Alaya - The Royal Palace of Andromeda, in the City of Heliopolis
Year 1204 of the Solar Dynasty
The first sensation was not sight, nor sound, but pressure. A rhythmic, compressive force, a squeezing that was both terrifying and, in a strange, primal way, comforting. It was the universe's first lesson: to exist is to be held.
Then came the cold.
It was a shock so absolute it stole the breath he didn't yet know how to draw. One moment, he was encased in warm, liquid darkness, the next he was thrust into a world of searing brightness and biting air. A loud, indignant wail tore from his tiny lungs—his first, and perhaps most honest, communication with this new realm. He was here. He was alive. And he was already furious about the temperature control.
Hands, gloved in something impossibly soft, lifted him. He was wiped clean, the rough texture of cloth a new and unpleasant sensation against his delicate skin. The world was a blur of light and shadow, indistinct shapes looming over him. But he could hear.
"A boy, Your Majesty. A healthy boy."
The words, muffled as if through water, sent a ripple through the room. He felt the shift in atmosphere, a collective intake of breath that was more powerful than the cold air.
A different voice, a woman's, trembling with a decade of deferred hope, whispered, "Let me see him. Please, let me see my son."
He was turned, his blurry gaze attempting to focus on the figure before him. A face, pale and beautiful, streaked with tears and damp with exertion, came into view. Her eyes, the colour of warm honey, were fixed on him with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. This was her. The one who had carried him. The mother.
"My son," she breathed, her voice cracking. "At last."
A shadow fell over them both. The mother's gaze lifted, and a new figure entered his limited field of vision. A man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face carved from granite and eyes the colour of a stormy sea. He wore a simple, dark robe, but it was his bearing, not his clothing, that screamed of authority. He looked down at the small, wrinkled bundle in the queen's arms, and for a long, breathless moment, his expression remained unreadable.
This was the father. The King.
The man's gaze was heavy, analytical. He wasn't looking at a son, Orion felt, but at an heir. At a solution. At the culmination of years of political anxiety and personal longing. The king's hand, large and calloused, reached out, and a single, surprisingly gentle finger traced the line of the baby's cheek. The touch was warm. Then, just as quickly, he withdrew his hand, his face settling back into its customary mask of reserve. He nodded once, a stiff, formal gesture, and stepped back, allowing the women—the midwives, the ladies-in-waiting—to fuss. He had seen. He had acknowledged. His duty, for that moment, was done.
But for the mother, it was just beginning. She held him close, her tears falling on the soft linen wrapped around him. "Orion," she murmured, the name a secret just between them. "My little Orion."
The name was a spark in the hazy fog of his newborn mind. Orion. It resonated. It felt… right. He was Orion. And his mother's name was Seraphina. He knew this, not from any memory being passed to him, but from the pure, unadulterated love that radiated from her. It was a language older than words.
And he remembered. Not a past life, not in a series of pictures or stories. It was more of a feeling, a deep, cellular knowledge that this was not his first turn on the great wheel. The crushing pressure of the birth canal hadn't just been physical; it had felt like the squeezing out of an old, tired soul to make room for a fresh one. He remembered the weariness of a long life lived, the quiet desperation of its end, and the profound, shocking relief of this new beginning. He had been given a chance. A restart. A do-over. And the sheer, unadulterated joy of that knowledge was so powerful it eclipsed the discomfort of the cold and the confusion of the bright lights.
He was a baby. He was helpless. But inside that fragile, uncoordinated body was a mind that had already lived and died, a mind now sharp with the wonder of a second chance. He wriggled in his mother's arms, a tiny fist escaping the swaddle, and Seraphina caught it, pressing a kiss to each minuscule knuckle. He felt the warmth of her lips, the overwhelming safety of her embrace. This was good. This was more than good.
Days bled into one another in a haze of feeding and sleeping. He learned to differentiate the voices. There was Seraphina's, a constant, soothing melody. There was the deeper, more infrequent rumble of the King, his father, whose visits were short and formal, like state inspections. He would stand by the crib, his presence a silent, heavy cloud, before nodding at Seraphina and departing. His name, Orion learned, was Kaelen.
And then there was another voice. Higher, brighter, full of a bubbling energy that was a stark contrast to the quiet solemnity of the royal chambers.
"He's so tiny!" the voice would exclaim. "Can he really be real? Look, Mama, his fingers are like little seeds!"
This was his sister. His older sister. Her name was Elara. She was six years old, a whirlwind of dark curls and insatiable curiosity. She would climb onto a cushioned stool beside his crib, her chin resting on her hands, and stare at him for what felt like hours.
"Orion," she would whisper, testing the name. "Orion Andromeda. It's a good name. It's a sky name. Papa says our family comes from the stars. That's why our name is Andromeda. It's a galaxy." She'd lean closer, her warm breath ghosting over his face. "You're my galaxy, little brother."
He would try to focus on her, to let her know he was listening, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate. They'd roll and wander, settling on the dancing motes of dust in a sunbeam or the shimmer of a mobile of polished crystals that hung above his crib. Elara, undeterred, would continue her monologue, telling him about her lessons, her favourite sweets from the kitchen, the mean little lord's son she'd pushed into a fountain. She was his first window into the world beyond his mother's arms, and he drank in every word.
