Cold. At first, there was only that. A strange, deep cold that seemed to reach into the marrow of his soul. Then came the crushing weight, a tightness that pressed in on all sides, followed by a violent gasp of air. Kaelian inhaled sharply, like a drowning man dragged back to the surface. He coughed, wheezed, his throat convulsing in pain. The sharp scent of incense, mingled with damp stone and linen, flooded his nostrils.
He was no longer dead.
But he wasn't alive either… at least not in the same world.
His mind, still burdened with fading images of his former life — an overturned desk, blood-smeared documents, a blade in the back — struggled to synchronize with this new body. Everything felt smaller, lighter. Frail arms, thin legs… and a heart fluttering with the unease of a child.
Kaelian opened his eyes.
The ceiling above was painted with faded murals of celestial scenes, worn by time. He tried to sit up, but a dull ache radiated through his ribs. He groaned. A blurred figure approached, and a female voice whispered:
"He's awake… By the Five Gods, he's awake!"
Another voice, low and curt:
"Inform the Queen at once. The King's Bastard has survived the Red Fever."
The King's Bastard?
Kaelian froze inwardly. This was no dream. Something — some unknown force — had pulled him from death and cast him into this strange new life. Memories not his, yet now intrinsically part of him, surged forth.
His name here was Kael. Illegitimate son of King Thalric, born of a servant woman who had died shortly after his birth. Regarded by the court as a disgrace, he was an unwelcome footnote on the royal family tree. A ghost in the palace. He lived secluded in a forgotten wing, hidden from the eyes of nobility.
And this sickly ten-year-old body, frail and ravaged by fever, now belonged to him.
Kaelian said nothing in the days that followed. He feigned weakness, watching. Listening. Absorbing.
The servants spoke little around him, yet he could feel their discomfort. They avoided his gaze. Whispers trailed down the corridors — he should have died, they said. His survival was unnatural. An omen. A priest, sent to deliver the final rites, had turned pale upon seeing him conscious and fled without finishing the rituals.
He understood quickly: magic existed in this world, but it was strictly confined to legitimate nobility. The boy he now inhabited had no recognized birthright. His survival was deemed a miracle by some — or sorcery by others.
One evening, while pretending to sleep, he heard a familiar voice.
"He should have perished. That wretch could ruin everything."
Queen Virella.
She spoke in low tones, her voice calm but sharp as ice.
"If he lives, we must reconsider our options. Leaving this to fate again would be a mistake. Do what must be done."
Kaelian did not flinch, but a chill ran down his spine. He had barely escaped death, and already the Queen plotted his next one. Virella — beautiful, ruthless, ambitious. Not his mother, but the mother of Prince Théor, the heir apparent. She knew how to identify threats, no matter how small.
Kaelian could afford no missteps.
He was no longer a strategist surrounded by loyal operatives. He was a sickly child in a gilded prison.
But he still had his mind. His memory. His ability to anticipate.
And most importantly, he remembered the cardinal rule from his past life: Power isn't seized. It's built. Quietly. Patiently. Relentlessly.
The days that followed were dedicated to recovery.
He demanded more food, pushed his trembling legs to walk, ignoring the pain. His perseverance was seen as a miracle. Some whispered it was divine blessing. Others, a cunning mask.
He began to ask harmless questions: about the kingdom, the nobles, the laws of magic. Small inquiries, easy to dismiss — but they revealed how the palace functioned.
He learned that blood magic — rare and volatile — was taught only to royal children deemed worthy. Théor had begun his training at eleven. Kael, of course, had never been considered.
Yet something pulsed within him. A warmth, faint but insistent, resting in his palm. A beat, a flicker… a door half-opened.
During a fevered night, his old knowledge mingling with new instincts, he focused on that warmth. Almost without thinking, he drew a circle on the stone floor — a pattern he recalled from an ancient grimoire.
To his astonishment, the mark glowed crimson for a moment… then vanished.
He had access to magic. Weakly. Unpredictably. But it was real.
And he would guard that secret more fiercely than his own life.
Weeks later, a royal summons arrived.
An audience with the King.
Thalric, ruler of Elandor, was an aging monarch whose former glory still shimmered in the eyes of his subjects. Kaelian knelt before him, head bowed, the picture of humble illegitimacy.
"You survived," Thalric said, emotionless. "Strange. Your mother's blood was weak."
Kaelian remained silent.
The king studied him a moment longer, then spoke again.
"You will never inherit. Do not expect a title. But as long as my blood runs in your veins, you are entitled to instruction… and discipline."
He snapped his fingers. A man entered the chamber.
"This is Tutor Lindel. He will teach you letters, law, and history. Do not disappoint him."
Kaelian bowed his head.
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Nothing more. No blessing. No fatherly affection. Just a decree.
But that was enough.
In fact, it was perfect.
Education was a key. A weapon. A cover to learn, to manipulate, to build a network.
Lindel was an aging scholar — tired, mild, without ambition, but with a sincere love for knowledge. Kaelian pretended to struggle at first, then slowly revealed glimmers of intelligence. Just enough to intrigue. Not enough to alarm.
"You have a remarkable memory," Lindel said one day. "And your analysis of ancient battles… it's rare in someone your age."
Kaelian shrugged modestly.
"I remember what interests me."
"Strategy interests you, then."
"It saves lives," he replied. "And ends them too… when necessary."
Lindel's gaze hardened slightly. He was beginning to understand that this boy was not ordinary.
Meanwhile, Queen Virella continued to ignore him publicly, but her spies didn't. He caught a maid once, rummaging through his belongings. He said nothing. Instead, he changed where he hid things.
There was also the stable boy — always lingering nearby, too often.
So Kaelian did something simple.
He planted a lie.
A carelessly left letter spoke of a forgotten betrayal, a hidden sibling, a family secret. It vanished within a day.
Three days later, a noble was summoned by the Queen. An argument ensued. Tensions rose.
Kaelian smiled.
The spies were real. And now, he could use them too.
The chapter closed on a cold realization.
Kaelian had not been brought back to life to be a pawn.
He understood that the moment he opened his eyes in this fragile body.
This world was a game. Of power. Of blood. Of silence and strategy.
And he had no intention of losing.
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