People think babies don't notice much. That we're soft lumps of flesh, blinking blankly at the world.
They're wrong.
I noticed everything.
I don't know how many days had passed since I was born, but I'd already begun collecting data—watching, listening, remembering. I didn't cry. There was no need. I hadn't cried in lifetimes.
This body was new. Fragile. But my mind? That was old. Sharpened by centuries of experience.
Everything around me was polished and quiet. Tall ceilings, ambient lighting, designer fabrics, seamless technology. I was born into wealth—not the showy kind, but the sort that rewrites rules and never apologizes.
My mother visited often. She held me with a softness I'd rarely known. She'd speak to me gently, brush her fingers through my hair, and tell me things she thought I couldn't understand.
She was wrong, of course. I understood all of it.
Her voice was smooth and careful. She never raised it. Never rushed. I liked that. Evelyn Royce had poise. Intelligence. She smelled like jasmine and discipline.
But it was my father who truly intrigued me.
Alexander Royce.
The first time he held me, I felt it. His arms weren't hesitant. He wasn't uncomfortable. He looked at me—into me—with eyes that didn't just see a baby.
He saw a future.
"Hey there, Aaron," he said quietly. His voice wasn't cold. It was calm. Heavy with intent. "You're going to do great things, aren't you?"
He smiled.
Not wide. Not dramatic. But real. It was a small, honest curve of the lips. The kind of smile men like him reserve for victories.
In that moment, I knew: Alexander Royce wasn't emotionless. He just didn't waste emotion on most things. But me? I was his son. His legacy.
And something in him softened when he looked at me.
He didn't speak often. But he always held me like he meant it. His thumb would run gently along my cheek, and his gaze—sharp as it was—would flicker with something like pride.
I liked that. It was better than overbearing affection.
It was earned closeness.
I listened. I watched. I learned.
The nurses assumed I was just a quiet infant. "So calm," they'd whisper. "Never cries. Like he already knows he's royalty."
They weren't far off.
Conversations around me dripped information. My last name was Royce. My father controlled the Royce Conglomerate—a monolithic web of tech, finance, defense, and luxury. I heard phrases like "global reach" and "untraceable holdings."
This wasn't a family. This was an empire.
And I was its heir.
But I didn't feel burdened. I felt… ready.
This life was a gift. A challenge. A game I wanted to play.
I'd lived as kings, thieves, and assassins. I'd clawed my way through mud and marble. But never had I started at the top of the world, clean. Untouched. Free.
This time, I could have everything.
And I wouldn't waste a second.
At night, I lay still and let thoughts drift.
I remembered faces from other lives. Lovers. Rivals. Dead friends. I remembered the thrill of rebellion, the weight of command, the silence of isolation.
But this time felt different.
This time… there was warmth.
When Evelyn kissed my forehead and whispered, "Sleep well, my little king."
When Alexander checked on me after midnight, when no one was watching. He didn't say anything. He just stood there for a moment. Watching me breathe.
There was something vulnerable in that silence. A man who had fought his whole life, now looking at the only thing he couldn't outmaneuver—fatherhood.
I didn't need to cry to be held. I didn't need to scream to be fed.
They were there.
And slowly, for the first time in centuries, I began to feel something unfamiliar.
Not power.
Not pride.
Not ambition.
Belonging.