Darkness.
That was the first thing Soma became aware of. Not the comforting darkness of a bedroom after a long day, nor the eerie darkness of a moonless night. This was absolute. There was no ceiling, no floor, no horizon. No distant sound to indicate the presence of another living soul. And yet, strangely enough, he wasn't afraid. At least, not initially. All right. Let's assess the situation. He couldn't see. That was inconvenient. He couldn't move his arms.
That was considerably worse. And when he attempted to straighten his legs, something soft but immovable pressed against them. Wonderful. Wherever I am, the accommodations are terrible. Soma tried turning his head. It moved perhaps an inch before meeting resistance. He paused. Something was wrong with his body. His limbs felt strangely weak, almost boneless, and he couldn't seem to control them with any degree of precision. Worse, he was surrounded by liquid.
Warm liquid. He wasn't drowning, which seemed encouraging, but the complete absence of space was rapidly becoming a problem. Unknown location. Limited mobility. Restricted vision. His thoughts arranged themselves into observations almost automatically. It was an old habit: understand the environment before attempting to act. He shifted again, with equally disappointing results. Possible confinement. Unclear whether deliberate. Then something moved around him.
An immense pressure squeezed his body. Soma went rigid. That's new. The pressure eased, only to return several seconds later. Something was pushing him. Not from any direction he could properly identify, but with an undeniable force that seemed determined to move him somewhere. Okay. I don't like that. A faint glow appeared ahead. Soma stared at it. Light. Finally, something useful.
He attempted to move toward it, but another crushing pressure seized him, forcing him forward whether he wished to go or not. Wait. Hold on. The glow widened. His head pressed against an opening barely large enough to accommodate it. He tried to retreat. His body refused to cooperate. No. Absolutely not. I would like to register an objection. Something squeezed again. Soma's objection went unheard. The light grew brighter. A muffled voice called from somewhere beyond it.
"One more push, Your Grace! He's almost here!"
Soma froze. One more what?
Another voice answered, strained and exhausted.
"I'm trying!"
A dreadful possibility began taking shape. He reconsidered the fluid. The cramped space. His useless limbs. Then the world squeezed him once more. Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me. The light exploded across his vision. Cold air struck his wet skin. And two enormous, gloved hands caught his head.
I'M BEING BORN!
If he'd possessed the necessary muscular coordination, Soma would have thrown his hands into the air and demanded to speak to whoever managed the universe. Unfortunately, his arms merely flailed. A masked giant lifted him into the light.
"Healthy baby boy!" the man announced.
Baby boy?
Soma tried to glare at him. The effort produced little more than a squint. I demand a refund. Being born was, in Soma's immediate assessment, an unnecessarily violent introduction to existence. The temperature was unacceptable. The lighting was atrocious. And the giant holding him seemed determined to inspect every inch of his exposed body. Soma wriggled indignantly. The doctor wore green surgical scrubs, a white mask, and pale gloves. Those were familiar enough to be deeply confusing.
Because the room around him looked nothing like a modern hospital. High stone arches disappeared into shadow overhead. Thick velvet curtains hung beside narrow windows, and an enormous fireplace radiated heat across polished marble floors. Candles glowed inside silver fixtures. More strangely, several luminous spheres floated above the bed without visible support. Magic?
He tried to focus on them. They drifted lazily, casting soft blue-white light across the chamber. Well. That certainly complicates things. The doctor turned him slightly, inspecting his tiny hands and feet.
"Excellent color. Strong movements. Breathing well."
"Then why isn't he crying?" asked a deep voice.
Soma attempted to turn toward it.
"He may simply be a quiet child, Your Grace. Nothing concerning at present."
The doctor gently patted his back. Soma coughed. Excuse you. Another pat. He opened his mouth in protest. Instead, a thin, offended squeak escaped. The doctor smiled behind his mask.
"There we are."
Don't patronize me, you enormous cabbage. Soma was passed to two young women wearing immaculate white-and-blue uniforms. They carefully cleaned him, checked his umbilical cord, and wrapped him in a warm cloth so thoroughly that only his face remained exposed. It was an improvement. Not a dramatic one, but an improvement nonetheless.
"Oh, Samantha, look at him!" one maid whispered. "Isn't he adorable?"
The woman holding him smiled. "He certainly is, Melissa." Naturally. Despite the circumstances, I remain impressive.
"He hasn't cried once."
"Perhaps he's just curious."
Finally. Someone with observational skills. Samantha carried him toward the deep voice he'd heard earlier. And Soma received his first proper look at the man who would apparently be his father. He was enormous. Tall, broad-shouldered, with thick golden hair and vivid emerald eyes. His imposing build suggested a man who could split logs with his bare hands and then apologize to the trees for the inconvenience. His face was handsome, with strong features and a surprisingly gentle expression.