One afternoon, about a month after his birth, he was awake and alert, lying in a sun-drenched patch on a large, velvet-draped bed in his mother's sitting room. Seraphina was nearby, reading, her presence a warm, secure anchor. The door opened, and Elara burst in, her cheeks flushed from running.
"Mama! The Magister is here! He's come to see Orion for the Naming Blessing!"
Seraphina smiled, setting her book aside. "Is he? Then we must make ourselves presentable." She rose and gently lifted Orion, cradling him against her shoulder. "Time to be brave, little one. It's just a bit of smoke and chanting."
A short while later, Orion found himself in the grand hall of the palace. It was a cavernous space of polished white stone and soaring columns, the ceiling lost in shadow. Banners of deep blue, embroidered with the silver constellation of Andromeda, hung between the columns. At the far end, on a dais, stood two thrones. His father, King Kaelen, sat in the larger one, his expression as unreadable as ever. The other throne, beside his, was empty.
Before the dais, an old man in flowing grey robes waited. This was the Magister, the Keeper of the Solar Flame. He was thin as a reed, with a long, white beard and eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom—and the weariness—of centuries.
Seraphina walked forward, Elara holding her free hand, and stopped before the Magister. The hall was filled with courtiers, their eyes all fixed on the small bundle in the queen's arms. Orion felt the weight of their gazes. It was heavy, curious, and full of political calculation. He was no longer just a baby; he was an event.
The Magister's voice was a dry rustle, like leaves in autumn. "You present the child for the Naming Blessing, the rite that binds his spirit to the light of Solis, our sun, and to the legacy of his forefathers."
"I do," Seraphina said, her voice clear and steady.
"And what is the name he shall carry through this life and into the next?"
"Orion," she said, looking down at him. "Orion Andromeda."
The Magister nodded, a slow, deliberate motion. He then dipped his fingers into a small, golden bowl held by an acolyte. The liquid within shimmered, not with water, but with a fine, golden dust that caught the light. He reached out and gently traced a symbol on Orion's forehead—a small, stylized sun.
"By the light of Solis, by the blood of Andromeda, and by the will of the ancestors who walked these halls before you, I bless you, Orion. May you be a light in darkness, a pillar of strength, and a worthy heir to the throne of Alaya."
Heir to the throne. The words hung in the air. A soft murmur rippled through the court. It was official. The King finally had his son, his successor. The line was secured. King Kaelen, from his throne, gave another of his stiff, formal nods. But for a fleeting second, as his eyes met Seraphina's, a flicker of something warmer, something profoundly human, passed between them. Relief. Pure, unadulterated relief.
The ceremony ended, and the formalities dissolved into a quiet reception. Courtiers approached the queen, offering their congratulations in hushed, reverent tones. Seraphina received them gracefully, but Orion could feel the tension in her arms. She was holding him a little tighter, protecting him from the very people who were celebrating his arrival.
Elara, bored with the adult conversation, tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Mama, can I hold him now? Just for a moment?"
Seraphina hesitated, then smiled. "Very well. Sit on the divan, and I will place him in your lap."
Elara scurried to a plush, velvet-covered divan against the wall and sat, bouncing slightly with excitement. Seraphina carefully lowered Orion into her waiting arms. Elara held him as if he were made of spun glass, her face alight with a fierce, protective joy.
"See, Orion?" she whispered, her voice meant only for him. "Everyone is here for you. You're the most important person in the whole kingdom now. But don't you worry. I'll always be your big sister. I'll show you all the secret passages and tell you which courtiers have the silliest hats. It'll be an adventure."
He stared up at her, his vision finally cooperating enough to see her clearly for the first time. Her eyes, a warmer, brighter blue than their father's, were full of a devotion so pure it made his ancient, weary soul ache with a new kind of happiness. This was his sister. His protector. His first friend in this new life.
Later that night, back in the quiet of the nursery, Seraphina was preparing him for sleep. The palace had grown still, the last of the well-wishers gone. She hummed a soft, wordless tune as she rocked him, the chair a gentle creak in the silence. The door to the adjoining room opened, and King Kaelen entered. This was unexpected. He rarely came to the nursery.
Seraphina looked up, surprise on her face. "Kaelen. Is everything alright?"
He walked over, his gaze fixed on Orion. "Everything is perfect," he said, his voice low. He reached out, and this time, when he touched Orion's cheek, there was no formality in it. It was the touch of a father. "Seraphina," he began, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely displayed. "You have given me… you have given Alaya… a future."
Seraphina's eyes welled with tears again. She reached up and placed her hand over his on Orion's cheek. For a long moment, they simply stood there, the three of them, a single unit. A king, a queen, and their son. The weight of the kingdom was still there, a constant, low hum in the background. But in this tiny, quiet space, it was eclipsed by the simple, profound miracle of new life.
As Orion drifted off to sleep, lulled by his mother's warmth and the rare, comforting presence of both his parents, he felt a deep sense of peace settle over him. The cold shock of birth was a distant memory. The weight of the court's expectation was a problem for another day. For now, he was safe. He was loved. And he was home.
He had been given a second chance. He didn't know what trials awaited him as the prince of Alaya, what enemies lurked behind smiling faces, or what responsibilities would one day crush down upon his shoulders. But he did know one thing with absolute certainty: he would not waste it. He would learn, he would grow, and he would cherish every single moment of this precious, improbable new beginning. He was Orion Andromeda. And his story was just beginning.