The world of the nursery is small, contained, a place of predictable rhythms and familiar voices. But I have come to know it well.

  Nearly a year has passed, and I have grown. First crawling, now walking. I took my first steps early, but not so early as to raise suspicion. The key to staying unnoticed is balance—just enough progress to be impressive, never enough to be unnatural.

  Isla is the one who follows me closely, always within arm’s reach. She never scolds, never fusses, but her hands are quick to catch me if I stumble. For all her quiet and suspicion, she is diligent in her care.

  “Steady now,” she murmurs as I totter toward the small wooden blocks on the rug. Her fingers hover near my back, ready to intervene. When I reach my destination without mishap, she exhales lightly, as if she had held her breath.

  Lena, her belly now softly rounded with new life, sits comfortably on a cushioned chair, stacking the blocks with patient amusement. She smiles at me, warm and unguarded.

  “Now, little lord, let’s see how clever you are,” she says, pressing three blocks into my small hands. “One, two, three. Can you count them?”

  I take the blocks but say nothing, simply stacking them with deliberate precision. Lena chuckles, shaking her head. “Still the quiet one. That’s all right. I think you’re listening even if you won’t speak to us just yet.”

  I am. I always am.

  Marla stands nearby, watching over the room with the practiced eye of someone who has spent decades ensuring things run smoothly. She rarely involves herself in the daily play anymore, letting the younger maids tend to my needs. But I see the way she watches, the way she assesses.

  She has taken to sitting more often, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she observes Lena and Isla. “You’ve a gentle touch, Lena,” she remarks approvingly. “The little lord takes to you well.”

  Lena smiles, resting a hand on her stomach. “Well, he reminds me of my firstborn. Curious, but quiet. I hope this one is the same.”

  The conversation flows easily around me. I am not part of it, but I understand every word. They still do not know that I listen, that I comprehend. It is better that way.

  They mention the war once, but only in passing. A comment about how supply shipments have been delayed, how the merchants at the market grumble more than usual. It is not enough to piece together what is happening beyond these walls. The world outside remains a mystery.

  But today, something is different.

  Marla clears her throat, her tone shifting into something more formal. “Come now, we have preparations to make.”

  The play ends. The mood changes.

  The water is drawn for my bath, hotter than usual, infused with scented oils. The maids work with careful precision, scrubbing me thoroughly, ensuring every inch is spotless. It is not the usual routine, not even for the most meticulous of days.

  Then come the fine clothes, rich fabrics embroidered with sigils I do not yet recognize. I know wealth when I see it. These are not everyday garments, nor even those meant for private family gatherings. These are meant to be seen.

  Lena buttons the tiny cuffs on my sleeves, humming softly. Isla smooths the fabric over my shoulders, ensuring there is not a single imperfection.

  Marla watches closely, nodding in approval. “Good. Everything must be perfect.”

  Lena tilts her head. “It’s only a naming ceremony, Marla.”

  Marla gives her a sharp look. “Only? A name is a binding. You know that.”

  I freeze.

  A binding?

  The words mean something more than they should. My breath stills, my mind turning over the phrase, pulling it apart piece by piece. A name is not just a name in this world.

  A name is a key. A tether. A claim upon the self.

  I have had many names before. Each life, a new identity. But never a binding. Never something tethered to magic.

  Is this why I have not been able to touch the mana of this world? Because I do not yet belong to it?

  For months, I have reached for magic in this world. Nothing answers. The mana is here, I can feel it woven into the very air, but it does not bend, does not flow to my call.

  I thought this world’s magic was simply beyond me. But if a name is a binding, then magic here must be tied to identity.

  I turn this revelation over in my mind, examining it from every angle, seeking to understand it. A name is a key, perhaps, a tether to this world’s arcane forces. If so, my own name must hold power.

  Aurelius.

  My name.

  And with that thought, another memory stirs. A name, a different name. A name given long ago. A name that had been returned.

  Not in this world. Not in the last.

  In the second life I ever lived.

  ***

  I had died once. I had expected nothing beyond sleep.

  I remember the last moments of my first life vividly—fading into the comfortable embrace of my recliner, the soft hum of an old television filling the quiet sanctuary I had built. Cats sprawled across the furniture, nestled into the warmth of blankets, or perched on the windowsill, watching the world outside. The Don’s Sanctuary, they called it, though I had never sought such a title. It had started as a simple cat rescue, a way to fill the silence left after leaving the military. I had been a Marine once, a Corporal, nicknamed The Don by my squad, a title spoken half in jest, half in respect.

