Dudian woke to sunlight streaming through windows he didn't remember having.
For one disorienting moment, he was back in his Earth apartment—morning light, comfortable bed, the distant sound of city noise. Then the details registered. The ceiling was too high. The bed was too soft. The city noise was actually birds singing in a garden that cost more than most kingdoms.
Right. Vane estate. I live here now.
He lay still for a moment, taking inventory. No immediate threats. No hunger pangs. No cold seeping through thin blankets. Just warmth, comfort, and the faint smell of something delicious drifting through the door.
Something delicious.
Dudian was out of bed before he consciously decided to move.
The sitting room was empty, but a tray had appeared on the desk—fresh bread, fruit, a pitcher of something that steamed gently. Dudian approached it warily, half-expecting a servant to materialize and announce it was poisoned or something.
Nothing happened.
He ate. The bread was good—not as good as the bread he'd dreamed of making, but good. The fruit was so fresh it practically glowed. The steaming drink turned out to be hot chocolate, which Dudian had not expected and which made him sit down hard in the nearest chair.
Hot chocolate. Real hot chocolate. In a magical world that definitely didn't have cocoa beans.
Someone in this world invented hot chocolate without cocoa beans. I need to meet them.
A knock at the door.
"Enter," Dudian called, trying to sound like someone who definitely hadn't just been emotionally compromised by a beverage.
The door opened. Grimsby stood there, impeccable as always, holding what appeared to be a small fortress made of fabric.
"Young Master Dudian. I have your wardrobe."
Dudian stared at the... fortress. "That's my wardrobe?"
"These are your clothes." Grimsby entered, followed by two servants who immediately began unfolding and displaying items. Shirts. Pants. Coats. Small boots that looked impossibly soft. Something that might have been a miniature formal suit.
"I don't need all this," Dudian said.
"You are the young master of the Vane household." Grimsby's tone suggested this was the end of the discussion. "You will need all of this. These are for everyday wear. Formal attire will be delivered next week. Riding clothes are being tailored. Sleepwear is already in your bedroom drawers."
Dudian opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
Pick your battles, he told himself. This is not a battle worth picking.
"Thank you, Grimsby."
The butler's eyes flickered with something—approval, maybe. "You are welcome, young master. Now, if you would dress? Lady Vane requests your presence for breakfast in the small dining room. I will escort you when you are ready."
He bowed and left, taking the servants and the fortress of clothes with him.
Dudian looked at the pile they'd left on his bed. Simple things—pants, a shirt, soft shoes. He dressed slowly, marveling at the fabric. It felt like nothing he'd ever worn. Like wearing clouds, if clouds were sturdy enough to survive a child's chaos.
He caught his reflection in a mirror.
A five-year-old boy stared back. Dark messy hair, big eyes, small frame. Dressed in clothes that probably cost more than his entire Earth wardrobe combined.
You look like a noble's son, he thought. When did that happen?
He didn't have an answer.
The small dining room was, as promised, smaller than last night's venue. Only ten feet long. Cozy, by Vane standards.
Lady Vane was already there, reading documents and sipping something that steamed. She looked up when Dudian entered and smiled—the genuine smile, not the political one.
"Little merchant! You slept well?"
"Too well." Dudian took the seat across from her. "I think I forgot how to sleep in actual beds. My body's confused."
She laughed. "You'll adjust. Children are adaptable." She gestured, and servants appeared with food. "Today, we begin. But first—tell me what you want."
Dudian paused, mid-reach for a pastry. "What I want?"
"Long-term. Short-term. Goals. Dreams. Vague aspirations." She sipped her drink. "You're my son now. That means I invest in you. But I need to know what I'm investing toward."
Dudian considered the question more seriously than she probably expected.
"Short-term," he said slowly, "I want to understand this world. How magic works. How money works. How people work. The slums taught me survival, but survival isn't living. I want to actually understand the place I'm in."
Lady Vane nodded. "Sensible. Long-term?"
Dudian thought about Earth. About the work, the loneliness, the regret.
"I want to enjoy myself," he said honestly. "My last life—" He stopped. Careful. "I mean, before the slums. I don't remember much, but I remember working too hard. Never having fun. I don't want that again. I want to cause trouble and laugh and eat good food and make things that didn't exist before."
