The first five years of Orion's life were spent mostly in the women's quarters of the palace. This was normal for a prince. His world consisted of his mother's sitting room, the nursery, and the sheltered garden just below their windows where Seraphina liked to walk in the afternoons.
He learned to crawl, then walk, then run, always with a maid or a nurse close behind. He learned to speak, though he had to be careful about that. The problem with being a baby who remembered another life was that you had to pretend you didn't understand things until the appropriate time. He spent a lot of time simply watching, listening, and storing away information.
The palace of Alaya was a maze of white stone and silver trim. From what he could gather by listening to the servants, Heliopolis was the largest city in the kingdom, and the palace sat at its center like a jewel in a setting. The Andromeda dynasty had ruled here for over a thousand years, which explained why everyone spoke of the royal family with a mixture of awe and possessiveness.
Elara was his constant companion. She had taken her role as big sister seriously from the start, and as he grew from infant to toddler to small boy, she included him in everything. She showed him the secret passage behind the tapestry in the east corridor. She taught him which cook would slip you extra honeycakes if you looked hungry enough. She pointed out the courtiers who smiled too much and whispered too little.
"That one," she said one afternoon when Orion was three, pointing through a crack in the door at a plump nobleman in purple robes. "Lord Cassian. He's always nice to our faces, but I heard Father say he can't be trusted."
"Why can't he be trusted?" Orion asked.
"I don't know exactly. That's what grown-ups say when they don't want to explain things." She shrugged. "But Father knows. Father knows everything about everyone."
Their father. King Kaelen.
Orion saw him more often now that he was walking and talking, but the man remained a mystery. He was tall and quiet, with eyes that seemed to look through you rather than at you. When he visited the nursery, which was maybe twice a week, he would ask Orion simple questions—what had he learned today, had he been obedient to his mother, did he like his new tutor—and listen to the answers with the same expression he wore when receiving reports from his generals.
Once, when Orion was four, he had asked his mother why Father was so serious all the time.
Seraphina had smiled that sad smile she sometimes wore. "He carries a heavy weight, my love. The kingdom rests on his shoulders. Every decision he makes affects thousands of lives. That would make anyone serious."
"Is that why he doesn't play with me like Elara does?"
"He plays in his own way." She had brushed his hair back from his forehead. "He makes sure you are safe. He makes sure you have good teachers. He makes sure the kingdom you will one day rule is strong and peaceful. That is his way of playing."
Orion had accepted this, but he didn't quite understand it until the incident with the riding pony.
When he turned five, his father gave him a pony. Not a tiny, harmless thing, but a real horse, small but spirited, with a white blaze on its forehead and a tendency to nip at anyone who came too close. The groom who brought the animal to the stable courtyard looked nervous.
"His Majesty said the prince is to learn on a proper mount," the groom explained to Seraphina, who had come down to see the gift. "Said the stable master is to begin lessons tomorrow."
Seraphina's face had gone pale, but she only nodded. "Of course. If the king wishes it."
That night, Orion heard them arguing through the wall of his mother's sitting room. He had learned to press his ear to certain spots where the stone was thinner, a trick Elara had taught him.
"He's five years old, Kaelen. Five. That animal is half-wild."
"He needs to learn. I was riding at four."
"You were raised in a military camp. He's been raised in a palace. There's a difference."
"A difference you have created." His father's voice was cold now. "You keep him too close, Seraphina. You treat him like a doll when he needs to be shaped into a king."
"I treat him like a child because he is a child!"
"He is a prince. He stopped being just a child the moment he was born. The sooner you accept that, the better prepared he will be for what's coming."
Silence. Then his mother's voice, quieter: "What do you think is coming? He's five years old. He has his whole life ahead of him."
"I hope so. I pray to Solis every night that he has a long life ahead of him. But hope doesn't prepare a boy for the world. Training does. Discipline does." A pause. "The horse stays. The lessons begin tomorrow. That is my decision."
Orion crept back to his bed and lay staring at the ceiling. He understood now. His father wasn't cruel, not exactly. He was preparing Orion for something. For the weight that rested on his own shoulders, the weight that made him serious and distant.
