Chapter 1: The Child at the Gate
Morning came slowly.
He opened his eyes to pale sunlight filtered through dusty curtains. The ceiling above was wooden, plain, foreign. His body ached. But more than that—it felt wrong.
He sat up with effort. His limbs were too short. His hands—soft, pudgy, barely responsive. A child's body.
The door creaked open.
"Oh, you're awake," came a soft voice.
A woman entered, her face lined with care, habit tight across silvered hair. She approached quietly, kneeling beside the bed. "How do you feel, sweetheart?"
He blinked, tried to speak. His throat was dry. "Hurts… a little."
She gave a gentle nod. "That's alright. You've been through a lot. Rest, okay? There's no rush."
He stared at her, at the unfamiliar clothes, the accent, the softness.
"Do you remember where your home is?"
He hesitated. A calculated pause. Then, honestly: "No."
Her lips thinned, not with judgment, but sympathy.
"Your parents, then? Someone who brought you here? You're such a unique-looking child… we don't see many like you around here. Olive skin, deep blue eyes… Are you from the Middle East, perhaps? Do you remember who left you at the gate?"
He shook his head slowly. "I don't know."
She frowned slightly. "You don't know, or you don't remember?"
He looked down at his tiny hands, willing some echo, some trace of memory from the body he now inhabited. But it was empty. A clean slate.
"I don't… remember."
She sighed, standing. "You poor dear. Whoever left you… they shouldn't have. But you're safe now. Get some rest. I'll bring you something warm soon."
She walked out, her footsteps fading.
Left alone, he pulled the blanket aside and slid down from the bed. The floor was cold. A mirror hung on the far wall. He approached it, curious.
And there he saw himself.
A boy, no older than two. Olive skin. Deep blue, curious eyes. A round face still damp from tears.
He touched the glass. The image mimicked him.
It was not the face of the man he had once been. It was not the face of a merchant-lord, feared by kings and rebels.
It was the face of a child. A blank beginning.
He stared into those eyes and whispered the only word that remained of the man he was:
"Thomas."