There was only one problem. An extraordinary problem. A bushy blond mustache occupied his upper lip. It was a spectacular construction, thick enough to shelter wildlife and shaped in a way that suggested somebody had lost a bet. Soma stared. Oh, that's unfortunate. The man leaned forward.
"Well, hello there."
Please tell me that thing isn't hereditary.
"Here is your healthy son, Archduke Locke," Samantha said.
The giant smiled.
"Thank you, Samantha. Though I believe you meant my healthy, extraordinarily handsome son."
Melissa giggled. Samantha's smile widened. "Of course, Your Grace." Modesty clearly isn't hereditary either. The man carefully accepted him. His enormous hands were surprisingly gentle.
"Hello there, little Soma."
Soma stopped examining the mustache. Soma?
"Welcome to the world. I'm Preston Locke."
Preston smiled down at him.
"And I'm your father."
There it was. A simple statement. Perfectly ordinary, spoken without ceremony or hesitation. Yet something about it made Soma's thoughts quiet. He knew he had lived before. He didn't understand how he knew, or why so much of that existence remained beyond his reach. His old name belonged to him as naturally as breathing, and certain instincts came without explanation. But the harder he searched for specific memories, the more they slipped away. What he did know was that his life had ended.
Somehow, impossibly, he had been given another. And now this stranger was calling himself his father. Preston drew him a little closer.
"You're going to be loved, little one. You hear me?"
Soma watched those bright emerald eyes.
"We've been waiting for you."
The man's voice softened.
"And whatever kind of person you become, you'll always have a home here."
A strange warmth settled inside Soma's chest. He had no reason to trust this man yet. No knowledge of his character beyond a few words and a tragic facial-hair decision. But the tenderness in Preston's expression was difficult to dismiss. Soma relaxed against his arm. All right, he thought. Maybe this won't be so bad. A sudden pressure built in his stomach. He frowned. Or attempted to. That's a peculiar sensation. Preston grinned.
"Look at him, Samantha! I think he recognizes my voice."
The pressure increased. Wait.
"He certainly seems comfortable, Your Grace."
Hold on. Preston leaned closer.
"That's my boy."
Soma opened his mouth. And spectacularly vomited across his father's mustache.
Silence.
Absolute, breathtaking silence. A pale streak dripped from Preston's upper lip. Melissa gasped. Samantha looked horrified. The doctor made a sound that might have been a suppressed cough. Soma stared at his father. Well. That could have gone better. For one terrible moment, nobody moved. Then Preston threw his head back and laughed. A deep, booming laugh that filled the entire chamber.
"HA! Well, there's a proper greeting!"
Samantha hurried forward with a towel.
"Oh, Your Grace, I'm terribly sorry!"
"Nonsense!" Preston chuckled. "The boy's clearly determined to make a memorable first impression."
Soma closed his eyes. I'm never recovering from this. After the mustache disaster had been addressed, Preston carried Soma toward an enormous four-poster bed. A woman rested against several embroidered pillows, looking exhausted but unmistakably happy.
Her long, pale-blue hair was divided into two intricate braids that fell over her shoulders, with loose strands framing a delicate face. Her skin was fair, her eyes a rich lavender, and the gently pointed ears emerging through her hair immediately captured Soma's attention. Well, that's definitely not standard human anatomy. The floating lights cast a soft radiance around her.
She was beautiful, but there was something more immediate in her expression: the deep relief of someone who had endured an exhausting ordeal and finally been allowed to hold the reason for it.
"Preston," she whispered.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Let me see him."
"Of course, darling."
Preston carefully placed Soma against her. The woman gathered him close, supporting his head with practiced tenderness.
"Oh," she breathed. "Look at you."
Soma felt her heartbeat beneath his cheek. Steady. Warm. Real.
"Hello, my darling," she whispered. "I'm Aria. I'm your mother."
There was an unfamiliar ache in his chest. Not pain. Not exactly happiness, either. Something deeper, more complicated. The woman holding him was a stranger. And yet she was also his mother. He could hear the exhaustion in her voice, see the trembling relief in her smile, and feel the way she held him as though he were the most precious thing in the world. For reasons he couldn't explain, his eyes grew wet. Oh, that's embarrassing. Aria smiled.
"Preston, look. I think he's going to cry."
"Ah, so he does know how!"
Traitorous bodily functions. Soma tried to maintain what little dignity remained to him. His lower lip trembled. Aria gently stroked his cheek.
