The first thing Liam felt was *weight*—the gentle pressure of blankets tucked around his tiny body, the faint coolness of morning air drifting across his cheeks, and the dull ache behind his eyes that seemed far too heavy for an eight-month-old child.
Then came the second thing.
Memory.
It didn't arrive softly. It crashed. A tidal wave of a life that was not this one—flashes of a small apartment, the sting of cold rain against human skin, the ache of loneliness, the metallic aftertaste of regret. His former name hovered on the edge of recall, blurry, like a fading whisper. His old world felt distant, dissolving even as it resurfaced.
He sucked in a breath.
His new lungs were too small for panic, yet his mind—now awakened and vast—felt it anyway.
Where am I?
The ceiling above him was carved from pale silverwood, its twisting grain shimmering faintly like captured moonlight. The air smelled of crushed flowers, warm herbs, and something ancient, like magic sunk deep into the bones of this place. Gentle bells chimed somewhere beyond the walls.
He blinked, slowly. His lashes were soft and light—almost white. A lock of his hair fell into his vision, a strand of shimmering silver that caught the morning glow.
Right. He remembered that part.
He'd been reborn.
Here. In this world.
As a prince.
The **first** prince of the **Elvish Empire**.
They whispered about it constantly—the maids, the guards, the attendants who thought infants understood nothing.
But *he* understood now.
He wasn't supposed to, but he did.
A tiny sigh escaped him as he shifted in the cradle. Soft elvish silk brushed against his skin. Everything here was beautiful. Everything crafted with a kind of elegance his old world had forgotten centuries ago.
A door clicked open.
"His Highness is awake," a gentle voice whispered.
Footsteps drifted in like warm breezes—light, graceful, unmistakably elvish. Liam pretended to blink in the slow, unfocused way babies did, though his mind sharpened with every second.
Two maids approached—Elira and Maelin. He knew their names not because they had introduced themselves, but because they repeated each other's names constantly.
"Elira, his hair is glowing again—look."
"It always glows in the morning. He has his father's blessing."
Their father.
The **current emperor**, ruler of their vast and ancient lands.
**Emperor Thalorien**.
A name spoken with reverence… and fear.
A name Liam had never matched to a face, because Thalorien had left for the war when Liam was barely a week old, vanishing beyond the great crystalline gates with an army of tens of thousands.
The war.
Yes.
That, too, he had heard.
"The humans pushed past the Silverfront again."
"The dragons wing over our western borders at night."
"The demons… gods, even the demons are united this time."
And all of them—all the world—against the elves.
Because of something the elves possessed.
A "liquid," they called it.
**Aetherion.**
Liam had only heard it in fragments: a shimmering, potent substance capable of shaping magic, life, and fate. Something stolen from the roots of the world tree itself. Something the other races believed gave the elves an unfair dominion over creation.
He didn't understand it yet. But he would.
"Elira, fetch fresh milkleaf. The prince looks troubled."
"He always looks troubled. He's too perceptive for an infant."
If only they knew.
Maelin gently lifted him, humming an elvish lullaby. Her arms were slender but firm, glowing faintly with the warmth of life magic. Liam leaned into her, not because he needed comfort, but because pretending made things easier.
"You miss Her Majesty, don't you?" she crooned softly.
Ah—his new mother.
Queen Seraphielle.
He had seen her only a handful of times in these eight months. She was a vision of grace—long silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight, eyes untouched by age, wings of shimmering mana unfurling gently behind her whenever she walked. She was kindness wrapped in duty, warmth buried under responsibility.
She loved him deeply.
He knew that.
But the empire needed her more than he did.
So she was always gone. Signing decrees. Negotiating supply routes. Commanding the magical barriers that shielded their lands from the combined assault of the humans, the dragons, and the demons.
He had heard her voice last night—tired, weary, layered with exhaustion she hid from everyone else.
*"Just a moment," she'd whispered, entering his room after midnight. "Just a moment to see my son."*
Liam pretended to sleep then too, unsure why. Maybe because he didn't know how to look at her with grown eyes sitting behind baby ones.
Maelin set him gently upon a cushion embroidered with star-flowers. His small fingers curled around the fringe, and instinctually, the magic-laced threads hummed faintly beneath his touch.
Elira approached with a bowl of something faintly blue. Milkleaf paste—nutritious and infused with mana.
"Open wide, Your Highness," she said sweetly.
