Whitehall Palace, London – 1608

Time moves differently when you are waiting.

Days blend into nights, marked only by the flickering of candlelight and the distant echoes of footsteps down stone corridors. The seasons begin to shift, yet for me, time is nothing but an obstacle.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years until ARCHIVE awakens. Until I have the knowledge to fulfill my purpose.

But survival comes first.

I am no longer Elias, the creation of the scientists of 2520. I am James Stuart, Prince of England. That is the role I must perfect.

And in Whitehall Palace, every role is watched.

The Eyes of the Court

I am barely a year old when I realize the court is not merely a gathering of noblemen—it is a hunting ground.

I see it in the way the servants steal glances when they think no one is looking. The way the advisors measure every word before speaking. The way my father, King James, watches me.

It is subtle, but the weight of expectation is there. A prince must be strong. A prince must be cunning. A prince must be everything the kingdom demands.

I do not cry like other infants. I do not fuss or wail. It does not come naturally to me, and so I force myself to mimic. When hunger gnaws at my stomach, I let out weak cries, ensuring they sound human enough. When my mother—Queen Anne—holds me, I grasp at her fingers, pretending to seek warmth.

It is a delicate balance.

Too much awareness, and suspicion will grow. Too little, and I will be seen as fragile.

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Robert Cecil, my father’s closest advisor, has already taken notice.

The Silent Observer

Cecil visits often, more than any man of his status should. He is short and hunched, with piercing eyes that scan the world like a scholar searching for hidden truths.

One afternoon, he enters the nursery while the nursemaids attend to me. I pretend not to notice, my gaze unfocused as I chew absently on my fingers.

Cecil leans close.

“The prince is quiet,” he murmurs.

The nursemaid, a woman named Margaret, forces a smile. “A blessing, my lord. He is a calm child.”

Cecil does not answer immediately. Instead, he watches me. I feel his gaze like a needle pressing against my skin.

Then, softly, he says, “Calm. Or watching?”

Margaret laughs nervously, shifting between her feet. “Surely, my lord jests.”

Cecil does not.

I do not react.

Eventually, he straightens, his cloak sweeping behind him as he turns away.

But I know this is not the end.

Robert Cecil is a man who does not ignore mysteries. And to him, I am the greatest mystery of all.

The First Test

The first true challenge comes the following winter.

By then, I have grown accustomed to palace life—the patterns of the guards, the daily schedule of the royal family, the ever-present tension that lingers beneath the surface of every conversation.

But then, one evening, I am summoned.

The nursery doors open, and a tall figure steps in.

Sir William, the king’s steward.

“The king wishes to see the prince,” he announces.

The air in the room changes. The nursemaids exchange nervous glances, but they do not dare question the command. I am swiftly wrapped in a thick cloak, the fur-lined edges brushing against my cheek.

They carry me through the halls, torches flickering against the cold stone walls. The shadows dance wildly, stretching long and jagged.

Then, we enter the king’s chambers.

A Father's Judgment

King James sits by the fire, his robes thick, his expression unreadable.

The door shuts behind me.

For a long moment, there is silence.

Then, the king speaks.

“Set him down.”

The steward hesitates, then gently places me onto the floor atop a lavish rug. The warmth from the fireplace washes over me, but I do not move.

The king watches.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “A year old, and yet you rarely cry. You do not wail like other babes. You do not fear the dark.” His voice is low, studying.

A pause. Then:

“Crawl to me.”

My body tenses.

A test.

I stare at him, my mind calculating the best course of action. If I am too swift, he will find it unnatural. If I hesitate too long, he may think me weak.

I take a breath.

Slowly, I shift my weight, placing one hand forward, then the other. My limbs are clumsy, unpracticed, but that is expected. I make sure to stumble once, pausing as if confused.

The king chuckles. “Ah, there it is. A struggle. Good.”

He watches as I continue my slow crawl toward him, reaching his boots before pausing. Then, carefully, I lift my head to meet his gaze.

King James narrows his eyes.

Something flickers in his expression. Approval? Doubt?

Finally, he leans back. “You will be a strong one,” he murmurs. Then, waving his hand, he gestures for the steward. “Take him back.”

I am lifted once more, carried away as the doors shut behind us.

I have passed.

For now.

The Path Ahead

That night, as I lie beneath the canopy of my cradle, I replay every moment in my mind. The king is watching me. The court is watching me. Cecil is watching me.

The danger is growing.

I am still young, still helpless. But time moves forward, and each passing day brings me closer to the moment I will awaken.

Until then, I must remain undetected.

I must play the role.

And I must prepare for the storm that is yet to come.

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