Maester Edric pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Emond stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.
The maester offered a short bow, a quiet satisfaction in his voice.
“Young master, the child is born.
A healthy boy.
Mother and son are both well.
He favors your brother Morton at that age, though the hair is silver like his mother’s.
The boy looks strong.” Emond’s face brightened.
“Truly?” “Quite certain, my lord.” Emond began to pace, a small smile still playing at his mouth.
“Good.
Have the kitchens send up something decent.
Does my father know yet?” The maester hesitated.
“I haven’t spoken to Lord Horton.” Emond stopped walking.
His expression hardened.
“Then don’t.
You know how stubborn he is.
We keep this quiet for as long as we can.” “My lord will remember eventually,” Edric said carefully.
“And the servants talk.” Emond gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Let them.
If Father finds out, tell him it was my doing.
Put it all on me.” The maester drew a slow breath and nodded.
“Understood, young master.” He bowed again and left.
Gavin’s birth brought no warmth to the cold stone of Three Towers.
Only his mother, Elisse, looked at him with pure, unguarded joy.
Gavin opened his eyes to a world that was all wrong—everything too large, too blurred, his own limbs tiny and useless.
He tried to speak and managed only a thin, helpless wail.
Panic clawed up his throat.
He couldn’t even turn his head properly.
This body refused every command.
Memory came back in pieces.
The apartment.
The game glowing on the screen.
The glass tipping, water flooding the keyboard in a crackling mess.
Then nothing.
Had he died?
Had he been reborn as an infant in some strange, medieval world?
He looked up at the faces hovering over him.
Most were strangers.
Only one stood out clearly—a woman with silver hair damp against her skin and violet eyes full of exhausted, tender warmth.
His mother.
In this life.
He opened his mouth again, desperate to say something, anything.
Another infant cry was all that came out.
By the year 282 AC, Gavin Flowers stood on the beach below Three Towers, a small iron pot clutched in both hands.
He was five years old, and the pot already felt heavy.
He waded carefully into the shallows, lowered it into the surf until seawater sloshed over the rim, then lifted it with a grunt and carried it, step by careful step, to the driftwood and dry grass he had gathered earlier.
He set the pot down and built the fire with quick, practiced motions.
Small hands arranged tinder and sticks.
Sweat already prickled his forehead.
This body was still so small—everything took twice the effort it should.
But the hard part was over.
He held his right hand close to the dry grass and snapped his fingers.
A tiny flame bloomed from nothing between his fingertips and caught instantly.
The fire crackled to life, bright and eager.
Gavin watched it grow, a familiar thrill running through him even after all this time.
He had discovered the gift at four years old, struggling with a damp flint until frustration made him snap his fingers one last time.
A spark had appeared in his palm.
He had thought he was losing his mind.
When he tried again, another small flame answered.
Real.
Not a trick of the light.
The power had excited him, but he had told no one—not even his mother.
He had watched this world long enough to understand the danger.
A child who could summon fire from empty air would be called a monster or a witch.
In a place like this, that usually ended with a stake and flames of a different kind.
So he practiced only when he was alone.
Now he could hold a steady flame for nearly a full minute.
He set the pot over the fire and stared at the water as it began to steam and roll.
His small face flushed red from the heat.
Every so often he poked the logs with a stick, feeding the flames higher.
The seawater boiled hard, bubbles rising fast.
Most of it cooked away, leaving a crust of white crystals at the bottom—still bitter and impure, the kind of salt smallfolk ate here.
Gavin doused the fire, waited for the pot to cool, then carefully scraped the coarse salt onto a clean cloth.
He added fresh water, stirred it into a slurry, and heated it again.
On the third round he mixed in a handful of wood ash.
He repeated the process until the pot finally yielded clean, glittering white crystals.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, collected the fine salt into a small cloth pouch, and crushed it down to powder.
Task finished, he tidied the fire pit, stowed the pot, and started the walk back toward the town below the castle.
A satisfied smile tugged at his mouth.
The pouch tucked against his chest felt heavier than its size.
Half a day’s work for this.
In town it would fetch five copper stars.
Two coppers bought a loaf of bread, though the bread here turned hard as a brick once it cooled—you could probably brain someone with it.
The seaside town had plenty of salt, but most people could only afford the cheap, bitter coarse kind.
Fine white salt came from the mines and cost ten times as much.
Nobles in the castle ate it; everyone else made do.
Gavin used what he remembered from his old life to make small batches in secret and sell them.
It helped buy food and clothes for him and his mother.
They had lived inside the castle for a while after he was born, and he kept every sale tiny.
So far no one had paid attention.
If he kept going, though, someone might start noticing.
And in this world, attention could turn dangerous fast.