I remember the first time I truly understood that being different made people watch me.
I was barely three, toddling across the polished floors of the Valehart estate, small fingers gripping the edge of a table to steady myself. My body was tiny, fragile, but my mind… my mind was already older than anyone in the household could imagine. Every word spoken, every glance shared, every subtle gesture—I absorbed it all. Data, patterns, intentions. I was a newborn soul with the memory of John Warner, and that gave me a clarity far beyond my body's limitations.
"Draven, do not wander so far," my nursemaid, Elara, warned, her voice gentle yet firm. She was always close, but even she could not fully control what I noticed. The servants whispered in hushed tones as I passed, and I recognized the flicker of curiosity, the subtle unease in their eyes. They didn't know what to make of me. I didn't blame them. I was… unusual.
I stopped mid-step as sunlight caught my eyes, the familiar golden hue stirring the faint glow in my chest. Starborn Light. I felt it pulse, reacting to me as if it had a mind of its own. A thrill ran through me—a tiny spark, almost imperceptible to the world, but dazzlingly powerful to me. I extended my small hands toward the rays of sunlight streaming through the windows. The glow responded, stretching outward like liquid fire, tracing shapes in the air.
A maid gasped behind me. "The child…"
I smiled faintly, knowing she had no idea what she had just witnessed. And that was fine. The power was mine, waiting to grow, waiting for the right moment to truly reveal itself.
---
By the time I could speak clearly, I was already aware that words could be tools—or weapons. Every conversation, no matter how simple, carried a layer of meaning. I could read tone, hesitation, intention. Adults spoke around me as though I were an ordinary child, but I heard their worries, their fears, their ambitions. Every lesson from tutors became a puzzle I could anticipate before they even explained it. Arithmetic, history, etiquette—all trivial compared to understanding the currents of human desire, ambition, and weakness.
One afternoon, my father, Lord Alaric Valehart, visited my nursery. He was tall, imposing, a man whose every movement spoke of authority and expectation. I watched him carefully from my crib, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, the impatience in his gaze, the pride masked by formality.
"Draven," he said, voice deep and measured, "you must learn proper behavior. Do you understand?"
I tilted my head, tiny eyes wide, and nodded. But inside, I was thinking: Proper behavior is irrelevant if I am aware. Observation is power. Control comes later.
He frowned slightly, as if he could sense my awareness, though he did not understand it. I smiled faintly, satisfied. The game had begun.
---
The first public display of Starborn Light came sooner than anyone expected. I was barely four, attending a small gathering in the Valehart estate. Noble families were present, exchanging polite smiles and subtle tests of status. My parents had placed me on a small chair, expecting me to remain quiet.
I could feel the hum of magic in the room—latent, hidden, yet perceptible to me. I focused on the faint glow within my chest, testing control. A soft pulse. A ripple of energy. And then, slowly, light began to shimmer from my small hands. Faint at first, dancing like fireflies, but visible. A ripple of awareness spread through the room.
Gasps. Whispers. A noble woman clutched her husband's sleeve. "The child… there's… magic…"
I smiled faintly, hiding the thrill behind my small features. They did not know the magnitude of what they had seen. Not yet. But they would remember. And that was enough for now. Starborn Light was not a toy. It was a tool. A weapon. A signal to the world that I existed, and that I was not ordinary.
---
That night, alone in my crib, I considered the events of the day. The excitement, the fear, the awe—it was all confirmation. I was on the right path. Every whisper, every glance, every spark of fear or admiration was information I could store and analyze. I had lived once as John Warner. I had failed, stumbled, and died unnoticed. But now… now, I was seen. And I would not fail again.
I also understood the danger. Power like mine rarely went unnoticed without consequence. Already, whispers of prophecy were reaching the ears of those in the household—subtle comments from servants, half-heard conversations among tutors, cautious remarks from family friends. The Starborn child, the one who would change Elyndor… I had heard the words before, but I had not truly understood them. Now, I did. And I knew instinctively: some would see me as a blessing, others as a threat.
I flexed my tiny hands, feeling the faint sparks of light that responded instantly to my thoughts. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. And it was mine.
---
Even as a small child, I began to experiment. I tested limits quietly, pushing the Starborn Light in subtle ways—shifting objects slightly, causing faint glimmers to appear in shadows, manipulating the glow to communicate without words. Each experiment was careful, calculated. I could sense envy, fear, and curiosity in equal measure. I could sense who would be an ally and who would become a rival long before they acted.
I realized something vital: intelligence and awareness, coupled with power, were dangerous in this world. People would act against me if they feared me. And they would, eventually. But for now, the sparks were small. The whispers were faint. And I had time to prepare.
I closed my eyes that night, drifting to sleep with the faint glow pulsing beneath my skin. I remembered John Warner, the life that had ended in regret and quiet desperation. And I promised, silently, to honor the gift I had been given. I would grow. I would learn. I would master Starborn Light. I would navigate the dangerous currents of this world. And I would survive.
Because this time, I had a choice. This time, I would not fail.