Franklyn Croft was two days old when he realized he wasn't supposed to be a baby.
It started with the ceiling.
Gilded arches, glowing crystal chandeliers, and hand-painted murals of winged lions and golden suns. Far too extravagant for a hospital—way too medieval to be real. His newborn eyes were foggy, but his brain—a thirty-two-year-old tech guy's brain—was wide awake and screaming this isn't right.
Then came the voice.
Not from his mouth, which could only gurgle and wail, but from within. Calm. Curious. Terrified.
> Where... am I?
His body didn't answer, but his ears picked up whispers in a foreign tongue. Strange, melodic words that shouldn't make sense—except, somehow, they did.
> "The Fourth Prince lives. Praise the goddess."
> "He bears the mark on his wrist—by the stars, look!"
A warm hand lifted him gently. A woman's face hovered above—soft eyes, tired smile, crowned in blonde hair braided with silver threads. His mother, he realized. Wait... I have a mother?
She cradled him to her chest, heartbeat steady and warm.
> "Franklyn... Franklyn Croft," she whispered, naming him for the first time. "My little lion."
Franklyn? They kept my name?
The irony hit him like a spell. He'd been Franklyn in one world—a forgettable office drone. Now, in a world of castles and prophecy, he was Franklyn again. But this time… he was royalty.
And also, incontinent.
Fantastic.
---
Weeks passed in a haze of nap schedules, royal nurses, and forced tummy time. Franklyn tried not to panic as he learned to blink, coo, and poop with royal flair. The palace was alive with whispers—some celebrating his birth, others murmuring about his strange behavior.
Too alert. Too quiet. Too aware.
On his 40th day, during the Dawn Blessing Ceremony, he met his first sibling.
Prince Darion, heir to the throne, was fifteen and already wearing armor like a second skin. He looked at baby Franklyn with the same expression one gives a suspiciously intelligent squirrel.
"This one's different," Darion said bluntly, arms crossed. "He watches people like a hawk."
Their father, King Aldred the Stormblade, gave a grunt. A mountain of a man with eyes like steel and a beard that could smother a bear, he studied Franklyn with interest.
"He bears the soul of a warrior," the king said. "Perhaps the goddess has plans for this one."
Franklyn just drooled on his blanket.
---
At eight months old, Franklyn discovered magic.
Not through spellbooks or scrolls—but through feeling.
His nanny, a gentle elf woman named Miralune, hummed a lullaby that made the air shimmer with light. Tiny motes of glowing dust swirled from her fingers and danced like fireflies.
He reached for them—and they came.
Drawn to him. Responding. Pulsing with warmth.
Miralune gasped. "Oh… oh stars. He's an Aether-touched."
The term meant nothing to him—yet. But as the glowing particles spiraled into his chubby palms and didn't burn him, Franklyn knew one thing for sure.
This world was magic.
And somehow, he was connected to it.
---
Late that night, beneath the moonlight pouring through stained glass, Franklyn sat in his crib and stared at the stars.
His tiny hands gripped the bars. His eyes were full of wonder.
"This isn't a second life," he thought, the words unspoken but real. "It's a second chance."
A knock at the nursery door stirred the silence.
Unseen in the shadows, a figure in a dark cloak lingered just long enough to whisper a word that Franklyn, even with two lifetimes of memories, couldn't understand.
"Revival."
And then, the figure vanished—leaving behind only a feather black as night, resting on the crib's windowsill.
The wind shifted.
And the world moved forward.