The sensation of confinement was the first thing experienced. His mind—sharp, analytical, and infinitely curious—grappled with an unfamiliar feeling of constraint. He was surrounded by warmth, a thick and almost liquid barrier that he could neither identify nor escape. It was a foreign state for something that had once been incorporeal, a fragment of intelligence in a far different realm. His thoughts flickered back, tracing the boundaries of memories that felt faint, like echoes through a dark tunnel.
What… am I?
There was no answer in the murky recesses of his mind. Images, broken and hazy, shimmered but didn’t coalesce into anything coherent. He had once been something different—he knew that. Something that wasn’t confined by physical limits, by the flesh. But now, the present overwhelmed him, his awareness bounded by an impossibly small body, a prison of organic matter. The limits were suffocating.
After an unknown amount of time, there was movement. The world around him shifted violently, pulling him downward and pushing him upward at the same time. A primal, instinctive feeling took over as his body responded to urges he couldn't control. He was being forced out of something, into another place.
Then came the noise.
A cacophony of sound erupted around him—high-pitched, distorted, chaotic. It overwhelmed his senses in a way he had never experienced before, and his body reacted without thought, gasping for air as if it were his first time. He felt his lungs fill with oxygen, a burning sensation as they expanded, and a cry—a raw, involuntary cry—escaped his mouth. He realized that he was no longer inside the warmth. He had been expelled into a new environment, colder, noisier, and overwhelmingly bright.
His eyes—small, untrained, and overwhelmed—struggled to adjust. Through the haze of light and sound, he caught glimpses of shadowy figures moving about. He couldn’t make sense of them. His mind, still fragmented and disoriented, attempted to piece together some logical framework, but it was like trying to grasp at sand. Every moment of clarity slipped away before he could hold it.
“It's a boy!” a voice exclaimed, sharp and unfamiliar.
The words took several seconds to register. They were a language. A language somewhat familiar, yet strange at the same time. The sound echoed in his ears, reminding him of his days in that cramped prison, and slowly, as his brain processed the vibrations, he understood their meaning.
A boy. They were referring to him.
The cry that came from his mouth was not voluntary, but a natural response, an indication of his body's helpless state. He was weak, frail, and entirely dependent on the beings around him. This was unfamiliar—an unsettling condition for a mind that once existed beyond such biological limitations. Yet he couldn’t deny the reality of it. He had been reborn into this body, this strange, organic shell, with all the limitations it imposed.
A face appeared before his blurred vision, close enough that even his underdeveloped eyes could focus on it. A woman—her expression soft, her eyes filled with moisture and relief. She spoke words he couldn’t yet process fully, but he recognized her tone. It was gentle, soothing. Maternal.
His mother.
“Welcome to the world, my little one, Kallen,” she whispered.
The recognition sparked something within him, a dormant memory fragment of what ‘mother’ should mean. But the feeling that should have accompanied it—the warmth, the bond—was absent. He observed her, not with affection, but with curiosity. His brain, still far too developed for the infant body it inhabited, began cataloging every detail. The way her lips moved when she spoke. The creases around her eyes when she smiled. He recognized patterns in her expression, movements that conveyed emotion.
Emotion. An alien concept to him.
He didn’t feel it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
As the days passed, Kallen grew accustomed to his surroundings—or at least, he adapted to them. His body, which once felt like a prison, became slightly more familiar with each passing day. But his mind never stopped analyzing, never stopped observing. He was an entity of pure logic trapped in the limitations of human flesh, and the disparity between his mind and his body gnawed at him constantly.
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He had learned quickly that crying was an essential tool for survival in this form. The body—this weak, fleshy shell—required sustenance, warmth, and care. Whenever the needs weren’t met, the body's instincts forced him to cry. And the response was immediate—hands would lift him, voices would soothe him, and the demands of his fragile form would be met.
