The neon glow of the city sign, a garish testament to a world he never truly belonged to, flickered behind the young man. He stood on the bridge's railing, a human question mark silhouetted against the dark sky. "Don't do it," Rayan's voice was a ragged whisper, a plea he'd spoken to himself a thousand times in a life spent on the fringes. He was an orphan, raised by the cold indifference of the state, a boy who learned early on that love was a luxury he couldn't afford. There was no one to cry for him, no one to mourn his absence. His life was a silent, unremarkable existence. He saw his own ghost in the young man's eyes, the same desolation, the same longing for the void.
He lunged forward, the worn soles of his shoes skidding on the slick concrete. He grabbed the young man's arm, pulling him back with a desperate, frantic strength. The young man, startled, stumbled backwards, falling safely onto the bridge's deck. But Rayan's momentum carried him forward, and his foot, a traitor to his own desperate bid for connection, caught on the railing. A fleeting second of airborne terror, a silent scream that never left his lips, and then the plunge.
The cold embrace of the water was a shock, a brutal slap to his consciousness. He thrashed, his limbs a useless tangle in the current. He had never learned to swim. He had never had anyone to teach him. He was drowning, a solitary struggle against an indifferent river, just as he had battled a solitary life against an indifferent world. The cold seeped into his bones, and his vision began to blur. He saw the city lights, the stars, the faint glimmer of the moon, all swirling into a cosmic kaleidoscope. A bitter, final thought consumed him: even in death, he was alone, unloved, and unnoticed. He was a ripple in the water, a whisper on the wind, and nothing more.
Just as the darkness threatened to swallow him whole, a gasp, a new breath, not of water but of air, filled his lungs. The weight of his own body, once a heavy anchor dragging him down, was gone. A soft fabric, cool and luxurious, swaddled him. The smell of clean linen and exotic incense replaced the foul stench of the river. He felt a gentle, rocking motion, and then, a light so brilliant and piercing it forced his eyelids open.
He was not looking at the dark, roiling sky he had expected. He was looking at a canopy of carved jade and glittering gold. The blurred face of a woman, a vision of silk and jewels, smiled down at him with a look of frantic relief. The piercing wail that tore from his lungs was not his own. It was a baby's cry, and it was met with a chorus of joyous whispers. He felt a small hand, not his own, but belonging to a stranger, stroke his cheek. He was a baby, a royal baby, and the world he had left behind was gone. He was no longer Rayan, the lonely orphan. He was now the king's youngest son, and his new life had just begun.