March 8, 1608 – London, England

Darkness.

Then—a rush of air, cold and damp, filling my lungs for the first time. My body jerks as if I’ve been pulled from an abyss, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs. The world is a blur of dim candlelight, distant voices, and a strange heaviness in my limbs. I try to move, but my body resists. My fingers are small. My skin is soft. I am an infant.

For a fleeting moment, a memory from before the jump flares in my mind—a massive chamber filled with scientists, their faces tight with anticipation as the countdown began. The hum of the time portal. Dr. Evelyn Carter’s voice steady but urgent:

"Humanity’s future depends on you, Elias. We’ve given you everything. But you must survive first."

Then—a flash. Silence. And now, this.

I blink, adjusting to the flickering light of a vast stone chamber. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood, damp stone, and something metallic—blood. A weak cry breaks through the haze. Not mine. Another newborn.

I turn my head—or rather, my small body instinctively shifts—and I see him.

The real prince.

He is swaddled in embroidered silks, his tiny hands twitching as he wails. His features are delicate, red from birth, his breaths shallow. He is James Stuart, the rightful son of King James I and Queen Anne of Denmark. The prince of England. And I… I have taken his place.

I am James now.

The mission was a success.

The portal worked.

A wave of relief rushes through me, but it is short-lived. I try to access the knowledge—centuries of human history, sciences, politics, inventions—everything humanity gathered to reshape the past. But my mind is silent. No data. No voice of ARCHIVE, the AI embedded in my DNA.

Panic grips me.

The scientists had set the timer. ARCHIVE will not activate until I turn sixteen. Until then, I am just a child—an orphan of time, stranded in an era that does not belong to me.

The reality of it crushes me like a collapsing star.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

I am alone.

The Queen’s Eyes

The chamber is vast, illuminated by flickering torches lining the walls. Heavy tapestries block the cold draft seeping through the stone. The wooden bed, carved with intricate patterns, dominates the room. And upon it lies a woman, her golden curls clinging to her damp forehead, her breaths slow and exhausted.

Queen Anne of Denmark. My mother.

I stare at her, feeling the weight of her gaze even in her weakened state.

“The prince…” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “Bring him to me.”

One of the midwives hesitates before gently lifting me from the cradle. The warmth of the blanket surrounds me, but I am too alert, too aware. I am not supposed to be here.

As I am placed in the queen’s trembling arms, she studies me with tired but sharp blue eyes.

Her gaze lingers on my face.

Does she sense something is wrong?

“You are strong,” she whispers, her lips forming a weak smile. “My son. My James.”

A strange, unfamiliar warmth spreads through me. For a moment, I am not a misplaced traveler from the future. I am simply a child in his mother’s embrace.

The warmth fades when a shadow moves by the doorway.

A tall figure stands there, observing.

King James I.

His piercing gaze sweeps over the room before settling on me. There is no warmth in his expression—only scrutiny, as if already assessing my worth.

“The heir to England,” he mutters.

I do not cry. I do not flinch. I meet his gaze with an unnatural stillness.

Perhaps, deep down, he notices.

The First Threat

A week passes. Then a month.

I grow, but the world around me is foreign and dangerous. I learn quickly that the palace is not a sanctuary—it is a battlefield. Not of swords, but of whispers, secrets, and alliances.

The court watches me with calculating eyes. Servants bow with feigned loyalty. Even the queen, despite her tenderness, remains guarded.

And then there is Robert Cecil.

A man of power. The king’s closest advisor. He watches me differently from the others—not with admiration, but with something else. Suspicion.

One evening, as I lie in my cradle, I hear his low voice outside the chamber door.

“The prince does not cry,” Cecil murmurs. “He does not fuss. He stares as if he understands too much.”

A chill runs through me.

The queen’s voice is firm. “He is a miracle, Robert. A gift.”

“A mystery,” Cecil counters. “One that should be watched closely.”

They suspect. Even now, as I am only a child, they know something is different.

A Child of Two Worlds

Days turn into weeks. I do not have the knowledge I was promised, but I still remember fragments from my original life—the voices of scientists, the hum of machinery, the weight of humanity’s burden placed upon me.

I begin observing the world, understanding its rules. Language comes quickly—first in scattered words, then in full comprehension. I learn the faces of those around me. I listen to every conversation, piecing together court politics.

But knowledge is not enough. I must survive.

One night, as I lie beneath the silken canopy of my cradle, I whisper to myself.

“I am James Stuart, Prince of England.”

The words feel foreign, yet they must become my truth.

I have sixteen years until ARCHIVE awakens. Sixteen years to blend, to grow, to prepare.

I must play the role.

Because if I fail—if they discover what I truly am—then history itself will swallow me whole.

And humanity’s last hope will die with me.

---