Birth

Warmth washed over him first, a soft, comforting sensation that seemed to cradle his entire being.

It was unexpected, pulling him sharply from the cold, silent void he'd been lost in moments before—a place where nothing existed, not even the echo of his own thoughts.

Now, he was somewhere else, somewhere alive, and the sudden return of feeling sent a shiver through him.

He tried to shift, to stretch out his arms or tilt his head, but his body wouldn't listen.

His limbs felt heavy yet weak, trembling with every effort, and a strange, tight sensation wrapped around his chest.

Confusion clouded his mind as he struggled to make sense of it, until a startling realization broke through:

he was in the body of a baby.

The thought hit him like a lightning.

He'd been ready for death, for the end of everything he'd known—a life weighed down by regrets he couldn't shake.

Instead, here he was, alive again, thrust into a fragile new form with a mind that still carried every memory, every scar of his past.

Fear tangled with a wild, breathless excitement.

A second chance.

A fresh start.

But as he lay there, unable to move more than a feeble twitch, doubt crept in.

Why him?

What did this mean?

Before he could chase that question further, the world around him began to stir.

A chorus of sounds filtered into his ears—the sharp snap of logs burning in a fire, the faint rustle of cloth brushing against itself, and the low hum of voices nearby.

They spoke in a language he couldn't quite grasp, its rhythm smooth and lilting, tugging at the edges of his memory like a tune he'd once known but couldn't place.

He strained to hear more, to pull meaning from the words, but they slipped away, leaving only their soothing tone behind.

With effort, he cracked his eyes open, squinting against a light that felt too bright after the darkness of the void.

At first, everything was a haze—smudges of color and shadow swirling together.

Slowly, the shapes sharpened.

A face hovered above him, close enough that he could see the fine lines etched into her skin.

She was young, maybe no older than twelve, but her brown hair, pulled back into a messy knot, was streaked with threads of grey and white—marks of a life harder than her years should have allowed.

She wore a plain, faded dress with an apron tied over it, the kind a maid might wear, and her arms held him gently but firmly.

Her eyes, wide and brown, flickered with something between worry and amazement as she gazed down at him.

He let his vision drift past her, taking in the room.

It was small and simple, the kind of place that smelled of earth and woodsmoke.

The walls were rough planks of dark timber, weathered by time, and a single window sat high on one side, its glass misty with condensation.

A woven mat covered the dirt floor, its edges frayed, and in the center of the space, a stone hearth glowed with a modest fire, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Then his eyes caught on something else—a bed tucked into the corner, and the woman lying on it.

She was striking, even in her stillness.

Her hair spilled over the pillow in waves of gold, catching the firelight like it was spun from the sun itself.

Her face was pale, almost ghostly, with shadows pooling under her eyes, but those eyes—they burned with a fierce, unwavering light as they locked onto his.

She looked exhausted, her breath coming in shallow gasps, yet there was a strength in her that held him captive.

And then he saw them: wings, folded against her back, their golden feathers shimmering faintly, so delicate they might've been woven from light itself.

They weren't human.

They were something more, something otherworldly.

A jolt went through him, a feeling he couldn't name.

It was as if he knew her, as if her presence reached into some hidden corner of his soul and pulled at it.

Was she his mother now?

The idea sent a rush of warmth through him, chased quickly by a flicker of unease.

He had no memories of this life, no proof of who she was, yet the connection was there, undeniable and deep.

The moment shattered as a sudden, vicious pain stabbed through his lower back.

It was like a knife twisting inside him, sharp and hot, and he couldn't hold back the cry that tore from his throat.

The maid gasped, her grip tightening as she rocked him gently, whispering words he didn't understand.

The pain didn't care—it surged again, making his tiny body jerk and tremble in her arms.

He hated how weak he felt, how trapped, his mind screaming while his voice could only wail.

Then, cutting through the chaos, came a sound from the bed—a voice, soft and shaky, but steady enough to carry a melody.

"Sleep, soft star, sway away…"

It was a lullaby, rough around the edges, the words breaking apart as she sang, but it wrapped around him like a warm blanket.

The pain didn't vanish, but it dulled, pushed back by the comfort of her song.

He knew it, somehow.

Not the words, not the notes, but the feeling—like a thread tying him to a life he couldn't remember.

His cries quieted, his body easing as the melody worked its magic.

The maid smiled faintly, brushing a finger against his cheek, but he barely noticed.

His eyes stayed on the woman with the wings, her voice fading now as her strength waned.

The pain was gone, leaving only a heavy calm in its wake.

And in that calm, a thought took root:

this wasn't just a random twist of fate.

This life, this body, this moment—

it was his to claim.

He didn't know why he'd been brought back, or what lay ahead,

but a spark flared inside him, small but fierce.

He'd make it mean something.

Exhaustion tugged at him then, his eyelids growing heavy.

The last thing he saw was her face,

those golden wings glinting faintly in the firelight.

With a quiet breath,

he let go,

slipping into sleep

with dreams of a future he couldn't yet see—

but one he was determined to shape.