Reborn, he thought, his infant mind a hurricane of adult logic. Another world. Feudal technology. High magic potential—if the aching in my mana veins is any indication.
Dorian rode at the head of 300 men. The Silvera garrison had 80.
The Baron looked at the infant, then at the rusted sword hanging above the hearth—the Silvera Heirloom, a blade said to record the deeds of its wielders. The last entry was two hundred years ago. The family had been fading ever since.
No celebratory courtiers. No proud father. Just a weeping mother and a father whose face was carved from granite disappointment.
The local Viscount's son, a brutish boy named Dorian, cornered him in the training yard.
Cain didn't fight back. He simply smiled, wiped the mud from his cheek, and said, "You're right. My magic is worthless. But tell me, Dorian—how many men does your father need to siege a fortified hill fort?"