body. This wasn't reincarnation. This was a prison!
***
Time slipped like sand between glass. I didn't know how many hours passed—or days. New voices came and went. Faces hovered above me. Maids with soft hands and whispered praises. They treated me like royalty.
Because I was.
Gabriel Roseheart—third son of Lord Hugo Roseheart and Lady Martha Roseheart, his third wife. Born into nobility, privilege… and expectations. I learned this not through speech, but through fragments I heard in passing. My hearing was sensitive now. Every footstep, every distant whisper, my mind strained to interpret it.
But I never forgot her.
Martha.
My mother...
She fed me with unwavering care. She looked at me with eyes that believed I was hers. That I deserved to be.
But I didn't.
I wasn't her son.
Not really.
I was something else entirely. A mistake that wasn't supposed to exist!
***
One day, the atmosphere changed.
I was resting in my crib—tired, dull, and numb—when the sound of heavy boots echoed in the hallway. There was a strange gravity to them. Power in the sound. Confidence.
Then I felt hands—not hers.
Large, calloused, steady. They picked me up with practiced ease, but not gentleness. These hands were used to gripping swords, not children. My blurred vision caught only parts of his face at first: a sharp jaw, obsidian black hair, eyes that glinted green like emeralds carved from war.
Lord Hugo Roseheart
He was tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in royal regalia—deep violet robes embroidered with gold thread. A crest was pinned to his chest: a golden eagle with wings unfurled, signifying power and vision. At his hip, he carried a sheathed longsword. Its hilt was obsidian black with veins of silver, a symbol of both nobility and death.
He studied me in silence.
Then, in a voice low and commanding, he said to the maids,
"Leave us."
They bowed swiftly, murmured apologies, and disappeared behind the door, which shut with a soft click.
Now, it was just him and me.
He walked slowly toward the balcony, his boots clicking against polished marble. The balcony doors stood open, sunlight spilling in like truth. Wind whispered in, gentle yet cold.
"Gabriel Vaelcrest," he said, not looking at me.
"The third son…"
He stopped at the edge of the balcony, lifting me slightly so that I could see the world. And what a world it was—mountains in the distance, cities below, and clouds scattered across a brilliant blue sky. A kingdom vast and ancient.
"You'll awaken your gifts soon, I hope," he continued. "You carry my name… but names are weight. They must be earned."
His tone was even, but beneath it… hope. Cautious hope. Perhaps even fear. He turned his eyes toward me—those piercing emeralds—and studied me like one might study a blade fresh from the forge.
"Will you be the one?" he muttered. "The one who ends this damned stagnation? Or just another disappointment?"
His grip on me tightened slightly, but not out of anger. Out of longing. Expectation.
And in that moment, something inside me cracked.
Because I wasn't the one. I wasn't even meant to be here.
He thought I was his legacy. Martha thought I was her miracle.
But I was neither.
I was a man who should have stayed dead… and now, I was wearing the skin of a child who shouldn't exist.
****
Days passed. Weeks. My body remained small, weak… but my mind roared every night. I stared up at the ceiling, listening to every breath Martha took as she watched over me. Sometimes she'd fall asleep in the chair next to me, hand still resting on the edge of my crib.
And I hated it...I hated it so much!
I wanted to tell her!
I wanted to say, I'm not your son. I'm sorry!
I didn't deserve her warmth. Her love. Her joy!.....I never truly did....and I never will.
But she never looked at me like a mistake. She looked at me like I was the greatest thing to ever happen to her.
And that's what made it hurt.
***
One night, I was in her arms again. She had fallen asleep holding me near her chest. Her lips moved faintly in her dreams, whispering my name.
"Gabriel… my sweet boy…"
I felt tears sting my eyes again.
I couldn't speak. I couldn't reject her.
And maybe… maybe I didn't want to anymore.
But deep down, the guilt remained....and i slowly remembered my past....my sins, my sacrifice that brought the end of my life....
And in the end...
I was the child, who shouldn't be!