  The name had started as a joke. I had a way of handling things—keeping the peace, knowing when to push and when to pull back. I wasn’t the biggest or the strongest, but I had a way of making people listen. In the chaos of deployment, when tempers ran high and orders didn’t always make sense, I kept my unit steady. When some hotheaded lance corporal mouthed off to the wrong officer, I was the one who smoothed it over. When supplies went missing, I found out who took them without needing to throw a punch. When we had downtime, I set up poker games where nobody walked away too broke to eat, kept morale up without letting things get out of hand.

  And when things did get bad—when we lost someone, when a mission went sideways, when the weight of it all sat heavy on our shoulders—I knew how to keep my men together. I made sure no one got left behind, not just on the battlefield, but in their heads.

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  Somewhere along the way, they started calling me The Don. Maybe it was because I handled things like a man running an empire. Maybe it was because I made sure my people were taken care of, no matter what. Maybe it was just because I never let them see me flinch. Whatever the reason, the name stuck.

  That name had followed me into civilian life, though its meaning had changed. It became something different when the sanctuary opened—more than a shelter for strays, it had become a refuge, a place for the lost. People, as well as cats, had come seeking safety. A child with nowhere to go, waiting for parents who never arrived. A woman who needed a night away from the fists of a man who claimed to love her. A shop owner too proud to admit he feared the thugs pressing him for protection money. I had helped them all, not out of charity, but because I had the means and the will to keep my little corner of the world as it should be.

  It started small. Just a few cats, a few strays who needed a warm place to sleep. I hadn’t planned for it to be anything more. But people notice when you look after things, even if they aren’t your own. The neighborhood changed around me. The crime that had started creeping in slowed. The kids who had nowhere else to go started lingering outside, petting the cats, asking if they could help. A small grocery store owner, tired of being harassed for protection money, came to me one night and asked if I could talk to the right people. I did.

  I never asked for anything in return. But people remember kindness. The man sent over food for the cats every month after that. The kids who came to visit the shelter started calling it a safe place, a spot where they could breathe easy. And when a woman, bruised and scared, knocked on my door late one night, I didn’t hesitate to let her in. It happened more than once. Not often, but enough that I learned who in town was dangerous and who wasn’t. And enough that the wrong kinds of people started to notice me.

  Some men came to me one day, the kind who walked with confidence they hadn’t earned. They wanted me to move, told me I was interrupting the natural order of things. That if I kept giving people another choice, they wouldn’t take the deals these men offered. They wanted me to be afraid. They wanted me to believe that my little corner of the world wasn’t mine to protect.

  But they had never met a man like me. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. I simply asked them what they thought would happen if they pushed me too far. If they thought the people in this neighborhood would let them burn down what I had built.

  They left that day, and they didn’t come back.

  The sanctuary grew. More cats came. More people, too. I had to expand the space, adding rooms, building more enclosures. The strays needed a place to belong. So did the people. And without ever planning for it, without even realizing it, I had made something bigger than myself.

  I had become The Don once more, not because I wanted power, but because someone had to keep the balance. Someone had to watch over the forgotten and the lost.

  And then I had died. Just like that. No grand finale. No battlefield glory. Just an old man surrounded by the creatures he had spent his life caring for.

  Instead, I woke again.

  Not as a human.

  As something else.

  At first, it had been a nightmare—trapped in a body that was not my own, limbs too light, too alien. My ears twitched at sounds I had never been able to hear before, my skin tingling under the unfamiliar brush of fur. I had reached for my face, and my fingers had met a muzzle, sharp whiskers twitching at the unexpected sensation.

  I had been reborn in a world not my own.

  And I had not been human.

  The people of that world were something else—something feline. And I was one of them.

  They named me Mittens.

  It had been the name of the first cat I had ever rescued. I hadn’t known it then, but that was the first sign that something greater had been set in motion. I was not just a man reborn. I was a man carrying the weight of something more.

  I had lived in that world for years before I understood the truth. Cats, in their wisdom and mystery, do indeed have nine lives. And Mittens—the real Mittens—had gifted me her last life.

  She had been my first rescue, the first soul I had ever saved. In her eyes, I had been her protector, her provider, the reason she had known warmth and kindness. In the end, she had done what any cat would do when presented with true loyalty—she had given back.

  Her last life had been hers to give, and she had given it freely. Not because she owed me, but because she chose to.

  And she had not been the only one.

  One by one, the cats I had rescued had, in turn, rescued me. Not all at once, not in an instant, but over the course of years. Each one that had ever curled in my lap, that had ever purred beneath my hand, that had ever found safety within the walls of my home—they had given me more than companionship. They had given me time.