He obeyed.
Because rebellion meant nothing when you couldn't yet crawl properly.
The morning passed quietly, and he drifted between genuine drowsiness and sharp clarity, mind racing even as his body remained small and helpless.
*Eight months old.*
It would be years before he could talk openly. Years before he could explain who he was—*what* he was. Years before he could shape magic like the elves did.
Yet he didn't feel afraid.
He felt… purpose.
As if his birth here mattered.
As if this world had called him.
As if his reincarnation was no accident.
---
Hours later, sunlight filtered through the crystalline latticework of the windows, weaving shifting rainbows across the floor. Outside, the palace gardens shimmered with dew, though Liam could not see them directly from his cradle.
He only knew because the guards spoke of it often while on duty.
There were always guards now.
A pair of elvish warriors stood near the door—tall, disciplined, armored in luminescent bark-steel. Their spears crackled faintly with magic.
War had changed them.
Every day he overheard them whispering things they should not have said near any infant—much less the empire's prince.
"The demons burned another outpost last night," one muttered.
"The dragons destroyed the southern watchtower."
"But why now? Why all at once? The humans, the dragons, the demons—they've hated each other for centuries."
"Yet hatred for us was enough to unite them."
A soft laugh.
"Or fear."
Fear of what?
Fear of the Aetherion?
Fear of the empire?
Fear of the elves' magic?
Liam didn't know, not yet.
But he would learn.
Maelin lifted him again, carrying him toward the balcony for his daily sun-mana exposure. She walked past the guards, who immediately straightened as she stepped through the archway.
Warm light spilled over Liam's face.
The view—one of the few he was allowed—opened before him.
The palace towered high above the treetops of the **Moonveil Forest**, a vast expanse glowing with bioluminescent flora and shimmering streams infused with pure mana. Wisps floated lazily between branches, singing faint, haunting melodies. The air itself thrummed with energy, thick with life and magic.
Elira joined them, placing a hand on the railing as she looked toward the distant horizon.
"There were fires last night," she murmured. "I saw them from the upper terrace. Orange against the darkness."
Maelin swallowed. "So close?"
"Too close."
The two exchanged nervous glances.
Liam watched.
Listened.
Absorbed.
"Do you think the emperor will return soon?" Maelin asked quietly.
Elira hesitated.
"No one knows. But… if he falls, then the queen stands alone."
"And the prince…" Maelin whispered, voice trembling, "…the prince becomes their target."
Liam blinked slowly, expression blank—not because he wasn't scared, but because a baby's face had limits.
They fear for me.
They fear *of* me?
He didn't know.
But the world seemed to.
A single infant born during the rise of war. A prince with silver hair said to glow with divine resonance. A child of prophecy, some whispered.
He didn't feel divine.
He felt hungry.
And too aware.
---
The day wore on.
He slept for a while—genuine infant fatigue overwhelming even his adult awareness—but when he woke again, the room had changed.
Soft lanterns flickered against the walls. Evening shadows stretched long.
And his mother stood beside him.
Queen Seraphielle.
She looked more exhausted than any time he'd seen her. Even the glow of her hair seemed dimmer, her posture slightly slumped.
But when her eyes landed on him, everything softened.
"Oh, my little star," she whispered, brushing a gentle hand across his cheek. "You're awake."
Liam's chest tightened—not with infant instinct, but with something deeper. Something from his past life, where warmth was rare and fleeting. He hadn't been held like this in years—not since childhood.
Seraphielle lifted him effortlessly and cradled him against her. Her magic pulsed gently, soothing him, warming him.
"You must forgive me," she murmured, "that I am here so little."
She paced slowly around the room, humming a melody older than the empire itself.
"The council grows restless. Supplies grow thin. The barriers weaken each day. And still… still they demand more of me."
Her voice trembled.
Not with fear.
With responsibility crushing her shoulders.
Liam rested against her, tiny hands gripping the fabric of her gown. She kissed his forehead tenderly.
"Your father fights in lands where even light cannot reach," she whispered. "But he promised he would return to you."
Her breath shuddered.
"He must."
Liam watched the flicker of lanternlight reflect in her eyes. They were beautiful, like polished amethyst—but tonight, grief swam behind them.
"They say the humans march with iron titans," she continued. "They say the dragons have awakened their ancient brood. And the demons…"
She closed her eyes tightly.