The riding lessons were terrible. The pony, whose name was Storm, lived up to his name. He bucked, he bit, he tried to scrape Orion off against the walls of the riding ring. The stable master, a weathered man called Jorek who smelled of hay and leather, was patient but firm.
"Show him who's boss," Jorek would say as Orion bounced painfully in the saddle. "He's testing you. They all test you. You have to let him know you're in charge."
"I'm five," Orion gasped, clinging to the reins. "He's a horse. He should know he's in charge."
Jorek actually laughed at that, a rare sound. "Fair point, young prince. But horses don't think that way. They need a leader. If you won't lead, they will. And trust me, you don't want Storm making the decisions."
By the end of the first month, Orion had figured it out. It wasn't about strength—he had none compared to the pony. It was about confidence. About not being afraid. The moment Storm sensed fear, he took advantage. But if Orion sat straight, kept his hands steady, and acted like he knew exactly what he was doing, the pony gradually settled.
His father came to watch a lesson near the end of that month. He stood at the rail, arms crossed, face unreadable. Orion, seeing him there, sat up straighter. He guided Storm through his paces—walk, trot, halt—without a single misstep.
When the lesson ended, Kaelen walked over and looked down at Orion, still mounted on the pony. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached up and put a hand on Orion's knee.
"Good work," he said. Just that. Two words. But the way he said it, with something almost like pride in his voice, made Orion feel taller than the tallest tower in the palace.
That night, at dinner in the family's private quarters, Elara kicked him under the table and whispered, "Father said you did well. He never says that about anyone."
Orion kicked her back, but he was smiling.
The tutor arrived when Orion was six. His name was Master Varen, and he was an old man with a bald head and the kind of face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile centuries ago. He taught reading, writing, history, mathematics, and something he called "proper deportment," which seemed to mean sitting still and not fidgeting.
The history lessons were Orion's favorite. Master Varen told stories of the Solar Dynasty, of the first king who had united the warring cities under one banner, of the wars against the northern barbarians, of the great plague and the rebuilding. He spoke of the Andromeda constellation that gave the royal family its name, how the ancients believed the stars themselves watched over their bloodline.
"Is it true?" Orion asked one afternoon. "Do the stars really watch us?"
Master Varen considered the question longer than most adults would have. "That depends on what you mean by 'watch.' Do they look down and see us as we see each other? No. But the old texts say the stars are the souls of our ancestors, gathered in the sky to guide us. Whether that's literally true or simply a metaphor, the meaning is the same. You are never alone. You are part of something larger than yourself."
Orion thought about this for a long time after the lesson ended. Part of something larger. He understood that. He could feel it in the way the servants bowed when he passed, in the way the guards snapped to attention when he entered a room. He wasn't just Orion. He was Prince Orion, son of Kaelin, heir to the throne of Alaya.
The weight of it pressed on him sometimes, especially at night when he couldn't sleep. He would lie in his bed and think about the kingdom, about the thousands of people who would one day look to him for protection and guidance. It was terrifying. He had been a lot of things in his previous life, but never a ruler. Never someone with that kind of responsibility.
But he also remembered the relief of being born again, the joy of that second chance. If the universe had put him here, in this body, in this life, then there must be a reason. He didn't know what that reason was yet, but he intended to find out.
Elara was his guide through the complexities of court life. She was eleven now, and starting to spend more time with their mother, learning the things that queens needed to know. But she still made time for him, still dragged him through secret passages and whispered gossip about the nobles.
"Lady Mira is going to marry Lord Stefan," she told him one afternoon, pulling him into an empty storeroom off the kitchen corridor. "But she's in love with someone else. A captain in the guard. Everyone knows except Lord Stefan."
"How do you know?"
"I listen." She tapped her ear. "People forget I'm there. They see a girl and think I'm not paying attention. But I'm always paying attention. You should learn to do the same."
It was good advice. Orion started paying attention too, and he discovered that the palace was full of secrets. The cook who slipped extra portions to the stable hands was the mother of one of them. The lady-in-waiting who always looked angry was actually grieving a brother who had died in the last border skirmish. The guard who stood outside the throne room every morning had a wife who was expecting a child, and he was terrified he wouldn't be there when the baby came.
