Kingdom of Verdwryn

The cries of a newborn pierced the air of the small cottage, blending with the gentle rhythm of rain tapping against the shutters. Outside, the fertile fields of Dawnfield glistened beneath the first spring rain, their emerald hues deepened by the soft, overcast light. The distant murmur of the River Lysara provided a soothing counterpoint to the cries, a reminder of the life-giving waters that sustained this humble village.

Inside, the cottage was warm and dim, the glow of the hearth painting soft, flickering shadows on the wooden beams above. Marla, her auburn hair clinging damply to her flushed cheeks, cradled her newborn son in trembling arms. Exhaustion coursed through her body, but it was overpowered by an all-consuming love for the tiny life she held close. His skin, soft and warm, was still touched by the mystery of his arrival into the world.

"He's strong," Gareth murmured, crouching beside her. His broad, calloused hands hovered above the child, his touch hesitant. Despite the strength that came from years of working the land, there was a gentleness in the way he regarded his son, as though he feared his hands might be too rough for something so delicate. His weathered face softened as he smiled. "Strong like his mother."

Marla chuckled faintly, the sound weak but filled with warmth. "Or stubborn like his father."

Gareth laughed quietly, brushing a hand through his dark hair as he leaned closer. "A fair point."

Nearby, the midwife, a stout woman with silver-streaked hair, packed her tools by the hearth. She glanced back at the new parents with a knowing smile. "Born on the first rain of spring," she said, her tone reverent. "The Everwinds favor this child. A blessing on your family, Marla."

Marla smiled, though her gaze never left her son. She traced her finger lightly over his cheek, marveling at the softness of his skin and the steady rise and fall of his tiny chest. In this moment, all the world faded away, leaving only her and this fragile, beautiful being.

But even as she marveled, she could not have known the strange truth behind his serene gaze. For while his body was that of a newborn, Michael's mind was not. Beneath his unassuming blue eyes lay the memories of a man—a soldier from another world.

Michael Lockwood. That had been his name. And though his previous life had ended in fire and blood, he now found himself alive once more. The realization weighed heavily on him, even as his tiny body rested in his mother's arms.

He didn't cry as most newborns would. He observed. The warmth of his mother's arms, the rustic scent of the room, the rhythmic crackle of the fire—all of it registered with startling clarity. His senses, though dulled by his infant form, were nonetheless sharper than they should have been. This was no dream, no fleeting vision. He had died, of that he was certain. Yet here he was, reborn.

"Michael," Marla whispered softly, her voice trembling as she spoke the name. It came to her unbidden, as though carried by the winds themselves. She gazed at him as if the act of naming him could anchor him to this new reality. "Michael, son of Gareth."

Gareth tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "Michael," he repeated, testing the unfamiliar name on his tongue. After a moment, he nodded. "A strong name."

Strong. Michael felt the weight of that word settle in his mind. Once, in another life, he had embodied strength. He had stood against impossible odds, leading his men into battle and sacrificing everything to ensure their survival. But now, in this fragile, powerless body, strength was a distant memory.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of Marla's heartbeat, a steady rhythm against his small form. He could feel the warmth of her love, the fierce protection she offered without hesitation. In this body, he was vulnerable, dependent. It was a stark contrast to the man he had been. Yet, even in this helpless state, he felt a flicker of resolve.

The Everwinds. He didn't know what they were, but the midwife's words lingered in his mind. He had been brought here for a reason. Whether it was the will of some unseen force or mere chance, he didn't know. What he did know was that he had been given another chance—a chance to live, to grow, to find a new purpose.

For now, he would endure. He would relearn the ways of this strange new world, understanding its rules, its dangers, and its people. There would be time to grieve the life he had lost, the comrades he had left behind, but that time was not now. This was a beginning.

The rain outside softened to a gentle drizzle, the rhythmic patter blending with the crackling fire. Gareth stood and placed a hand on Marla's shoulder, his touch grounding her as she gazed down at their son. "We'll give him a good life," he said quietly, his voice filled with quiet determination. "The best we can."

Marla nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. "He's special," she murmured.

Michael opened his eyes again, their blue depths reflecting the flickering firelight. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he would face it, one step at a time. Michael, son of Gareth, was born again.