The ceiling was wrong.
That was Maverick Marshall's first coherent thought.
It was too high. Too curved. Too intricately carved with patterns that resembled constellations he did not recognise. Gold filigree traced the edges of deep blue panels, and between them faint lines of light pulsed softly — technology woven seamlessly into aristocratic craftsmanship.
He lay still.
He did not remember lying down.
He did not remember this bed.
The sheets beneath his fingers were silk, cool and unnaturally smooth. His hands were small. Too small.
He lifted one slowly into his line of sight.
The fingers were soft, unscarred. No calluses. No knuckles split from recoil drills. No faint scar across the index finger from a training mishap in Brecon.
Brecon.
The word echoed strangely.
He swallowed. His throat burned faintly. There was a metallic taste at the back of it.
Poison.
The word arrived without panic. Analytical. Detached.
He turned his head.
The room was vast. Tall arched windows lined the far wall, framed by heavy crimson drapery. Beyond them, a sky glowed amber — not dawn, but the distant flare of a star bleeding across the horizon.
This was not Earth.
His pulse quickened.
He closed his eyes.
Assess.
He flexed his legs beneath the covers. Weak. Untrained. Five years old at most.
Memory fractured. Gunfire. Sand. Turkish air thick with smoke.
He forced himself to breathe evenly.
If this was shock, it was vivid. If this was death, it was remarkably detailed.
The door opened with a soft mechanical sigh disguised as wood against hinge.
Footsteps approached — light, deliberate.
"Marsh?"
The voice was gentle but edged with restraint.
He opened his eyes slowly.
Red hair framed a pale, composed face. Blue eyes studied him with controlled fear.
"Maverick," she corrected softly.
Duchess Elara Marshall.
His mother.
The knowledge slid into place with unnerving ease.
Her hand brushed his forehead.
"You're awake."
"Where am I?"
His voice was too steady for a child.
"You're home."
Another voice filled the doorway.
Deep. Controlled.
"You were ill."
Duke Roland Marshall stepped into the room, broad-shouldered, beard trimmed with military precision. Brown hair streaked with white. Dark eyes that missed nothing.
"The physicians did not expect you to wake so quickly," Roland said.
"Was it wine?" Maverick asked quietly.
Silence.
A glance passed between his parents.
"It was a miscalculation," Roland replied.
Not an answer.
He catalogued it.
Twelfth son.
Expendable to some.
"Did they catch them?"
"They will."
Not a promise.
A certainty.
His gaze shifted towards the shadowed edge of the room.
White hair.
Crystal blue eyes.
Fox ears rising above her head.
A white tail curved behind her, still and controlled.
Elira.
Not merely a servant.
Positioned where she could intercept anyone before they reached the bed.
"You frightened the household," she said calmly. "You were not meant to wake so soon."
Interesting phrasing.
He liked her immediately.
"Training will resume once the physicians clear you," Roland added.
Training.
Good.
Even at five, the body must be forged.
Technology fails. Training does not.
The thought felt older than this life.
"If the lights go out…" Maverick began.
Roland's eyes sharpened.
"…we still fight," his father finished.
A faint smile crossed Roland's face.
Yes.
This life was not soft.
Chukdem was a border world.
Built from freed slave transports and intercepted Imperial convoys.
A dukedom born in defiance.
The Empire would not forgive that.
He closed his eyes, not from exhaustion but calculation.
He would not waste this life.
Not on arrogance.
Not on poor logistics.
Not on preventable deaths.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a wolf's laugh echoed — distant and not yet formed in memory.
Stories of the Starfall Chronicles.
The Order that never abandoned its own.
The Thousand Dawn that outran empires.
He had changed the names when telling them as a child.
Made them his.
Even now, he did not know why that mattered.
But it would.
Elira's fingers brushed his wrist lightly.
"You are thinking too loudly," she murmured.
"I am five."
"Yes," she replied. "That is precisely the concern."
Roland moved towards the doorway.
"The council will be informed of his recovery."
Recovery.
No.
This was awakening.
Beyond the windows, ships crossed the amber sky in silent arcs.
War waited there.
Even at five, he could feel it.
This was not a dream.
It was a second chance.
And he would not squander it.