The twilight glow over the crystalline towers of the Elven capital, bathed the palace in a soft, eternal light. Deep within the throne chamber, Queen Elaria and King Therion watched their adopted son from afar. Hector, now six years old, sat beneath the massive stained-glass window depicting the Tree of Life, quietly meditating in the moonlight. His white hair shimmered with a ghostly glow, and his ember eyes burned with ancient knowing.
"He is not just a child," Elaria whispered, her voice carrying the weight of both awe and concern.
"No," Therion agreed, leaning on the hilt of his ceremonial blade. "No elf, no man, no beast carries such mana so young. His aura pulses like starlight. Ancient. Familiar. He sings the song of creation in his sleep."
Elaria turned to him. "Do you think the message was true?"
"The one from the skies?" Therion nodded. "The one the angels left. 'Take care of him, for he will be of great help to the universe.'"
"And that hum," Elaria added, "The one he sings to the Tree… It awakens something in her. She speaks of him like she's known him longer than her 4000 years."
Therion's gaze didn't leave Hector. "White hair. Ember eyes. Elven ears, yet not elven. The mana of the stars. He is one of them. Angel-born."
That night, beneath the silken canopy of his room, Hector dreamt.
It wasn't like the other dreams—the fragmented songs, the sea of shapeless voices. This dream was clear, painfully real.
He stood in iron armor, sword in hand. Screams echoed through the burning fields. Before him, soldiers bore the crimson banners of the Empress—Victoria's army. He didn't know how he knew it, but he did. It was a memory. His body moved with instinctual grace, the sword an extension of his will. He fought like he'd done it a thousand times.
And then, a lance through the heart.
Pain. Cold. Darkness.
He woke up drenched in sweat, sitting bolt upright in bed, his breath caught in his throat. The moonlight cast eerie patterns on the marble floor. He looked at his hands. They trembled.
"I remember," he whispered.
The silence that followed was different than usual. It felt like the world was listening.
He slipped out of bed, dressed in his training robes, and wandered through the quiet palace halls until he reached the guard training yard.
Two guards stood watch under the stars, their long ears twitching in surprise when the boy approached.
"Prince Hector?" one asked.
"I want to spar," Hector said calmly.
The guards exchanged glances. "With whom?"
"With both of you."
They hesitated. "You're six."
Hector met their eyes. "I remember how to fight."
There was something in his tone, something ageless. They nodded slowly.
Blunted practice swords were brought out. The guards assumed defensive stances, amused but cautious.
Hector took a deep breath. The images from the dream flashed through his mind. Step. Guard. Strike. Parry. He moved before he thought, each swing graceful, precise, impossible for a child.
Clang.
The first guard's sword went flying.
The second lunged. Hector sidestepped and disarmed him with a single motion.
The silence afterward was thicker than the night.
The guards knelt. Not out of custom—but respect.
"You've done this before," one whispered.
"I think I have," Hector replied, looking at his small hands again. "Or someone I used to be has."
He returned to his chambers as the first light of dawn crept across the eastern horizon. As he passed under the boughs of the Tree of Life, he paused. The tree rustled gently in a windless courtyard. A familiar presence stirred.
"You're restless," said a soft, lilting voice.
Hector turned. The Tree's pixie-form shimmered into being beside him, a soft wisp of gold and green. Her wings glittered like dew.
"I dreamed something," Hector said.
"I felt it," she answered. "You shook the roots of me. I saw fire in your breath."
He nodded slowly. "I remember fighting. Dying."
She tilted her head. "A life before this one?"
"Maybe. But it was more than a dream. It felt like… a memory passed down."
The pixie touched his shoulder. "Your hum... I've been alive for millennia. But when I hear that melody, I feel as though I was only just born."
"I sang it to you before you were born," Hector said, voice soft, gaze distant. "I don't know how. But I remember."
They stood in silence as the sun finally rose, light piercing the crystal towers of Kael-Terun.
Far above, unseen by mortal eyes, ancient watchers stirred. The cycle was moving again. And Hector, unknowingly, was already on the path back toward the fate he once escaped—and the one he was always meant to fulfill.