Consciousness came in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror reflecting glimpses of a world that made no sense.
Aeon found himself looking through eyes that weren't quite his own, experiencing memories that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. The sensation was disorienting—like watching a movie where he was somehow both the audience and the main character.
Trees. Endless, towering trees stretched in every direction, their ancient trunks disappearing into shadow above and below. He was moving through them, but not by his own power. Instead, he was cradled in the arms of someone running—a young woman with auburn hair escaping from beneath a white cap, her Victorian maid's uniform torn and stained with dirt and something darker.
Behind them, the forest told a story of horror. Smoke rose in black columns through the canopy, and the trees themselves bore witness to violence—splashes of crimson painted across bark like some macabre artist's work. The acrid smell of burning wood mixed with something metallic that made his stomach churn, even in this dreamlike state.
The maid's breathing was ragged, her footsteps uneven as she navigated roots and fallen logs with desperate urgency. Every few seconds, she would glance down at him with eyes full of tears and fierce determination.
Thunk.
The sound came from nowhere, followed by the maid's sharp cry of pain. She stumbled, nearly dropping him, and Aeon could see the wooden hilt of a dagger protruding from her shoulder, dark blood already seeping through the white fabric of her dress.
"No, no, no," she whispered, clutching him tighter as she dove behind a massive oak tree. Her whole body trembled as she pressed her back against the bark, listening for sounds of pursuit. In the distance, shouts echoed through the forest—men's voices, harsh and getting closer.
The maid looked down at him, and for the first time, Aeon realized he was seeing the world from the perspective of an infant. His hands were tiny, his body small and helpless in her arms. Yet somehow, he retained his adult consciousness, trapped as an observer in this impossible memory.
"They cannot find you," the maid whispered, her voice breaking. "They cannot know you survived."
She moved with purpose despite her injury, carrying him through the underbrush toward the sound of running water. Soon, they emerged at the bank of a wide river that rushed along with surprising force. Without hesitation, the maid began gathering reeds and branches, weaving them quickly into a makeshift basket with practiced efficiency.
"My sweet prince," she murmured as she worked, tears streaming down her dirt-stained cheeks. "Forgive me for what I must do."
Prince?
She lined the improvised basket with her torn apron, creating a small nest, then gently placed him inside. The basket bobbed slightly as she set it at the water's edge, testing its buoyancy. Behind them, the shouting was getting closer—they had perhaps minutes before their pursuers found this spot.
"Please stay safe, my prince," she whispered, pressing a small pendant into the basket beside him. "May the river carry you to kinder shores than these."
With a gentle push, she sent the basket into the current. Aeon felt the strange sensation of floating, of being carried away from the only familiar face in this bewildering world. The last thing he saw was the maid—his protector—running in the opposite direction, drawing their pursuers away from him even as blood continued to stain her shoulder.
Then darkness claimed him once more.
The sound of approaching footsteps on the forest path made him freeze. Voices, rough and crude, drifted through the trees.
"Check that clearing over there. Sometimes nobles dump their mistakes in places like this."
"What's that crying? Sounds like a brat."
"Perfect. Fresh meat for the mines."
The footsteps quickened, and suddenly three figures emerged from the darkness. Men with scarred faces and cruel eyes, weapons hanging from their belts and chains rattling as they moved. Slavers who haunted the borderlands, always looking for new merchandise.
"Well, well," the leader growled, a massive man with a brand scar across his cheek. "Look what we have here. A little lordling left for the wolves."
"Could fetch a good price," another commented, examining the fine cloth wrapped around the infant. "Even as a pit slave, noble blood works harder when you break it right."
The third man found the pendant and whistled low. "Definitely quality stock. Someone's bastard, most like. Perfect—no one will come looking."
The leader scooped up the baby roughly, ignoring the renewed crying. "Stop your wailing, brat. You've got years of that ahead of you."
And so it was that the soul who had once been a brilliant but exploited engineer found himself in the hands of brutal men, carried away from the forest clearing toward a life of chains, suffering, and the harsh education that only absolute powerlessness could provide.
The comet continued its ancient journey across the sky, its tail streaming behind it like a promise of things to come. In its wake, it left a child who would learn that in a world where power determined everything, mercy was a luxury the weak could never afford.
The wish made under starlight had been granted, but the path to freedom would be paved with blood and suffering beyond imagination.