Warm sunlight poured through the curtains, painting soft lines across the wooden floor. Birds sang outside the window, their chirps blending with the rustle of morning wind.
Cael Renard sat on the edge of his bed, small hands clutching the blanket as if afraid it would disappear.
He was five years old now.
And every morning, before opening his eyes, he waited for the nightmare to return — the sound of steel and screams, the red sky swallowing everything.
But it never came. Not here. Not in this world.
Instead, he woke to the smell of bread baking downstairs and his mother's soft humming from the kitchen.
This world was quiet. Too quiet.
---
The Renard estate rested at the edge of Varel, a small village surrounded by silver lakes and open hills. It wasn't rich or grand, but it was home — warm, peaceful, alive.
His father, Elias Renard, managed trade for the nearby town. A calm man with kind eyes.
His mother, Mira, was gentle but strict when it came to table manners.
And Lyra — his younger sister — was chaos made human.
"Cael! Wake up!"
Her voice echoed through the hall before the door burst open. She was only three, her curly brown hair bouncing as she ran straight toward him.
He sighed. "I'm awake."
"You weren't five seconds ago."
She climbed onto his bed like a small conqueror, holding something in her hands. "Look! I made you breakfast."
He glanced down. It was a piece of bread — badly burnt, half-buttered, and covered in honey.
"You made this?" he asked.
She nodded proudly. "Mother said you looked sad yesterday. So I made you happy bread!"
Cael blinked at her, then smiled despite himself. "It's definitely… something."
Lyra frowned, crossing her arms. "You're supposed to say thank you."
"Right. Thank you." He took a bite. It was awful. But he ate it anyway.
Lyra watched him with a bright grin. "See? I told you it helps."
Cael reached out and patted her head. "It does."
Her smile widened even more — the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had never seen war, never felt fear.
Sometimes, he envied that.
---
Later that morning, Cael sat outside beneath the old elm tree that overlooked the training yard.
The family's guards were practicing under the eye of Sir Thane Loris, a retired knight who had once served the royal army. His hair was silver, his frame broad, and his eyes sharper than any blade he carried.
"Keep your feet planted!" Thane barked. "You swing like frightened chickens!"
The guards groaned in unison.
Cael watched silently, studying every movement — how the weight shifted before each strike, the rhythm of defense and counter, the way breath aligned with balance.
He didn't just see — he remembered.
Every motion, every tactic, every flaw.
After a while, Thane noticed him watching. The old knight raised an eyebrow and walked over.
"You've been sitting there every morning, boy," he said. "What do you find so interesting about a bunch of tired men swinging steel?"
Cael looked up at him. "They're doing it wrong."
Thane blinked. "Oh? And how's that?"
Cael stood, mimicking one of the guards. "Their stance is too wide. The weight shifts before the swing, so anyone trained could read it."
Then he adjusted his posture — knees bent slightly, shoulders loose, grip balanced — and moved with surprising precision.
Thane frowned. The boy was small, frail even, but his form was perfect. Not instinct — memory.
"Where did you learn that?"
Cael hesitated. "…I don't know."
Thane studied him for a moment, then chuckled. "Interesting. You've got an old soul, lad."
You have no idea, Cael thought.
---
That evening, the family gathered for dinner. The table was small, the light warm, laughter easy.
Elias spoke about trade routes and rumors of strange weather in the north. Mira smiled and scolded Lyra for trying to sneak food to the family cat.
And Cael listened quietly, hands folded, eyes drifting toward the window where the stars shimmered faintly.
"Something on your mind, Cael?" his mother asked.
He shook his head. "Just… thinking."
"About what?" Lyra pressed, her cheeks puffed with bread.
Cael looked down at his hands. "I had a dream again."
The table fell silent.
Elias's tone softened. "Was it the same one?"
He nodded. "There's fire. And voices I don't know. Sometimes… I hear someone calling my name."
Mira reached across and touched his hand gently. "Dreams can't hurt you, sweetheart."
He wanted to believe that. He really did. But part of him knew — dreams were just memories wearing a new face.
---
After dinner, Lyra insisted they go outside. The night was clear, the moon reflected on the lake behind their house.
She spread her arms, spinning in circles. "Isn't it pretty?"
Cael smiled faintly. "It is."
"Why don't you ever smile for real?" she asked suddenly, stopping mid-spin.
He looked at her, surprised.
"You always look sad," she said softly. "Like you're somewhere else."
Cael hesitated. How could he explain that he was somewhere else? That sometimes he still smelled smoke and blood when he closed his eyes?
"I just think too much," he said finally.
Lyra nodded seriously. "Then don't. Thinking too much makes you boring."
He laughed — genuinely this time. "I'll try."
She grinned, satisfied. "Good."
Then she started humming — the same tune she always used when he had nightmares. A soft, slow melody that somehow made the air feel lighter.
For the first time in this new life, Cael let himself relax.
The night was peaceful. The stars were gentle.
And for a brief, fragile moment, he almost believed this world really could be different.
But deep inside, something stirred — a faint whisper beneath his heartbeat, carried on the wind.
> "Peace never lasts, Commander."
Cael froze. His breath caught in his throat.
He looked around. The yard was empty except for Lyra chasing fireflies.
> "Soon," the voice whispered again. "We'll remember."
The glow of the moon flickered. The mark on his palm — faint, invisible for months — pulsed once beneath his skin.
And far above the hills, a single dark cloud rolled across the stars.
[End of Chapter 2 – A New Dawn]