I was born twice.
The first time, I died choking on poisoned wine, watching the man I'd trusted most raise a glass to my corpse. The second time, I opened my eyes to silk sheets, the muffled sound of servants arguing in the hall, and a body so small my own fists could barely close.
Most people spend their first years learning to walk. I spent mine listening.
The cadence of a voice, the pause before a lie, the little tells people think no one notices — I hoarded them all like gold coins. Even before I could pronounce my own name properly, I knew which servant loved me, which feared me, and which would slit my throat if given the order.
The Hoshigami estate was a palace of white marble and polished gold, but its beauty was a mask for the rot inside. My father ruled with a clenched fist. My mother, with a smile so warm it burned. Both understood the same truth: power was the only language worth speaking.
One summer evening, I caught a shadow that didn't belong. It stretched too long across the garden wall, moving where no one walked. I followed it, barefoot over the grass, until I found the man it belonged to — an assassin in my father's employ. He could vanish at will, bend his body into nothing.
He called it "Nen."
That night, I asked him what it was.
The next night, I asked him to show me.
By the end of the month, I could summon a spark between my fingertips. A fragile, flickering light — mine and mine alone.
I wasn't strong yet. I wasn't even dangerous. But I understood something most children never would: the world is a chessboard, people are pieces, and kings are only kings until someone tips them over.
When that day comes — when another king rises, beast or man or god — I'll meet him head-on.
And we'll see which crown breaks first.