"The demons bring horrors I do not dare speak of."
She held him closer.
"You must live, Liam. Even if I fall. Even if your father does. You must—"
A knock interrupted her.
Sharp. Urgent.
Seraphielle stiffened. Her wings unfurled slightly in reflex before she folded them back.
"Enter."
The door opened, revealing Captain Arion, commander of the palace guard. His armor was cracked—not visibly, but energetically, the runes dim and flickering.
That alone meant danger.
He knelt on one knee. "Your Majesty. Forgive the intrusion. A message has arrived from the front."
Seraphielle's voice steadied. "From the emperor?"
Arion hesitated.
Liam felt her heartbeat hitch.
"Tell me," she commanded softly.
"The emperor… has not been found."
Silence rang like a blade through the room.
Seraphielle's face did not break—not fully—but her grip on Liam tightened, just faintly.
Arion continued, voice heavy.
"His battalion was ambushed near the Abyssal Divide. The messenger says the ground itself opened. Magic unlike anything our people have seen. The soldiers were forced to retreat."
"So he may yet live," she said quickly—too quickly.
"Yes." Arion bowed his head. "But until we know more, the council urges preparations for the worst."
Liam felt her tremble. Just once.
"I understand," she whispered.
Arion rose, bowed, and left. The maids silently closed the door behind him.
Seraphielle didn't speak for several minutes. She merely held Liam, staring out the window at the darkening forest, where faint orange embers glowed in the far distance.
At last she whispered:
"You will not lose both your parents, my child. I swear it."
The vow wrapped around him like magic—warm, fierce, desperate.
Liam felt something twist inside him.
A pull.
A stirring.
Like a quiet voice deep in his soul awakening, whispering that he was meant for something here. That his life—his rebirth—had purpose bound to this war, to this empire, to this woman who held him as if he were her entire world.
And then—
The air shivered.
A tremor rippled through the palace—subtle, but unmistakable.
Seraphielle snapped her head up, wings flaring.
"What was—?"
A horn blared outside.
Deep.
Echoing.
A sound Liam had heard only once before, months ago.
Not a celebration.
A warning.
Maelin burst into the room. "Your Majesty! Enemy scouts spotted near the northern barrier!"
Seraphielle's eyes widened.
"The dragons?" she demanded.
"Worse," Maelin whispered. "Humans and demons—together."
The queen held Liam closer, her magic swirling with sudden, fierce intensity.
"Prepare the palace defenses," she commanded. "Activate the moonshield. Evacuate the outer towers."
Her wings glowed brighter and brighter, until the room was awash in silver radiance.
Maelin fled. Elira followed. The guards rushed to their stations. Chaos brewed beyond the walls.
Seraphielle turned to Liam, her expression shifting—soft, sorrowful, terrified.
"I must go," she whispered. "Forgive me. I must protect our people."
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, infused with magic.
Then—slowly, reluctantly—she laid him back in the cradle.
Her hand lingered on his cheek.
"Sleep, my little star. Be safe."
She turned.
She walked toward the door.
And for the first time in his new life—
Liam tried to reach for her.
Not physically. His hands were too small.
But something inside him—something deeper—pulled.
A spark.
A tremor.
A flicker of blue light.
Not elvish blue.
Not mana blue.
Something older.
Something foreign.
The air around his cradle shimmered.
He did not understand it.
He did not control it.
But the cradle hummed with power—not elvish magic, but his.
Seraphielle froze.
She looked back.
And her eyes widened with shock.
"Liam…?"
The light faded as quickly as it had come.
Liam's small hand dropped.
His eyes fluttered shut—exhaustion overtaking him instantly.
Seraphielle rushed back to him, kneeling beside the cradle, studying him with trembling breath.
"What… was that?"
She reached out, feeling the lingering energy.
Then she whispered something he almost didn't hear:
"This is… not elvish magic."
Her voice shook.
"This is something far more ancient."
Her eyes lifted to his face—fear and wonder mingling.
"My son… what are you?"
Liam didn't know.
But somewhere deep inside him—past his memories, past his reincarnation, past even his humanity—
A faint whisper echoed.
*Chosen.*
---
While he slept, the first battle at the palace's borders began.
Flames lit the distant horizon.
The world's hatred drew nearer.
And the boy who was once human slept inside a cradle of starlight—
unaware that the destiny of the **Elvish Empire** now pulsed quietly in his tiny heart.