"It's all right, little one."
The tenderness in her voice was unbearable. A tiny cry escaped him. Then another. And suddenly, to his immense irritation, Soma began crying in earnest. Aria only held him closer.
"There, there. Mama's here."
Preston leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"You did wonderfully, my love."
She smiled tiredly.
"We did well with all of them."
Soma's crying paused. All of them?
Preston chuckled.
"And now we have another."
Another?
Soma opened his eyes. How many children are we talking about?
Neither parent offered any immediate clarification. Which was inconsiderate. Extremely inconsiderate. Aria continued stroking his hair, humming a gentle melody as the floating lights dimmed. His body was growing terribly heavy. For all his attempts to remain alert, the exhausting business of being born was catching up with him. Fine, he thought. Just a short rest. He closed his eyes. And within seconds, he was asleep.
The first few days of Soma Locke's new life were a humiliating lesson in how little control a person could possess over their own existence. Eating required assistance. Moving required assistance. Changing positions required assistance. And his digestive system operated according to rules he found frankly insulting. Worst of all were the diapers.
I have retained the ability to think, analyze, and reason, he reflected bitterly during one particularly unfortunate morning. And apparently none of those skills include bladder control. Melissa found his indignant expression adorable. Soma disagreed. Strongly. Nevertheless, he began observing his surroundings whenever he was awake.
Aria possessed a thin, glasslike tablet that hovered above her hand. When touched, it projected translucent images into the air, including miniature moving portraits of people speaking from elsewhere. Preston occasionally wore a small metallic communication device beneath his collar. The household's lights required no flame. The doctor had used equipment resembling modern medical instruments.
Yet servants carried silver trays through stone corridors, nobles wore embroidered coats, and horse-drawn carriages rattled across the courtyard below. It was a bizarre combination. Soma had no explanation for it. So he watched. And waited. By his third morning, Soma had begun to recognize the household's rhythms: the clink of morning trays, Samantha's quiet rounds, Melissa's absentminded humming while she folded linens. Which was precisely why he noticed the moment that rhythm changed.
Visitors had arrived. Not relatives. Not courtiers. Three figures dressed in formal white robes entered the nursery alongside Samantha. The oldest, clearly the presiding priest, wore an ornate silver symbol against his chest. Beside him stood a younger woman carrying a lacquered case — the implantation kit, if Soma had to guess — and a man holding a thin crystal tablet, presumably for records. Preston greeted them politely.
"Father Aldren. Welcome."
"Your Grace." The older man bowed. "We've come to register the birth of Soma Locke and conduct the required Nexus implantation."
Soma went very still. The what?
Aria adjusted the blanket around him.
"Is everything prepared?"
"Yes, Your Grace. The procedure will be brief."
The woman opened the lacquered case. Inside rested a delicate instrument and a tiny translucent object no larger than a grain of rice. Soma studied it. That doesn't look particularly religious. The priest approached.
"The Nexus Network will recognize his identity and maintain the appropriate restrictions until his Awakening Ceremony. All children undergo this process."
Preston nodded.
"Fifteen years. I remember."
"Until the appointed age," the priest confirmed.
Soma's thoughts sharpened. Restrictions?
A faint blue light formed above the instrument. Aria's arms tightened around him — a small, instinctive motion. She exchanged a brief glance with Preston, who gave her a reassuring nod, and then she carefully loosened her hold. The woman with the lacquered case placed the device against his upper arm. A tiny prick followed. Soma jerked in surprise. Excuse me! I wasn't consulted!
A soft chime sounded. The crystal tablet glowed.
"Identity registered," the younger man announced. "Nexus implant active. Mana limitation confirmed."
The priest inclined his head.
"May the gods watch over young Soma Locke."
Preston smiled.
"And may he grow strong enough to make them proud."
The visitors departed shortly afterward, leaving the nursery peaceful once more. But Soma was no longer interested in sleeping. He stared at the spot on his arm. Nothing remained visible. No wound. No mark. Only the faintest lingering warmth. Nexus Network. Mana limitation. Awakening Ceremony. Three unfamiliar concepts, and every adult in the room had treated them as perfectly normal. Soma looked toward the floating lights above his crib. Somewhere in this world, there were answers.
He simply had to grow old enough to find them. Unfortunately, his stomach chose that precise moment to rumble. He frowned. First, apparently, I have to survive lunch. From the doorway, Samantha smiled.
"Is the young master hungry?"
Soma raised one tiny fist. A magnificent gesture of defiance. Samantha cooed.
"Oh, aren't you precious!"
This is going to be a very long fifteen years.