At five years old, Adrian Blackthorn was trying very hard to be ordinary.
He stood in the training yard, clutching a practice sword that felt strangely light in his small hands. Around him, the other squires—boys twice his age—watched with barely concealed amusement as the baron's youngest son prepared for his first sword lesson. Sir Willem, the master-at-arms, knelt beside him, adjusting his grip with patient hands.
"Remember, young lord, the sword is heavy. Don't try to swing too hard, or it will pull you off balance," Willem said kindly. "Most boys your age can barely lift one properly."
Adrian nodded solemnly, though something deep inside him whispered that the wooden blade felt more like a feather than a weapon. He pushed the thought away. He was five. Five-year-olds weren't supposed to understand weapons.
"Now, show me a simple overhead strike. Slow and controlled."
Adrian raised the sword carefully, making his movements deliberately clumsy. The position felt wrong—his instincts screamed to adjust his grip, straighten his wrist, shift his stance. But he was supposed to be learning, not already knowing. He brought the blade down in an awkward arc that missed the practice post entirely.
The watching squires snickered. "Looks like the little lord needs a few more years," one whispered.
"At least he didn't fall over," another added.
Willem frowned, studying Adrian's stance. Something seemed off, though he couldn't place what. "Try again, young lord. And don't be afraid of the sword—it's just wood."
Adrian attempted another strike, this time connecting with the post but with barely enough force to scratch the surface. The impact jarred through his small frame, and he stumbled backward, blinking in apparent surprise.
But inside, his mind recoiled. The blow had felt wrong, restrained, like trying to whisper when every instinct demanded a shout. His hands knew exactly how much force was needed to split that post, exactly where to strike for maximum effect. The knowledge burned in his muscles like suppressed fire.
"Better," Willem said encouragingly. "But you're holding back too much. Don't be afraid to put some strength into it."
If only he knew, Adrian thought, then immediately felt guilty for the thought. He was five. He was supposed to be weak, uncertain, learning. Not... whatever he actually was.
On his third attempt, Adrian allowed himself a fraction more force. The sword connected with a solid thunk, driving slightly deeper into the wood. Still far below his capabilities, but enough to make Willem nod approvingly.
"Much better! You have good instincts for balance, young lord."
Adrian ducked his head, hiding his expression. Instincts. If Willem only knew that every movement felt like remembering rather than learning, like echoes of training that couldn't possibly exist in his five-year-old body.
"Can I try again?" Adrian asked, making his voice carry the eager uncertainty of a child.
Willem smiled. "Of course. But remember—controlled strikes. Build your strength gradually."
As Adrian raised the sword for another attempt, his father's voice cut across the yard.
"How goes the first lesson?"
Lord Dorian Blackthorn approached with his characteristic measured stride. His scarred face was set in neutral lines, but his eyes—those sharp gray eyes that missed nothing—studied his youngest son intently.
"Well enough, my lord," Willem replied. "The boy shows promise. Good balance for his age, and he's not afraid of the weapon."
Adrian felt his father's gaze like a weight. Dorian had seen real combat, faced demons and monsters. Could he sense something unusual in his son's movements? Adrian deliberately loosened his grip, letting the sword waver slightly in his small hands.
"Show me," Dorian said simply.
Adrian's heart hammered against his ribs. Under his father's watchful eye, he went through the motions again—awkward, uncertain, appropriately childish. But even restrained, something in his stance must have caught Dorian's attention.
"Interesting," the baron murmured. "Willem, adjust his feet. He's distributing his weight incorrectly."
Willem knelt and repositioned Adrian's stance, moving his left foot forward, adjusting the angle. The new position felt more natural, which immediately made Adrian suspicious. Had his father noticed something?
"Now try the strike."
Adrian swung again, and despite his efforts to appear clumsy, the blow landed with more authority than before. The wooden sword bit deep into the practice post with a solid crack.
The watching squires fell silent.
Willem blinked in surprise. "That was... much better. Remarkable improvement."
But Dorian's eyes had narrowed. He stepped closer, studying Adrian's grip, his stance, the way he held himself even in apparent uncertainty.
"Again," Dorian commanded quietly.
Adrian's mouth went dry. His father suspected something—he could see it in those gray eyes that mirrored his own. But he had no choice except to comply.
This time, despite every effort to hold back, the strike landed with enough force to send vibrations through the post. Wood chips scattered. The impact was clean, precise—far too precise for a child's wild swing.
Silence stretched across the training yard.
"Beginner's luck?" Willem ventured, but his voice carried doubt.
Dorian said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on his son. Adrian forced himself to look confused, uncertain—the expression of a child who didn't understand why the adults seemed troubled.
"Perhaps we should end the lesson here," Dorian said finally. "Adrian, come with me."
As they walked toward the manor, Adrian's small legs working to keep up with his father's longer stride, Dorian spoke quietly.
"The sword felt natural in your hands."
It wasn't a question. Adrian chose his words carefully. "It was just wood, Father. Not very heavy."
"Most five-year-olds can barely lift a practice sword without stumbling."
"I'm strong for my age?" Adrian offered, injecting hopeful pride into his voice.
Dorian glanced down at him. "Perhaps. Or perhaps there's something else."
They reached the manor steps before Dorian spoke again. "Adrian. Do you remember anything from before you could speak? Dreams, perhaps? Images?"
The question sent ice through Adrian's veins. His father was probing, searching for something. But how much could he reveal without exposing everything?
"Sometimes I dream," Adrian said carefully. "But Mama says all children have strange dreams."
"What kind of dreams?"
Adrian bit his lip, a gesture that came naturally to his five-year-old body. "Dark ones. People fighting. But they're just dreams, right?"
Dorian knelt beside him, bringing them to eye level. For a moment, father and son simply studied each other—gray eyes meeting gray eyes, one pair holding decades of experience, the other holding secrets that shouldn't exist.
"Dreams are just dreams," Dorian said finally. "But if they trouble you, you can always speak to me."
Adrian nodded solemnly. "Yes, Father."
But as Dorian rose and they entered the manor together, Adrian couldn't shake the feeling that his father suspected far more than he was saying. The weight of hidden knowledge pressed against his small chest like a physical burden.
He was five years old. He was supposed to be innocent, weak, learning everything for the first time. Instead, he carried the memories of another life, another identity, fighting every day to suppress instincts and abilities that felt more natural than breathing.
And now his father was watching.
In the days that followed, Adrian would have to be even more careful. More ordinary. More like the child he was supposed to be.
But deep inside, where ancient memories stirred, he wondered how long he could maintain the pretense before something slipped through the cracks.