Corwin folded the letter and tucked it into his vest pocket with the practiced ease of a man who'd learned to hide his worries behind small gestures.
"There will be demonstrations, I'm told. Young members of the family showing off their talents. Swordsmanship, mana manipulation, the usual posturing."
"How exciting," I said, and meant none of it.
The eggs were good. I focused on that instead of the irony coiling in my chest.
Two things had followed me through death.
Not memories of loved ones, not wisdom earned through suffering, not even the satisfaction of knowing I'd saved the world.
No, the universe in its infinite comedy had seen fit to preserve exactly two gifts: my Tuning ability and countless years of swordsmanship beaten into muscle and bone.
I chewed slowly, watching my parents discuss fabric choices and travel arrangements as if the gathering were an honor rather than an obligation.
They had no idea. How could they? To them, I was just Aurelian. A quiet boy. A good son.
Perhaps a bit strange, prone to wandering and late nights, but nothing that warranted real concern.
They didn't know about the nights.
Every evening after they fell asleep, I slipped out through my window and made my way to the copse of elms at the edge of our property.
The stick I used was just that of a stick, roughly sword-length, weathered smooth by months of handling.
My body in this life was young, frail, and weak.
I mean it was laughably unprepared for the threats I knew existed beyond the comfortable walls of civilization.
But Tuning changed that. Had been changing it since I was old enough to understand what I carried inside me.
From the age of four, when most children were learning to tie their shoes, I'd been quietly re-learning to optimize my muscle density, accelerating the development of reflexes that shouldn't belong to a child.
The process was slow and I couldn't risk drawing attention, couldn't let anyone notice that little Aurelian Bourne moved a bit too quickly, hit a bit too hard, recovered from scrapes and bruises faster than any normal boy should.
So I held back. Always held back.
But at night, alone among the trees with only the moon as witness, I let myself remember.
The basic forms came first. Stances, footwork, the fundamental cuts that every swordsman learned before they could call themselves anything at all. My twelve-year-old arms burned through movements they'd performed ten thousand times in another life, another body. The muscle memory was there, locked somewhere deep, but this flesh hadn't earned it yet.
So I earned it again. Night after night after night.
But the sword drills were only half of what consumed those moonlit hours.
Soul Force.
Even thinking the words sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the morning chill seeping through the kitchen window.
In my previous life, I'd stumbled upon it almost by accident. A dusty scroll in a ruined temple, half-burned and barely legible, describing something that predated mana manipulation entirely.
The art of harmonizing one's life force with the body itself—not channeling external power, but awakening what already existed within.
I'd been fifty-three when I found that scroll. Two years before the end.
Two years wasn't enough. Not nearly enough to do more than scratch the surface, to feel the barest flicker of what Soul Force could become.
I'd managed to touch it once, during the final battle, when everything was falling apart and desperation had stripped away all my careful limitations.
That single moment of true harmony had let me reach the Merger device when three legendary heroes couldn't.
***
_A Day Later…_
I stood in our cramped front hall while my mother fussed with the collar of my formal coat, her fingers trembling slightly as she smoothed fabric that had already been smoothed a dozen times.
"You look very handsome," she said, more to herself than to me.
The coat was new, or new to me at least. I suspected she'd traded something for it, though she'd never admit as much.
The dark blue wool was decent quality, unmarked by obvious patches or wear, but it hung slightly wrong on my shoulders.
A hand-me-down from some other branch's castoff, probably. Altered to fit a twelve-year-old body that hadn't quite grown into itself.
Corwin appeared in the doorway, dressed in his own formal attire. His coat fit better than mine, though the cuffs showed the telltale signs of careful mending.
He'd shaved his usual stubble, and without it, he looked younger. More vulnerable.
"Ready?" he asked.
"…"
Neither of us answered honestly.
The walk to the main mansion took less time than I'd hoped.
Our outer-house sat close enough to the estate proper that we couldn't justify hiring a carriage, even if we'd had the coin for one.
So we walked, three figures in clothes slightly too formal for the dusty lane, past the servants' quarters and the gardens that grew progressively more elaborate the closer we got to the heart of Bourne power.
The main mansion rose before us like a monument to five centuries of accumulated ambition.
White marble columns, gilded trim catching the morning sun, windows that probably cost more than our entire house.
I'd seen grander buildings in my previous life even with the High Council chambers, the royal palace of Meridia before the demons burned it—but there was something particularly grating about Bourne luxuriousness.
Maybe because I remembered what they'd been. What they'd crawled up from.
…
The courtyard was already crowded when we arrived.
Bournes of every branch milled about in silks and velvets, their laughter carrying that particular pitch of people performing enjoyment rather than feeling it.
Servants wove between them with trays of refreshments. Children in immaculate clothes chased each other around the central fountain while their parents pretended not to notice.
My mother's hand found my shoulder, squeezed once.
"Stay close," she murmured.
I didn't need the reminder.
We'd barely made it ten steps into the crowd when suddenly everyone seemed to part on their own accord.
Not dramatically, not obviously, but with that subtle shift that happened when someone important approached.
Clack…clack…clack…
Klave Bourne moved through the gathering like a ship through still water.
Fifteen years old and already carrying himself with the easy confidence of someone who'd never once questioned his place in the world.
His formal coat was cut perfectly, dark fabric with gold threading that probably cost more than my father earned in a year.
Behind him, trailing like a shadow in silk, walked his sister Luna.
They approached us. Or rather, they approached the general direction we happened to occupy.
"Corwin." Klave nod was polite, empty, a gesture performed out of obligation rather than recognition.
His eyes were sharp, assessing over my father like water over stone.
"Marienne."
"Young Lord Klave." My father's bow was deeper than it needed to be. "Lady Luna. An honor."
Elara's glance lingered on my mother's dress for exactly long enough to communicate her opinion of it.
Then her gaze dropped to me, and I saw the dismissal register before she'd even finished looking.
"Charming," she said, meaning nothing of the sort.
And then they were gone, already moving toward a cluster of more important guests, leaving us standing like debris after a passing storm.
My mother's hand hadn't left my shoulder. Her grip had tightened.
"Well," Corwin said, his voice carefully neutral. "That went better than expected."
I almost laughed. Almost.
But there wasn't time to dwell on the encounter. A steward materialized at my father's elbow—one of those interchangeable functionaries in Bourne livery who seemed to multiply during gatherings like this.
"Master Corwin, Mistress Marienne." The man's bow was perfunctory, just deep enough to avoid offense. "Your presence is requested in the east gallery. A matter regarding the seating arrangements for the demonstration."
My mother's grip finally released my shoulder. "Aurelian—"
"I'll be fine," I said. "I'll wait by the fountain."
She hesitated, that familiar crease deepening between her brows. But the steward was already gesturing, already leading them away, and my father's hand on her arm guided her forward.
"We won't be long," Corwin said over his shoulder.
I watched them disappear into the crowd, two figures in slightly-wrong clothing being swallowed by a sea of silk and self-importance.
The fountain was a safe enough landmark. I made my way toward it, weaving between clusters of chattering Bournes who didn't spare me a second glance. Just another child in dark blue wool, unremarkable, forgettable.
That was the idea, anyway.