Lady Vane studied him for a long moment.
"You're five," she said quietly. "You shouldn't talk like someone who's lived a life already."
Dudian met her eyes. "The streets age you fast."
"Do they?" She didn't look convinced. But she also didn't push. "Very well. Short-term: understanding. Long-term: enjoyment and innovation. I can work with that."
She set down her cup.
"Today, you meet Professor Thorne. He'll handle your formal education—reading, writing, history, basic mathematics. Grimsby will teach you household management and etiquette. Marta has already claimed your afternoons for 'baking research.' And I will handle magic, politics, and everything else they're not qualified to teach."
Dudian blinked. "That's... a lot."
"You have a lot to learn." She smiled. "Don't worry. You'll also have time to be a child. The twins are already planning your 'initiation.' I'm told it involves a fort and possibly stolen cookies."
Dudian wasn't sure if that was a threat or a promise either.
Professor Thorne arrived at nine o'clock sharp.
He was exactly what Dudian expected from a tutor—old, stuffy, dressed in robes that had gone out of fashion decades ago, carrying a stack of books taller than Dudian himself. His expression suggested he'd rather be anywhere else.
"You are the... child," he said, looking at Dudian like he was a mildly unpleasant surprise.
"I am the child," Dudian agreed. "You are the professor?"
"I am Professor Aldus Thorne, formerly of the Royal Academy, currently reduced to—" He stopped himself. "Currently honored to instruct Lady Vane's new ward."
Reduced to, Dudian noted. He didn't want to be here.
"Nice to meet you, Professor Thorne. I'm Dudian."
"Yes. Well." Thorne set down the books with a thump. "We have much to cover. Lady Vane insists you be prepared for academy entrance in five years. Normally, such preparation would take ten. We shall have to work efficiently."
He opened the first book.
"Let us begin with basics. Can you read?"
Dudian considered how to play this. Too smart too fast would raise questions. Too dumb would waste time.
"Some," he said. "I taught myself a little in the slums. Signs, mostly. A few words."
Thorne's expression suggested this was exactly the level of inadequacy he'd expected. "Very well. We start at the beginning."
The next two hours were an exercise in deliberate mediocrity.
Dudian pretended to struggle with letters he'd known since age four. He sounded out words slowly, making occasional mistakes, letting Thorne correct him with increasing satisfaction. He asked questions that were just naive enough to be believable.
This is exhausting, he thought. Pretending to be dumb is harder than pretending to be smart.
By the third hour, Thorne had relaxed noticeably. The child was teachable. Not brilliant, but teachable. Lady Vane's expectations would not be met, but that was hardly his problem.
"You've done adequately," he said, closing the book. "We'll continue tomorrow. Same time. Do try to practice your letters this evening."
Dudian nodded seriously. "I will, Professor. Thank you."
Thorne left, looking almost pleased.
Dudian waited until the door closed, then let out a breath.
One down. However many years to go.
Lunch was a solitary affair in his rooms—more excellent food, more hot chocolate (he'd asked for it specifically), and a growing pile of books that had appeared while he was with Thorne. Household ledgers, by the look of them. Grimsby's idea of "etiquette training."
He was halfway through a fascinating breakdown of the estate's annual food budget when the door burst open.
"COUSIN DUDIAN!"
Dudian barely had time to look up before two small bodies tackled him.
The twins had arrived.
"We've been waiting FOREVER," Lena announced, her face inches from his. "Marta said we couldn't bother you during lessons, but lessons are OVER, so we're HERE."
"We brought the fort plans," Leo added, waving a piece of paper covered in crayon scribbles. "You have to help us build it. You're our cousin. It's the law."
Dudian extracted himself from their grip with difficulty. "What law?"
"Cousin law." Lena said this like it was obvious. "We made it up. It's very serious."
Dudian looked at the fort plans. They were... ambitious. Multiple rooms. A snack storage area. Defensive walls. Something that might have been a moat, drawn in blue crayon that had smeared everywhere.
"You want to build this?"
"YES!" both twins shouted.
Dudian considered. On one hand, he had books to read and strategies to plan and a thousand things to learn. On the other hand...
I wanted to enjoy myself. I wanted to cause trouble. This is literally a child asking me to build a fort.
He grinned.
"Alright. But we're doing it my way."
