Morning sunlight crawled across the cold stone walls of Blackstone Fortress. It's been a month since that hellish night of thunder and lightning, and the place is finally starting to settle down. The winds died, the plains stopped looking like they were waiting for the apocalypse, and the fortress is back to its boring, militaristic self.
But the rumor mill? That never stops.
In the corners of the kitchen, by the stables, even up on the watchtowers—people are still buzzing.
"Did you see the sky that night?"
"My cousin in the east said the lightning didn't even hit the ground, it just hung there."
"The kid was born exactly when the walls shook. You don't think…?"
Most people just shrugged it off. This is House Valerian—they don't do "superstition," they do cold, hard steel. But whispers are like cockroaches; you can't ever fully get rid of them.
I'm laying in my cradle near the window, staring up at the ceiling beams for the thousandth time, trying to figure out how to stop being so damn useless.
Being reincarnated? It's a joke. 1... it's not the glorious "second chance" they talk about in those trashy novels I used to read. It's just... hard. I tried to lift my hand to scratch my nose. 2... my arm felt like it was made of lead. It trembled, jerked about an inch, and then just flopped back onto the blanket like a dead fish.
Fuck.
It's exhausting. Everything is an effort. Even breathing feels like a conscious choice sometimes. I'm a prisoner in a body that won't listen to a damn word I say. I can't sit up, I can't talk, and I have to rely on a revolving door of servants to keep me from dehydrating. It's humiliating.
I tried to use the downtime to actually, you know, think. Map out the timeline, remember the factions, memorize the names of the people who are eventually going to try to kill me. But that's a trap, too. Ten minutes of trying to focus on complex political maneuvers and my brain just... shuts down.
I guess a newborn's hardware can't handle the software of a grown man. I usually just end up falling asleep mid-thought.
Still, the fragments of the novel I do remember are enough to make me sweat. In the original story, "Cassian Valerian" was a non-entity. A footnote. A "tragic plot device" meant to die so someone else could have a motivation.
Not this time, I promised myself, clenching a tiny fist that barely held a crease. I'm not dying as a statistic.
The door creaked, and one of the maids waddled in with a bottle. She gave me that sugary-sweet "aww, look at the baby" smile.
I just stared back, blank-faced. It's weird, you know? At first, it made my skin crawl to be handled like a doll. Now? I just accept it. Whatever. Just get the milk, lady.
While she was feeding me, two other servants poked their heads in. They looked like they were terrified of being overheard.
"You hear the news?" one whispered, eyes wide.
The maid shrugged. "What now?"
"The astrologer. From the capital. He showed up an hour ago."
I went still. An astrologer? Uh... what the hell is going on?
"Why?" the maid asked, clearly annoyed.
"Because of the storm, obviously. The guards on the eastern wall? They're saying they saw something during the lightning. Not just sparks. A light. Like... a signal."
A light? I replayed my memories of the book. Nothing. There was no astrologer in the original story. There was no "strange light" above the mountains.
God dammit. The story isn't just changing; it's accelerating. If people are already poking around, my "quiet, secret survival plan" is getting a lot more complicated.
The maid waved them off. "Shut up. If Magnus hears you spreading this crap, you'll be shoveling the stables until you're dead. Get out."
They scrambled away. The room went quiet again, but my mind was spinning. If the world is reacting to me—if the "plot" is noticing that I'm here—then I'm not just a hidden variable. I'm a target.
The door opened again, and my mother, Evelyne, walked in. The room felt lighter, warmer. She took me from the maid, and I felt that familiar, calm rhythm of her heartbeat.
"You're very quiet today," she whispered, brushing a thumb over my forehead.
If you only knew, Mom.
She looked out the window. "The fortress is loud today. Everyone's talking."
She definitely heard the rumors. Even the high-born aren't immune to the gossip, no matter how much they pretend to be above it. "Your father says the soldiers are just bored and superstitious," she added, smiling faintly. "But… even he's noticed. It was an unusual storm."
I reached out and grabbed a handful of her dress. She looked down, startled, then beamed at me. "Curious, aren't you?"
Yeah. Curious. Terrified. And trying not to get assassinated before I can walk.
Outside, the clashing of training swords rang out—clack, clack, clack. The sound of the life I'm supposed to live.
I stared out the window, watching the soldiers drill. I'm weak right now. I'm a spectator. But the storm that brought me here? It's not just a memory anymore. It's a wake. People are starting to look at the water, and they're wondering why it's rippling.
They can whisper all they want. Let them think I'm an omen. Let them wonder what the light meant.
I'm just going to keep breathing, keep eating, and keep waiting. Because when I finally stand up on my own two feet, I'm not going to be a side character in someone else's disaster.
I'm going to be the storm.