I had hoped for eternal rest.
Instead, I was reborn.
Frustration surged through me, and before I could stop it, it burst out as a wail. A baby's cry. Pathetic—but fitting.
My eyes fluttered open to a dim, enclosed space. The ceiling above me was uneven stone, worn with time, dark with dampness. Steel beams ran across it—not the kind you'd see in old buildings, but polished, humming faintly with a presence I couldn't explain. The walls were lined with stacked crates, metallic cylinders, and strange equipment that didn't quite resemble anything from science or fantasy. A wall-mounted light pulsed with a soft white-blue glow, casting faint shadows across the room. The place felt... unfamiliar. Not medieval. Not futuristic. Something in between—structured, but alien. Cold, but alive.
Then I heard her voice.
A soft coo—gentle, trembling—like warmth wrapped in sound. I turned toward it, blinking away newborn blur.
She came into view.
Mid-twenties, maybe younger. Long black hair framed her face in gentle waves. Her skin was pale and smooth, and her dark nightgown shimmered slightly in the low light, silver threading catching like scattered stars. Her blue eyes—so deep they bordered on violet—locked onto mine with a look that stopped my breath.
Not just warmth.
Motherly love. Complete. Unquestioning. Pure.
I stopped crying. My small hand reached out instinctively.
She caught it with her finger, her touch feather-light but secure—like I belonged there. She whispered something in a language I didn't know. The sounds were fluid, musical, unlike anything I'd heard in my old world. But one word stood out:
"Savin."
My name. Again.
Coincidence? Fate? Or just lazy universal recycling?
Either way, it was one problem solved—I wouldn't need to overwrite my old name. Small wins in a life I never asked for.
She turned and called out, urgency creeping into her tone. Another figure emerged from the shadows.
An older woman stepped forward. Short in stature, with a hunched back, her gray hair was braided tight and wrapped with copper wire. Her face was lean and lined, eyes sharp. She wore a heavy robe patched with careful stitches—practical, well-worn.
They spoke quickly, low and intense. The younger woman's voice cracked once, her shoulders trembling. I didn't know the words, but I knew the emotions.
Fear. Desperation. Grief.
And still, she cradled me. She pressed her forehead gently to mine, brushing my cheek with her thumb.
Then… she handed me over.
The older woman took me with surprising tenderness and placed me into a deep basket, its interior padded with thick cloth. My mother leaned over me one last time, her lips moving silently, her eyes glassy.
Tears didn't fall.
But she was crying all the same.
She closed the lid.
Darkness swallowed me. I heard the older woman's breathing—ragged—and the thudding of her footsteps as she ran with me.
Then… nothing.
The world went still, and exhaustion claimed me. This new body, so small and fragile, couldn't keep up. I slept.
Hours passed.
Then came the sun.
Its warmth hit my face like a slap—too bright, too sharp. I cried again, raw and immediate.
A new face leaned over the basket.
Taller than the last woman, she looked to be in her sixties. Her long silver hair flowed freely, her robe simple but clean—too refined for a common traveler, too practical for nobility. Her expression was unreadable. Calm. Analytical.
She studied me for a few seconds in silence, then lifted me from the basket and carried me toward a large structure in the distance.
It wasn't a house. It wasn't a castle. Not a temple or a hut. Stone walls lined with faint glowing veins rose before us, each block smooth and seamless, as if molded—not carved. The archway above us shimmered subtly, like it was holding something back. Or holding something in.
The building pulsed with quiet purpose.
She carried me through its doors.
And as we crossed that threshold, away from the warmth of the sun, away from the woman who'd left me behind, one thought clung to my mind:
Why did she leave me?
And why… was I abandoned again?