Three hours later, the grand sitting room—chosen because it had the most furniture and the twins insisted it was "the best location"—looked like a disaster zone.
Blankets draped every surface. Chairs had been rearranged into walls. Pillows formed a perimeter. The coffee table, overturned, served as the main gate. And in the center of it all, three children sat surrounded by the spoils of their construction: a plate of cookies (liberated from Marta's kitchen), a pitcher of juice (also liberated), and a sense of accomplishment that no adult could possibly understand.
"It's beautiful," Lena whispered.
"It's the best fort ever," Leo agreed.
Dudian had to admit, it was pretty good. His Earth engineering background had helped with structural integrity. The twins' enthusiasm had provided unlimited labor. The result was a blanket fortress that could comfortably hold three small children and their snacks.
"We should live here forever," Lena declared.
"Someone would find us," Leo said.
"We could fight them off!" Lena grabbed a pillow. "Defenders of the fort, ATTACK!"
The pillow hit Kael square in the face.
He stared at Lena for one second. Then he grabbed his own pillow.
"You have declared war," he said solemnly. "I accept."
What followed was the most intense pillow battle the Vane estate had seen in decades. Pillows flew. Children shrieked with laughter. The fort collapsed, was rebuilt, collapsed again. By the time a servant came to investigate the noise, all three were red-faced, breathless, and covered in feathers from a pillow that had tragically exploded.
The servant stared.
Dudian, Lena, and Leo stared back.
"Dinner," the servant said faintly, "is in one hour."
She fled.
The twins looked at Dudian with newfound respect.
"You made a servant run away," Leo said. "That's the best thing ever."
"She didn't run," Dudian said. "She just... left quickly."
"Same thing!" Lena grabbed his hand. "Come on, we have to wash up or Marta will be mad. But tomorrow—MORE FORT."
Dudian let himself be dragged toward the door.
This, he thought, is what I missed. This is what I never had time for on Earth.
He was still smiling when they reached the washing-up station.
Dinner that night was with Lady Vane again, just the two of them.
She listened to his report of the day—lessons with Thorne, the fort, the pillow fight, the twins—with an expression of deep amusement.
"You've been here one full day," she said, "and you've already conquered the kitchen staff, befriended the most chaotic children in the household, and driven a servant to flee."
"She didn't flee. She just—"
"Left quickly. Yes, you said." Lady Vane sipped her wine. "I'm impressed. It took me a week to achieve that level of household disruption when I was your age."
Dudian grinned. "I had good teachers. The streets teach fast."
"They do." She set down her glass. "But the streets also teach survival. Here, you need to learn something else. Something harder."
"What's that?"
"How to trust. How to let people in. How to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop." Her eyes were gentle but serious. "You spent today waiting for this to end, didn't you? Expecting someone to tell you it was all a mistake and send you back to the alley."
Dudian said nothing.
"I saw it in how you ate—carefully, like you were saving food for later. How you answered Thorne—guarded, measuring every response. How you built that fort—like you were preparing for a siege, not playing." She leaned forward. "You're safe here, Dudian. Truly safe. It will take time to believe that. But I need you to try."
Dudian looked down at his plate.
"I don't know how," he admitted quietly. "My last life—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The streets teach survival. They don't teach... this."
Lady Vane reached across the table and took his hand.
"Then I'll teach you," she said. "That's what mothers do."
Dudian felt something hot behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let it show.
"Okay," he whispered.
"Okay." She squeezed his hand, then released it. "Now eat your dinner. Marta made your favorite—those cookie things you told her about."
Dudian looked at his plate. Small, round, golden-brown. Chocolate chip cookies, adapted to local ingredients.
He took a bite.
They were perfect.
Later that night, back in his room, Dudian found a small box on his pillow.
Inside: a single flower, preserved in crystal. A flower from the forest edge, the kind he used to sell. And a note in elegant handwriting:
"So you never forget where you started. So you always remember how far you've come. — S."
Dudian held the flower for a long time.
Then he placed it on his bedside table, where he could see it every morning.
In the corner, a shadow shifted slightly.
"Go to sleep, brat," Mira's voice whispered.
Dudian smiled.
"Goodnight, Mira."
Silence. Then, so quiet he almost missed it:
"...Goodnight, Dudian."