These weren't state secrets, nothing that would threaten the kingdom. But they were pieces of a larger picture, glimpses into the lives of the people who served his family. They reminded Orion that the palace wasn't just a place of power and politics. It was a home, filled with people who loved and feared and hoped just like everyone else.
When he was seven, his father took him to see the throne room during a formal audience. They stood behind a screen at the back of the dais, watching as petitioners approached the throne. Farmers asking for relief from taxes. Merchants disputing trade rights. A woman whose son had been killed in a construction accident, begging for compensation.
Orion watched his father's face as he listened to each one. The king's expression didn't change much, but his questions were sharp, precise. He didn't just grant or deny requests. He dug deeper, asking about details that seemed small but clearly mattered. How many acres? What were the exact terms of the contract? Had the construction foreman been properly licensed?
After the last petitioner left, Kaelen turned to Orion. "What did you see?"
Orion thought about it. "A lot of people who need things."
"Yes. And what do they all have in common?"
He considered. "They all think you can fix their problems."
"Can I?"
"I don't know. Can you?"
Kaelen almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. "Sometimes. When the problem is simple and the solution is clear. But most problems aren't simple. Most of the time, all I can do is choose the option that hurts the fewest people and hope I'm right." He looked down at Orion. "That's what being king means. Not fixing everything. Choosing which hurts to accept."
Orion didn't fully understand then, but he filed the words away. Years later, he would remember them.
The years passed quietly after that. Orion continued his lessons with Master Varen, his riding with Jorek, his explorations with Elara. He grew taller, stronger, more confident in his role. The memories of his previous life faded somewhat, not disappearing but settling into the background, like furniture in a room you've lived in so long you no longer notice it.
He still remembered the weariness, though. The feeling of a life running out, of chances wasted, of time slipping away. That memory was useful. It made him appreciate things other children took for granted—the warmth of the sun on his face, the taste of honey on bread, the sound of his mother laughing at something Elara said.
Seraphina laughed more now. Having both her children healthy and growing had eased something in her. She still worried—Orion caught her watching him sometimes with an expression of fierce, almost fearful love—but she worried less. She had started taking a more active role in court, advising the king on matters of diplomacy and domestic policy. People said she had a gift for seeing the human side of political questions, for remembering that every decision affected real people.
Elara was changing too. At fourteen, she was nearly a woman, tall and graceful with their mother's honey-colored eyes and their father's sharp mind. She still found time for Orion, but she had new responsibilities now—attending council meetings, hosting visiting dignitaries, learning the endless details of palace management.
"You'll be glad you have me," she told him one evening as they walked in the garden. "When you're king, you'll need someone you can trust absolutely. That's what sisters are for."
"What about when you marry and go away?"
She stopped walking and looked at him. "Who says I'm going away?"
"Most princesses do. They marry princes from other kingdoms. It's what happens."
"Maybe." She took his hand and squeezed it. "But maybe I'll marry someone who wants to live here. Or maybe I won't marry at all. Father says I'm too valuable to waste on an alliance with some petty lord." She grinned. "He actually said 'petty lord.' Right in front of Lord Cassian. You should have seen his face."
Orion laughed. He loved when Elara made him laugh. It was one of the best things about having a sister.
That night, lying in bed, he thought about the future. About the weight that would one day settle on his shoulders. About the kingdom he would rule and the people who would depend on him. It was terrifying, yes. But it was also exciting. He had been given a second chance, a chance to do something meaningful with his life. Not everyone got that.
He thought about his father's words in the throne room. Choosing which hurts to accept. That was the burden of power. But maybe there was another way. Maybe a king could do more than just choose between bad options. Maybe he could create new options, better ones, ones that didn't require hurting anyone at all.
It was a child's thought, naive and hopeful. But Orion was still a child, even with an old soul tucked inside him. And hope, he was learning, was not such a bad thing to have.
Through the window, the stars shone down. The constellation Andromeda was visible tonight, a spray of silver light across the darkness. His ancestors, according to legend. Watching over him.
Orion smiled and closed his eyes. Tomorrow there would be lessons and riding practice and perhaps another adventure with Elara. But tonight, he would sleep. Tonight, he would rest.