Aaron opened his eyes to the sight of a silk-draped canopy above him. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The mattress was too soft, the room too warm, and the sheets too scented—something between roses and arrogance.
Then pain returned. His entire body ached like he'd been mugged by gravity.
Right. I exercised.
The memory came back in pieces. Laps around the courtyard. Sweat dripping off his nose. A foot cramp that almost ended his noble life early. Still, he had done it. Three laps without collapsing.
He sat up, rubbing the soreness from his thighs, and took in his room again.
It was enormous. Larger than his old apartment—maybe twice. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with untouched tomes. A fireplace crackled quietly even though no one lit it. Magic. The curtains opened with a whisper, reacting to his movement.
It was absurd.
"I'm a side character and I live like a sultan," he muttered.
Across from his bed stood a full-length mirror. In it, a boy stared back—round-faced, eyes puffy, with a hint of sadness beneath the gold-and-velvet robe. Not quite grotesque anymore, but still far from healthy.
Aaron squinted at his own reflection. "Well... at least I look slightly less like a dying potato."
---
Breakfast was awkward.
A servant brought it in on a silver tray, her hands trembling.
"...Young Master," she whispered, bowing so low her forehead nearly kissed the floor.
Aaron blinked. "Uh. Thanks?"
The tray clinked as she fled the room like he might throw it at her. The door slammed behind her.
He frowned.
Three omelets, two buttered scones, a fruit tart, a mountain of bacon, and something that might've been chocolate-drenched steak.
He pushed the tart away and forced himself to eat half an omelet and two strips of bacon. By the end, his stomach grumbled with confusion.
Outside his door, two maids whispered.
"Did he eat less today?"
"Less? He only ate two servings. Something's wrong."
"Maybe he's plotting a tantrum. Or starving himself so he can scream at us later."
"Maybe he's finally going mad."
Aaron sighed and leaned against the window.
So this was what the "old" Aaron had been like. Resented. Feared. Spoiled beyond reason.
He didn't blame them.
---
Later that morning, Aaron walked the estate.
Not because he wanted to—because he needed to.
The mansion of House Aetherwyn was a starborn fortress. Towering spires and moonstone pillars, arched windows of enchanted crystal, and endless hallways filled with paintings of long-dead ancestors.
They all looked beautiful.
Tall. Noble. Powerful.
None looked like him.
He paused in front of one particular portrait. A lean, silver-haired man with cold eyes and a starlight crown—his father, Duke Aetherwyn.
Aaron swallowed hard and turned away.
---
The courtyard greeted him with birdsong and dread.
The sky above shimmered faintly with daylight constellations—visible only to those attuned to starlight mana. Aaron saw nothing but blue sky and clouds.
He touched the stone wall for balance and began his laps.
One.
Two.
By the third, he was drenched in sweat. His robe clung to him like a drowning man. His breathing wheezed like a haunted flute.
A shadow watched him from the second-floor balcony.
It was the steward, an older man with a mustache that could kill mosquitoes. He narrowed his eyes, muttering under his breath.
"He walks now? The glutton walks? This must be the start of a divine punishment... or a long con."
Aaron collapsed into a patch of grass and laughed breathlessly.
"This world is insane."
---
Back in his room, he cleaned.
Yes, cleaned. Personally.
He picked up piles of discarded clothes, empty dishes from god-knows-how-many missed meals, scrolls, torn bedsheets, even an unopened letter from his sister. Probably an insult. He set it aside.
At the bottom of the mess, he found an old family portrait.
The Duke. The Duchess. His older sister. All smiling politely.
And then him.
Chubby. Angry-eyed. Clearly forced to pose.
Aaron held the frame for a long while before setting it face-down on the desk.
---
That night, he lay in bed, body aching in every joint.
"Two days," he murmured to himself. "Just survive two days at a time."
Outside, clouds passed over the moon.
For a moment, stars blinked into view in the same shape as the Aetherwyn sigil: seven-pointed star within a crescent.
Then the air shimmered faintly.
Unseen by him, the floor beneath his bed glowed with a forgotten arcane glyph—part of the House's magical inheritance, linked by blood.
It pulsed.
Once.
A whisper echoed from nowhere and everywhere.
> "The Starborn stirs." "He awakens." "He who denies fate shall bend it."
---
Meanwhile, far in the eastern wing of the estate, the Duke received a report.
"Your son," the steward said, bowing, "has... begun walking."
The Duke's eyes narrowed. He looked out his window toward the glowing stars.
"Let's see if it's just a phase."
---
End of Chapter 2