Awareness returned not with a jolt, but as a slow, suffocating tide. The first sensation was a profound softness, a comfort so alien it felt like a trick. The hard ground, the cold rain, the searing pain in his chest—all were gone. Replaced by… warmth. The smell of clean linen and faint, floral incense.
Saturu's eyes flew open. Panic, cold and immediate, seized him. The ceiling above him was impossibly high, carved from some pale, polished wood. Light streamed through a large window, illuminating a room that was vast, airy, and utterly unfamiliar. He tried to sit up, to reach for a sword that was not there, but his body refused to obey correctly. His limbs were small, weak, flopping against the mattress with a child's helplessness.
He stared at his hands. Small, smooth, unmarked by callouses or scars. A child's hands.
*This is a dream. A fever vision before death.*
But the details were too sharp. The grain of the wood on the ceiling, the sound of birdsong outside, the overwhelming sense of *realness*. He pushed himself up, his head swimming. The room was furnished with an elegance he associated with royalty. Silken tapestries depicting blooming plum trees adorned the walls. On a stand across the room rested a single, practice sword, its wood pale and unused.
A memory, sharp as a shard of glass, lanced through his mind. *Kage's face. The betrayal. The waterfall.*
He clutched at the soft sleeping robe he wore, his tiny fingers searching for the wound that had killed him. Nothing. Only smooth skin. The horror deepened, a cold certainty settling in his gut. This was no dream. This was something else entirely.
The door to the room slid open with a whisper. A woman stood there, her features kind, her hair elegantly styled. She wore the same plum blossom crest he saw on the tapestries. Her eyes widened with relief when she saw him sitting up.
"Saturu! My little blossom, you're awake!" she exclaimed, her voice a melody he did not know. She rushed to his bedside, her hand reaching out to feel his forehead. Her touch was gentle, maternal. It sent a jolt of revulsion through him. This was wrong. All of it was wrong.
He tried to speak, to demand answers, but all that escaped his throat was a hoarse, childish croak. The sound terrified him.
"Shhh, now," the woman cooed, mistaking his panic for disorientation. "You gave us such a fright, falling from the training yard like that. You've been asleep for a full day." She smoothed his hair back from his face. "You must be hungry. I'll have the servants bring some broth."
*Training yard? Servants? Broth?* The words meant nothing in the context of his death. He was a general. He died on a battlefield. Who were these people? Where was he?
As the woman fussed over him, his eyes darted around the room, finally landing on a polished metal shield acting as a decorative piece on the wall. Stumbling from the bed, his legs wobbling beneath him, he staggered toward it. The woman cried out in alarm, but he ignored her.
He stared into the reflective surface.
A stranger stared back.
The face was that of a young boy, no more than five or six years old. Pale skin, wide, confused eyes, and a shock of dark, unruly hair. It was a face of softness and innocence. A face he had never seen before in his life.
A cold, terrifying understanding began to dawn. The voice in the waterfall. The granted "Authority." He had not been saved. He had been… remade. Thrown forward. But to when? And why?
The woman knelt beside him, her arm around his small shoulders. "It's alright, Saturu. You're home. You're safe with your family."
*Family.* The word echoed in his mind, a hollow mockery. He looked from his reflection to the woman's concerned face, then to the practice sword. A deep, unsettling quiet settled over him, smothering the panic. This was not safety. This was a new kind of prison. His war was over, but a new one had just begun. And he was trapped in the body of a child.