The first breath came sharp and small, breaking the stillness of the chamber. Dyego's eyes opened, adjusting to the flickering torchlight, to the polished stone and the faint scent of candle smoke. Everything was new, everything was alive, yet every detail struck him with the clarity of memory.
Voices whispered nearby, low and urgent.
"The seventh prince… his hair…"
"Black. How is it possible?"
"The mother…"
Dyego followed the murmurs with a careful tilt of his head. Even though his body could not move, his mind carried every memory of a life long ended. He understood the weight of these words without effort. The truth had been discovered. He was not the king's child.
The door opened, and the king entered. His presence filled the room like a shadow, eyes dark and sharp. He studied Dyego for a long moment, as if measuring the child with the patience of someone who had spent a lifetime judging people by their smallest movements. Dyego's gaze tracked the line of tension in the man's jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his side.
A servant stepped forward, voice low and urgent. "Your Majesty… the truth is known. The mother—"
Dyego's mother appeared then, swift and anxious, kneeling beside him. Her hands trembled as she lifted him, but her eyes were steady. She leaned close and whispered into his ear.
"Dyego… this will be your name. You are my son, not the king's. You must survive. You must be stronger than they expect."
The name settled in him, familiar yet new. Dyego. Another life, another body, another chance.
The king spoke, calm and measured. "You know the law. Deception cannot continue."
"I… I confess," she said, voice trembling. "Before I married… I—"
The room seemed to hold its breath. Dyego watched every flicker of torchlight, every tightening of a jaw, every pause in a voice. Nothing escaped his perception.
"You will be punished," the king said, his words deliberate, heavy.
His mother leaned closer again, voice soft. "Remember your name, Dyego. Survive, and one day… you will take what is yours."
Hands lifted him carefully. The fabric against his skin, the slight tremor of their steps, the faint draft in the corridors—everything carried him forward. Outside, the scent of earth and forest drifted through the open doors.
The palace corridors passed like a quiet river. Shadows stretched and bent with the torchlight, and every small sound carried meaning. Dyego's eyes traced the lines of the walls, the tapestries shifting in the draft, the soft pulse of magic in the stones.
When the doors opened onto the world beyond, the trees rose dark and endless. Leaves rustled, shapes moved in the underbrush, and a faint pulse of energy whispered of magic. Dyego's gaze lingered, noting the rhythm of movement in the distance, the subtle signs of life waiting to test him.
He did not cry. He did not flinch. He lay in his mother's arms and observed, small in body yet fully present in mind.
She whispered once more, almost as if the forest itself could hear her. "Dyego… remember who you are. Survive."
The wind rustled through the leaves outside. The world had begun, and so had he.