I have died once before.
It wasn't a pretty death, the kind bards sing about in halls—the hero falling on his feet, sword in hand, staring his enemy in the eye. No. My death was silent, cowardly, and pathetic. A blade in my back, driven between my ribs by someone I had allowed to get close enough to do it.
I remember the floor. The white marble of the imperial hall, cold against my face. I remember the sound of my own hands trying to drag me forward, my fingers slipping through the blood. And I remember the face. That face smiling as it watched me die on the floor I had ordered built myself.
Funny. I spent my entire life surrounded by armies, advisers, and generals. I conquered territories other emperors hadn't even dreamed of setting foot in. And in the end, I died alone, staring at the ceiling of my own palace.
After that, darkness. I don't know how long it lasted. It could have been seconds or centuries—when you're dead, time loses all meaning.
And then, light.
The first thing I felt was warmth.
Not the heat of a battle or a fire. This was soft, almost gentle, as if someone had laid a blanket over me and stayed there beside me, waiting. There was a scent in the air—herbs, something between lavender and mint—and the quiet sound of a fireplace crackling somewhere nearby.
I tried to open my eyes. They felt as heavy as lead.
When I finally managed it, the light blinded me for a moment. It wasn't the cold torchlight of the palace. It was sunlight, coming through a wooden window and settling over a thick wool blanket. A small room. Stone walls. Simple. Humble.
Nothing like any place I had ever been.
I tried to sit up, and that's when I realized something was very, very wrong.
My arms didn't respond properly. Not because of weakness—I knew weakness. I had woken up in campaign tents after battles that had nearly killed me. This was different. My arms were too short. My hands were too small. I lifted my fingers in front of my face and stared at them.
Thin fingers. Soft. Not a single scar. None of the calluses earned from thirty years of gripping a sword. Hands that had never done anything.
A child's hands.
"No..." The voice that came from my throat made me freeze. High-pitched. Fragile. The voice of a boy who couldn't have been more than six or seven. "What..."
The door flew open with a bang.
A woman rushed in. Brown hair tied in a loose ponytail, wide green eyes, her face marked by dark circles so deep they looked painted on. Behind her came a broad man—shoulders like oak trunks, a scar running from his left eyebrow down to his chin. The kind of man you look at and know immediately has killed people before.
I knew that build. Adventurers. Even retired, the body never forgets.
"He's awake!" The woman dropped to her knees beside the bed and took my hand. My child's hand, ridiculously small inside hers. And the way she held it—with care, as if I were made of glass—made me stop breathing for a second.
No one had ever held my hand like that. Not in my past life, nor in thirty years as Emperor. Generals greeted me with calculated bows. Advisers touched my shoulder when they wanted something. But this... this was different.
"Hey, hey, easy." She spoke softly, as if afraid she might break me. "It's okay. You're safe."
Safe. When was the last time someone had told me that and I had believed them?
"Lia." The man stepped closer. His voice was deep and controlled, but I noticed the tremor in his hands. He was trying to hide it, but I had spent my life reading people—it was that or die. "Slow down. Don't scare him."
"I know, Marco, I know." She didn't let go of my hand. "Seven days. You slept for seven days, you know?" Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard and forced a smile that wouldn't have fooled anyone. "We thought... But you're strong. I knew you were strong."
Seven days.
I remained silent. My mind—the mind of an emperor who had read treaties of war before learning to walk, who had survived conspiracies that killed better men than me—struggled to process the impossible.
I was dead. I was absolutely certain of that. The blade in my back, the cold marble, the smile. It had all happened. It was as real as these small hands a stranger held as if they were the most precious thing in the world.
And now I was here. In a body that wasn't mine. In a room that wasn't mine. With two people looking at me as if I mattered.
"Where am I?" I asked. And I hated the way my voice sounded. Weak. Childish. I, who had once made entire armies kneel with a single word.
"At our house," Marco said, pulling over a chair and sitting beside the bed. Up close, I noticed the calluses on his hands—an even more obvious sign of a swordsman. And in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, was a longbow made of dark wood. Hers. "We found you on the road a week ago. Alone. No one else around."
"You were freezing," Lia added, her voice barely a whisper. "You almost had no pulse. Marco carried you here in his arms. We haven't left your side since."
Since then. Seven days. Seven days without proper sleep, judging by the dark circles under her eyes. Seven days of keeping watch, judging by the exhaustion in his shoulders. For a child they had found dumped on a road.
In my past life, I had thousands of soldiers under my command. Generals who swore eternal loyalty. Not one of them would have done this. Not one of them would have lost a night's sleep over me.
Something tightened in my chest. Something I hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe something I had never felt at all.
"Thank you," I said. And for the first time since waking, the child's voice didn't bother me. Because the word was true. Truer than any order I had ever given while sitting on that throne.
Lia blinked in surprise. Then she smiled—a genuine smile that lit up her tired face like sunlight streaming through the window.
"Do you have a name, little one?"
I hesitated. The Emperor's name had died with the Emperor. The titles, the conquests, the legacy—all of it had been left on the marble floor with the blood. But the name was mine. The only thing that was still mine.
"Draven."
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Strong name for such a little boy."
"It suits him," Lia said, giving my hand an affectionate squeeze. "Perfectly."
I didn't answer. I simply stayed there, feeling the warmth of that hand, listening to the fireplace crackle, watching the soft light coming through the window. Everything so different from the imperial hall. Everything so different from the chill of marble against my face. Everything so different from the blade in my back.
I didn't understand what had happened. I didn't understand why I was alive, why I was in this body, or why those two people looked at me as if I were important.
But for the first time in a long time—perhaps for the first time in my entire existence—I felt something the Emperor had never been allowed to feel.
Peace.
And deep in my chest, so subtle I almost missed it, something stirred. Like an ancient gear turning for the first time. A strange, warm pulse beating in time with the heart of this small body.
I closed my eyes.
Whatever it was, it could wait. For now, I just wanted to stay there. Listening to the fireplace. Feeling Lia's hand in mine. Knowing that, at least for that moment, no one was going to drive a blade into my back.
At least for that moment, I could rest.