  ***

  Many lifetimes later, I still bore their names in ways I did not fully understand. And now, as I sat in my new life, wrapped in silken finery, I tried to remember—

  Had there ever been an Aurelius among them?

  The thought slipped from my grasp as I was lifted from the nursery, cradled in my mother’s arms. For the first time, I was carried beyond the familiar walls of my small world, into the vastness of my new home.

  The corridor beyond the nursery was lined with high, vaulted ceilings, where chandeliers hung like suspended constellations, their crystal facets catching the light from the enormous windows. The floors were black and white marble, polished to mirror sheen, reflecting the gold filigree of the intricately carved wooden paneling. Tapestries lined the walls—scenes of battle, of crowned figures standing above kneeling supplicants, of great beasts slain in service to the throne. Each thread was woven with precision, each color still rich despite the centuries.

  The scent of aged parchment and beeswax polish mingled with something deeper—an earthy incense that clung to the air, subtle yet undeniable. The air carried the weight of old authority, of a house whose name had shaped the history of the land.

  My mother walked with measured steps, her silk gown brushing softly against the marble with each movement. The servants along the corridor bowed or curtsied as she passed, eyes lowered, backs straight. I could feel the gentle pressure of her arms, firm but graceful, holding me in a way that was neither possessive nor careless. She was composed, always composed.

  As we reached the grand foyer, a man awaited us at the base of the grand staircase. The butler, Lord Havish, stood with the quiet presence of someone who had seen generations of nobility pass through these halls. His uniform was immaculate, black with silver embroidery marking the crest of House Larkin, a silver hawk with outstretched wings. He bowed at our approach.

  "My lady," Havish intoned, his voice deep and unwavering. "His Grace is awaiting you."

  My mother nodded, glancing down at me before continuing forward. At the far end of the foyer, the tall oak doors to my father’s study were already open. The Archduke stood within, dressed in a dark waistcoat adorned with the insignia of his station. He was a man of quiet intensity, his presence filling the room despite his silence. His features were sharp, his expression unreadable, but as my mother entered, something in his gaze softened.

  "Catherine," he said, voice low but warm.

  "My lord," she replied, her words careful, yet not cold. She stepped closer, tilting me just enough so that my father could see me more clearly.

  A flicker of something passed over his face—approval, perhaps. His gloved hand reached out, brushing the top of my head with the barest touch, a gesture so controlled that it seemed more for the benefit of those watching than for me.

  "He grows well," my father murmured.

  "As he should," my mother replied smoothly. "He is of your line."

  Havish, ever the dutiful presence, took a step forward. "The carriage is prepared, Your Graces. The guests have already begun to gather."

  "Good," my father said, his gaze shifting to my mother. "The Parliament has been restless these past weeks. There is talk of curbing the monarchy’s influence further."

  My mother did not react visibly, though I could feel the faint change in her stance. "They will not act without leverage. They push and test the waters, but they know that without the nobility, they are directionless."

  My father exhaled slowly. "They believe this war gives them that leverage."

  "And we will remind them who holds the kingdom together." My mother's voice was calm, absolute.

  I absorbed every word. The war. The Parliament. The balance of power in this kingdom was shifting, though the full picture remained obscured to me. My parents were not just participants in this game—they were key players.

  My mother turned back to me, shifting me slightly in her arms. "Come," she said softly, more to me than to anyone else. "It is time."

  With Havish leading the way, we moved through the massive double doors, stepping into the grand courtyard beyond. The sunlight was sharp, casting golden reflections off the polished stone, illuminating the carefully manicured hedges and fountains that lined the pathway. The air carried the scent of citrus blossoms and fresh rain.

  And then, I saw them.

  The creatures that pulled our carriage were unlike any beasts of burden I had ever seen in any of my lives. Towering, reptilian, with thick, scaled hides that shimmered in hues of deep bronze and emerald. Their eyes were slitted, intelligent, and their breath came in slow, measured huffs that curled like steam in the cool air. Their harnesses were adorned with silver buckles and fine leather, fitting them as though they had been bred for this purpose.

  My mother carried me to the waiting carriage, stepping inside with effortless grace. The doors shut behind us with a solid thunk, sealing us within its plush interior. The seats were lined with velvet, the windows framed in dark wood, etched with delicate gold patterns.

  As the carriage lurched forward, I pressed against my mother’s hold, straining to see beyond the window.

  For the first time, I glimpsed the world beyond my gilded cage.