The days blurred together.
For a man who once measured time by the rise and fall of empires, the rhythm of infancy was maddening. Eat, sleep, cry. That was all his frail body allowed him to do. Yet, his mind—the mind of an emperor who once commanded armies of gods—remained sharp. And so, while the world believed him nothing more than a newborn, he observed.
He observed everything.
The first thing he noticed was the wealth.
Even in his weakened state, the scale of it was impossible to ignore. His crib alone was crafted from polished wood that gleamed like obsidian, its edges inlaid with delicate patterns of gold leaf. Silken sheets cushioned his fragile body, far softer than the pelts of celestial beasts he had once claimed as trophies. Above him, a mobile of silver stars spun slowly, glittering whenever the light caught them.
The chamber itself was vast—larger than most thronerooms he had seen in lesser kingdoms. Tall windows stretched nearly to the ceiling, their curtains woven from fabric so fine it shimmered like liquid under the sun. A chandelier hung high above, its crystal teardrops scattering light across the walls in dancing patterns.
And then there were the servants.
Men and women in crisp uniforms moved quietly through the halls. Their steps were practiced, their gazes lowered, their voices hushed whenever they neared his room. They attended not only to his needs but also to the endless details of the mansion itself. The air was scented faintly with lavender from freshly polished floors. Every corner was immaculate, as though even dust feared to linger in this place.
So this is wealth, he thought, watching it all through blurred but attentive eyes. Not the wealth of conquest, but of ambition. Of men who bend the world through gold rather than blood.
It was… strange. He had once sat upon a throne carved from stone, surrounded by banners soaked with the blood of enemies. His halls echoed with silence, for none dared to laugh or speak freely before him. That was power, yes, but it was power built on fear.
Here, the power was quieter. Softer. Yet no less absolute.
The second thing he noticed was her.
His mother.
She was always near, more constant than the sun. Her voice was the first he heard upon waking and the last before sleep. She would hum gently as she held him, songs with no divine resonance, no ancient weight—just simple lullabies passed down from one human to another. And yet, they reached him deeper than the hymns of gods ever had.
Her arms were warm. Her smile unguarded. She gazed at him not as a threat, nor as a pawn, but as something precious. He did not know how to respond. He, who had been untouched by genuine affection for centuries, now found himself bathed in it daily.
His father, by contrast, was often absent. Business, meetings, deals—words the infant emperor only half-understood, yet recognized as the pursuits of power in this new world. But when his father did appear, there was pride in his eyes. Pride, and something else… expectation.
The emperor, who had once been the standard by which all warriors were measured, now found himself weighed not by strength but by lineage. The irony did not escape him.
It was in these quiet days that something shifted.
One evening, the house was hushed. The servants had retreated to their quarters, and the only light in the nursery came from a single lamp by the crib. His mother held him close, her hair cascading like silk around her face. Her voice was low as she sang, each word wrapping him in a cocoon of calm.
When the song ended, she kissed his forehead.
"Goodnight, my little one," she whispered, her voice trembling with exhaustion but never losing its warmth. She laid him gently into the crib, tucking the blanket around him with care. For a moment, she lingered, brushing her fingers against his tiny hand before finally turning away.
He watched her go, his mind quiet but attentive.
Then it happened.
Her foot caught on the corner of the rug. She stumbled, catching herself against a small side table. A sharp gasp left her lips as her hand scraped against its edge. The sound of flesh meeting wood, the faint hiss of pain—both rang louder in his ears than the clash of swords ever had.
His body jolted. His eyes widened. A tremor of panic surged through him, foreign and overwhelming. He had fought gods without flinching. He had watched armies burn without a flicker of remorse. Yet now, seeing this woman clutch her hand, blood welling in a thin line across her skin, something inside him twisted violently.
Why… why does this unsettle me so?
She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her injury was minor—no more than a shallow cut. She glanced back at him and smiled softly, as if to assure him. "It's nothing, darling. Sleep well."
Then she blew out the lamp, casting the room into darkness.
But he could not sleep.
He lay in silence, his small chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His mind replayed the moment again and again—the stumble, the gasp, the sight of her blood. A hundred times he had seen worse, dismissed worse. Why, then, had this pierced him so deeply?
Why was I afraid? Why did my chest tighten?
He had never cared for anyone's pain before. Soldiers had died at his command. Rivals had been cut down without hesitation. Even gods had fallen before him, their cries leaving no mark upon his heart.
And yet, one slip of a human woman, one cut across her hand, had shaken him to the core.
What is this?
His tiny hand curled against the blanket. His breaths quickened, then slowed as exhaustion pulled at him again. But the question lingered, burning hotter than any flame he had wielded.
What is this warmth… and why does it frighten me?
The night stretched on, silent but heavy with a truth he could not yet name.
And for the first time in countless centuries, the loneliest emperor of all worlds felt something he did not understand.
End of Chapter 3