The first thing Alec noticed wasn't the warmth of the stone manor or the scent of blood and birthing—it was the absolute wrongness of his body. Every instinct screamed that limbs should be longer, stronger, that hands should grip and manipulate the world instead of flailing uselessly in swaddled confusion.

  The room pulsed with a warmth that came from the very stones themselves. Thick oak beams crossed overhead, and the walls were fitted stone blocks that had seen generations come and go. The air itself felt different—not just clean, but alive somehow. Magic existed here, as real as the stone and timber.

  A midwife—silver-haired, with hands that moved like birds—wiped the birthing blood from his skin with practiced efficiency. Her movements were sure, confident, born of delivering countless noble children in this very room. She was dressed in fine wool robes, the kind that marked someone who served nobility but was well-compensated for their skill.

  She lifted him toward the window where moonlight streamed in, not for any ceremony but simply to clean him properly in the good light. The casual act felt strange after what he'd expected—no religious rites, no formal declarations.

  "A fine son, my lady," the midwife said, wrapping Alec in soft linen. "Strong lungs, good color. The blood flows true."

  Across the room, his new father stood with arms crossed. Roderick Gothsend was a mountain of a man—not tall, but broad, with shoulders that spoke of years holding heavy things. His face was carved from weathered stone, all sharp angles and hard lines. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, silvered with age. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and his brown eyes held the weight of authority maintained through difficult years.

  He watched the proceedings with the air of a man who'd been through this before, though Alec somehow sensed this was his first child. There was pride there, yes, but also something else—a distance that spoke of more than just masculine stoicism.

  "Bring him here," came a soft voice from the bed.

  Elenora Gothsend lay propped against carved pillows, her auburn hair damp with sweat but her green eyes bright with exhaustion and joy. She was younger than Roderick by perhaps a decade, with the kind of beauty that suggested noble breeding—fine features, pale skin unmarked by common labor, hands soft despite the calluses that came from riding and needlework.

  The midwife placed Alec in his mother's arms. Elenora's touch was gentle but sure, and she smelled of lavender oil and the particular exhaustion that came after bringing life into the world.

  "Look at him," she whispered, her accent carrying the refined tones of the educated nobility. "He'll be tall like his father." Her fingers traced the fine blonde hair already visible on his scalp—hair that matched neither parent's coloring.

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  "His eyes," murmured Mila, the young handmaid who'd been quietly weeping in the corner throughout the birth. She was thin and nervous, perhaps eighteen, with prematurely gray streaks in her brown hair. "My lady, look at his eyes."

  Elenora tilted Alec's face toward the candlelight, and her intake of breath was sharp.

  "Gods preserve us," she breathed.

  One eye was a warm reddish-brown, like rich earth or aged brandy. But the other—the other was silver-gray, pale as winter moonlight, and in that silver iris was a pattern like no other. Delicate lines radiated from the pupil in the unmistakable shape of a star, as if someone had drawn constellation lines in his very eye.

  "Heterochromia," Elenora said, but her voice held wonder rather than concern. "And the star pattern... I've read of such things in the old texts, but never seen it."

  Something shifted in Roderick's expression—not quite suspicion, but a careful thoughtfulness. "Unusual," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. "The maester will want to examine him."

  The baby—Alec—let out a sharp wail that seemed to cut through the suddenly tense air. The sound was strong, healthy, and completely normal despite the unusual eyes.

  "He protests our staring," the midwife chuckled, moving to clear away the birthing materials. "As he should. He'll need to eat soon, my lady."

  Alec's infant body wailed, but his mind raced with the impossibility of his situation. Here he was—Alexander Morrison from Tulsa, Oklahoma, dead in a car-jacking gone wrong—now reborn as the son of nobility in a world where magic was as real as stone and steel.

  The manor around him spoke of old money and older traditions. The furniture was carved from dark wood, heavy and built to last generations. Tapestries hung on the walls depicting hunts and battles, and the very air seemed thick with history and the scent of burning oak from the great hearth.

  Outside the tall windows, he could see the manor sat in a narrow valley. Rolling hills stretched in all directions, disappearing into darkness under the star-filled sky. This wasn't Earth—the very constellations were wrong, arranged in patterns that had never shown over Oklahoma.

  This was Aethermoor, though he couldn't yet know that name. This was the Kingdom of Valethia, where he'd been born into House Gothsend—a minor noble family with a secret that would shake the very kingdom, if anyone knew.

  In his previous life, Alexander had been nobody special. Forty years old, working in a financial firm, living with his girlfriend and three dogs in suburban mediocrity. His parents had died in a plane crash two years ago. His greatest accomplishment had been reliable mediocrity and showing up on time.

  Now he was Alec Gothsend, son of a Viscount, born with eyes that marked him as something extraordinary. And somewhere in the back of his infant brain, adult memories swirled with new sensations and the overwhelming realization that everything had changed.

  As Elenora held him close, humming softly in a language he didn't recognize, Alec felt the weight of this new existence settling around him. The room smelled of herbs and hot stone, of birth and new beginnings. The fire crackled in the hearth, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sounds of a household settling into sleep.

  This was home now. This strange, magical world where gods walked among mortals and nobles played games that could topple kingdoms.

  And Alec Gothsend—no longer Alexander Morrison—had been born right into the middle of it all.