I did not sleep well.
Not because of discomfort—I had no control over that—but because my mind refused to accept what had happened. Even as exhaustion weighed on my body, my thoughts raced, my very existence trembling under the weight of this absurd reality.
I had been Alexander Valtor. Duke of House Valtor. The empire's strongest general. A man who had commanded thousands.
And now, I was Arthur Lancaster. A name given to me by my new parents.
The Duke of Valtor now was just a newborn, a helpless and weak baby.
The mere thought made my stomach twist.
I drifted between shallow sleep and brief moments of awareness, the soft murmurs of voices surrounding me, grounding me against the terrifying uncertainty of my rebirth.
I was not alone.
It was such a simple fact. A meaningless one to most. But to me, it was strange. Foreign.
In my past life, I had been surrounded by soldiers, by allies, by those who claimed to be friends. And yet, when the moment came, none stood by me.
I had died alone.
But here…
Warmth. A steady heartbeat. A soft embrace.
I was being held.
The realization was unsettling. I had never known a mother's embrace—not like this.
My mother in my past life had not been cruel, but she had been cold. A woman of nobility, bound by duty, with little time for affection. Her hands were delicate but firm, her gaze sharp but distant. She had raised me not with love, but with expectation.
"Emotions are for the weak," she had told me once, when I had scraped my knee as a child. "A Valtor does not cry."
And so, I hadn't.
Not even when my father had instilled in me the principles of strength and discipline through endless training, through days of grueling swordplay, through nights spent memorizing war strategies until my mind blurred.
"Only the strong survive, Alexander," he had said, his voice a cold decree. "Only those who command will never be commanded."
Love had been a concept I was never given the luxury to understand.
But now…
"You have such a strong grip already," my new mother's voice was soft, tired, yet filled with warmth. "My little Arthur… you'll grow to be just like your father, I'm sure of it."
A chuckle came from nearby—my father. William Lancaster.
"Let's hope he inherits more of your patience than my temper."
My mother laughed lightly, the sound like a gentle breeze. "Either way, he'll be loved."
Loved.
The word struck me harder than I expected.
Was that what this was? This warmth, this tenderness?
I did not understand it.
I did not deserve it.
And yet… I wanted to cling to it.
I did not cry this time. Not because the weight in my chest had vanished, but because something about the way she held me, the way she whispered my name, made it impossible.
Arthur Lancaster.
That was who I was now.
Whether I wanted it or not.
Time was strange in infancy.
I could not move much. I could not speak. My body refused to obey me, leaving me trapped in this fragile form.
It was humiliating. Infuriating. But I refused to let it break me.
So, I observed.
The world was different from what I had known. It was not the cold stone halls of my family's estate or the blood-soaked battlefields where I had once stood.
It was warm.
The walls of the room were wooden, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something faintly metallic—probably the remnants of childbirth. The flickering light from oil lamps cast shadows across the ceiling, and outside, the sound of the wind rustling through trees reached my ears.
This was no noble estate. No grand mansion of power.
A simple home. A place of peace.
For now.
I would learn more in time.
"How is he?" William's voice pulled me from my thoughts. He had returned to the room, his boots creaking against the wooden floor.
My mother—her name, I realized, had not yet been spoken—sighed softly. "He's calmer now."
A chair scraped against the floor as my father sat beside her. "Good… You should rest. I'll watch over him."
There was a pause. A soft rustling of fabric as she shifted. "William… what if something happens to him?"
My father was silent for a moment before he spoke. "Nothing will happen. I swear it."
Swear it?
A strange choice of words.
My mother did not seem reassured. "I don't want him to grow up in fear."
"He won't," my father promised. "I'll make sure of it."
The conversation lingered in my mind.
Fear? Of what?
Something was wrong.
I did not know what kind of world I had been born into, but it was clear my parents were not ordinary people.
That was good.
Ordinary lives were fragile.
And I would not be fragile.
No matter how long it took, no matter how much I had to endure, I would reclaim my strength.
I had been reborn for a reason.
I just had to figure out what it was.