Gabriel was surrounded by strangers.
Strange sounds. Unfamiliar faces. Words that swirled around him like drifting leaves—he knew they meant something, but they slipped through his thoughts like water through a broken vessel. He had many questions, each one coiling in his mind like smoke without wind. "What is this place? Who are these people?" But of all the questions, one rose above the rest like a mountain in the mist:
Was he to live as an infant in this new life?
He could not accept it. So he screamed, limbs flailing in helpless rebellion. He screamed not from hunger, nor fear, but from defiance. But the people, blind to his fury, mistook resistance for need and placed him gently into the arms of the beautiful woman they called Lady Ariana.. To those around him, he was merely a hungry baby. A misunderstanding so vast it made him cry harder.
The man beside her—tall, proud, exuding a kind of noble arrogance—stepped out, his voice booming like thunder in a calm sky.
"Go," he said, "summon the knights. Let the people rejoice. For I have been blessed with a son! Three days and three nights of feast! Let all come and share in our joy!"
Even though the sky was still painted with stars, hooves thundered down the cobbled streets. Torches were lit. Bells rang. The night was torn apart by celebration. Light blossomed across the city like stars falling into lanterns. Joy echoed from every corner—chants of praise, cheers for the young Lord. Fires lit not for warmth, but for celebration.
Letters flew like migrating birds, carrying the news to every corner of the realm, announcing to the noble houses that Lord Sued now had an heir. From distant halls and silver towers, the great families turned their eyes toward the child.
By morning, the county of Ortenia pulsed with life. Ribbons fluttered in the wind. Children sang songs they had only just made up. Men danced like boys, and even the oldest grumbled only a little before joining in. The city bloomed with banners, music, and laughter.
But not all shared this joy.
There was one among them—small, voiceless, yet loud in spirit—who raged at the heavens.Gabriel.
No one asked him if he wished to be reborn. No one asked if he wished to be called Arion. He was not pleased. Not with the milk. Not with the clothes. Not with the soft whispers and false smiles. And certainly not with the state of his existence. Three times already, he had been cleaned like a pet, fed like a bird, and put to sleep like a sick man.
His body betrayed him—too small to act, too tired to resist. Every time he closed his eyes, he vowed he would not sleep. Yet sleep came like a thief, again and again.
Shame. Humiliation. Sleep. Again and again.
So he made a decision.
If he must suffer, they must suffer with him. He would cry—not for need, but for vengeance. He would wail with such ferocity that even the palace walls would tremble every night.
And he did.
The next three days blurred in a haze of noise and color.
For three days, nobles came in waves. Their perfume stung his tiny nose. Every one of them brought gifts—trinkets, charms, and strange stuffed beasts. They called him beautiful, precious, divine. But after every compliment came the same ritual. They smiled, they bowed, and worst of all—they pinched.
His cheeks! His only weapons now—soft, dimpled, and apparently irresistible became the prime attraction. Like moths to a flame, their fingers came, one after another, leaving behind not warmth, but soreness.
At first, he endured. He was an adult once—was he not? But by nightfall of the first day, his patience had withered like paper in fire. His face hurt. His pride screamed. And still, they smiled.
So he fought back.
If they must touch him, they must pay. And so, when their hands reached forth—smack!—his tiny hand would slap them away. A slap from a baby means nothing... unless it comes every time. Without fail.
Tiny hand, tiny slap. Again and again. One noblewoman yelped. Another recoiled in shock. By the second day, it had become a legend among guests: the young Lord strikes any hand that dares approach.
Some laughed. Others frowned.
But all were puzzled.
There was something about his eyes—sharp, unyielding, as if they belonged not to a child, but to something far older. A gaze that did not belong in a crib.
The man—his so-called father—laughed every time. A loud, booming laugh that struck Gabriel like a slap. And then there was the woman—gentle, loving, terrifyingly beautiful—radiant. She held him close, whispered words he could not understand. Again and again, he heard that same word: Arion.
Was it his name? Or just a word for infant in this world? He didn't know. Couldn't know.
And so, Gabriel—perhaps Arion—waited. He watched. Trapped in a fragile shell, smothered in silk and praise, he watched the world with eyes that had seen too much to be fooled by comfort.
Trapped in flesh not his own. Furious. Curious. Alive again, but not yet living. He would survive. One slap at a time.