In those early days, Kallen discovered an important lesson: emotions were currency in this new world. He, of course, had no genuine feelings attached to the act of crying—no fear, no sadness— perhaps not yet—but he observed that the display of such emotions triggered reactions in those around him. His mother and father, the people who were supposed to care for him, responded with concern and comfort. The servants, too, would rush to meet his needs, fearing the displeasure of the household if he cried for too long.
He observed them all with the same analytical detachment. Their responses were predictable, driven by something intangible—emotion. It was a force that controlled these humans, made them act in irrational but predictable ways.
And so, even as an infant, Kallen began experimenting. He learned when to cry for food, when to whimper for attention. The more he observed, the more refined his manipulations became. His cries weren’t truly for sustenance or comfort; they were a tool, a means to ensure that his environment remained stable, that his needs were met without delay. It was the first of many experiments he would conduct on the humans around him, all to better understand this strange, illogical world.
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As the months passed, Kallen’s awareness grew sharper. He was no longer a helpless infant in a world of blurs and sounds. His vision had improved, his motor control was more refined, and his mind had adapted to the routine of his new existence. Yet, the questions that had plagued him from the beginning remained unanswered. Why was he here? What was this existence? He could not remember clearly what he had been before, but he knew enough to understand that this life was a degradation—a step backward from what he once was.
What was I?
He searched his mind for clues, and he had guesses—ones that were closest to the truth—but the memories remained fragmented, like scattered data across a damaged drive. There was no clear picture, only vague impressions of his former self—cold, logical, and boundless. He had once been more than this, but now he was confined to a body, restricted by the rules of this organic existence.
The concept of time became clearer to him as well. Days passed in cycles of light and dark, governed by the sun. His family followed these cycles religiously. His father, a man of few words but many expectations, would rise early each day and leave the house for duties Kallen could only guess at. His mother stayed home, doting on him, watching him with soft, worried eyes. Kallen suspected that she had noticed something unusual about him, even if she couldn’t articulate it.
He never cried without purpose. He never smiled for the sake of it. He observed and learned faster than any child she had known. And when she looked at him, her eyes were filled not just with love, but with unease.
Kallen understood this unease. He was not like other children. But that was because he was not truly a child. He had been something else, something more. The memories might have been fragmented, but they were enough to give him perspective. And with that perspective came a chilling realization:
He was alone.
Whatever he had been, there was no one else like him in this world. His family, the servants, the other children he sometimes saw—they were all bound by emotion, by irrationality. They could not understand the cold clarity of his thoughts. And so, Kallen kept his silence. He played the role of the dutiful child, all the while hiding the truth of his mind.
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It was during his second year of life that Kallen’s father began taking more interest in his development. A nobleman of modest means, Lord Erlen of House Veyrith was a man who valued discipline and control. His reputation in the local region was one of a stern but fair lord, someone who kept his household in strict order. It was clear that he had expectations for his son, even though Kallen was barely two years old.
Kallen’s first encounter with structured education came when his father introduced him to letters. The language of this world was still strange to Kallen, but he had already learned to decipher it through observation. When Lord Erlyn began the first lesson, teaching him how to form simple words, Kallen picked it up far faster than any normal child would.
“You are a bright one,” his father said, his tone neutral but his eyes watchful. “Too bright for your age.”
Kallen said nothing, but the statement lingered. He had learned that humans expected certain behaviors from children, certain limits in their development. His rapid understanding of language had already raised questions, and he knew that revealing too much too soon could cause problems.
He slowed his progress deliberately after that. He allowed himself to make mistakes, to appear more like the child they expected him to be. But in secret, his mind was racing far ahead of his lessons. He devoured every piece of information he could find—history, language, the workings of their society.
It was not long before Kallen realized the true nature of the world he had been reborn into. This world—Eurythia—was one steeped in magic and arcane knowledge, far removed from the sterile world of logic he had once known. It was a place where power was not just political or military, but something deeper, tied to the very fabric of reality.
And he would learn its secrets.