The carriage wheels carved fresh ruts into the muddy street as they rolled to a stop outside Chez Mirabel, the finest restaurant in the capital's noble district. Inside, Lord Alistair Crane helped his wife descend with the careful attention of a man who still remembered he was supposed to impress her.
He did not notice the tiny figure watching from the alley mouth.
Five-year-old Dudian counted the couple's details on instinct—a skill forged by eight months of surviving the slums and two lifetimes of pattern recognition. Lord Crane's clothes were expensive but slightly outdated. His wife's dress was new, fashionable, and probably the reason they were here. He was trying to make up for something. An affair? Forgot an anniversary? Didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity.
Dudian reached into his basket.
The flowers weren't anything special—wild blooms he'd gathered at dawn from the forest's edge, where the magical residue made them slightly brighter than ordinary flowers. Not valuable. Not enchanted. Just pretty. But pretty was all he needed.
He stepped out of the alley.
"Excuse me, kind sir!"
Lord Crane turned, frowning at the street urchin approaching with a basket. His wife glanced over, curious.
Dudian made sure she saw his face first—big eyes, round cheeks, the kind of adorably scruffy look that made noble ladies coo and reach for their purses. Then he turned to the lord, angling himself so the flowers caught the afternoon light.
"These are for your lady, sir."
"I—what?"
Dudian held up the basket with both hands, presenting it like an offering. "I was walking by and saw how the sun made her hair shine, and I thought—someone that beautiful deserves something just as beautiful. But I'm just a poor boy, I can't afford real gifts. I only have these flowers I picked this morning. Please, sir, would you buy one for her?"
Lord Crane blinked.
His wife made a small, pleased sound.
Dudian watched the man's brain catch up to the situation. He could almost see the calculation: Buy a cheap flower from a street child, look like a romantic hero to my wife, salvage this dinner before it even starts. Cost? Pocket change. Benefit? A night without sleeping on the couch.
"How much?" Lord Crane asked.
Dudian smiled. "Whatever you think such beauty deserves, sir."
The man paid three silver—more than the flower was worth, less than his pride could justify haggling over. Dudian handed over the bloom with a bow, received a pat on the head from the beaming wife, and retreated to his alley as the couple entered the restaurant.
He counted the coins.
Three silver. Enough for a week's food if he was careful. Enough for new shoe leather if he saved for a month.
He allowed himself one small smile of satisfaction before tucking the coins away and heading back toward his usual spot. The restaurant district had another hour of good traffic, and he had a basket to empty.
The sun was setting when Dudian finally counted his take for the day.
Seven sales. Twelve silver, four copper. A good day. A very good day.
He sat on an upturned crate behind the bakery that let him sleep in their back room in exchange for "not looking like a corpse near their establishment." His hiding spot wasn't much—a dry corner with some blankets he'd scavenged and washed—but it was his.
He allowed himself a moment of nostalgia.
Thirty-four years old, PhD in Mechanical Engineering, Chemistry, Biologist and multiple patents, a corner office with a view of the city... and now he was five, living behind a bakery, and genuinely proud of a twelve-silver day.
This is fine, he told himself. This is actually better. On Earth, I worked myself to death and never had time to enjoy anything. Here, I'm five. I have time. I have freedom. I have—
A shadow fell over his doorway.
"Found you, little merchant."
Dudian's hand twitched toward the small knife he kept under his blanket. He didn't grab it. Instinct told him it wouldn't matter.
The woman in the doorway was... beautiful. That was the first thought. The second thought, following immediately, was: dangerous. She wore red—deep, rich crimson that probably cost more than Dudian had made in his entire second life. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of aged whiskey, and they were looking at him like he was the most interesting thing she'd seen all day.
"You're the flower boy," she said. "The one working the restaurant district."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Dudian's voice came out steady, which impressed him. "I'm just a poor orphan sitting behind a bakery."
She laughed. The sound was warm, genuine, and somehow made him more nervous.
"I watched you for an hour," she said, stepping into the alley. She moved like she owned it—like she owned everything the light touched and most of what it didn't. "You approached seven couples. You read each one perfectly. The old man with the young woman? You sold to him by implying she was his daughter. The nervous couple on what was clearly a first date? You sold to the man by loudly complimenting his 'girlfriend.' The angry pair who weren't speaking? You approached the woman directly and made the man look like a jerk until he bought just to save face."
Dudian said nothing.
"You're five," the woman continued. "Maybe six. You shouldn't be able to read people like that. You shouldn't have better sales instincts than merchants I pay to run my trading houses. So I'll ask again: who are you?"
Dudian met her eyes.
He could lie. He was good at lying. But something told him this woman would know. Something told her this woman always knew.
"I'm a boy who doesn't want to starve," he said honestly. "The flower thing... it's what I figured out. I watch people. I see what they want. I help them get it, and they give me money. That's all."
"Help them get it." She smiled. "You manipulate them."
"I prefer 'facilitate mutually beneficial transactions.'"
The woman stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed again—louder this time, genuinely delighted.
"Mutually beneficial transactions," she repeated. "At five years old." She crouched down to his level, her expensive dress pooling in the alley's filth like she didn't notice or care. "What's your name, little merchant?"
"Dudian, no last name."
The woman's expression shifted. Something flickered in those whiskey eyes—something that might have been recognition, or memory, or maybe just the same loneliness Dudian felt late at night when he couldn't sleep.
"What if," she said slowly, "I gave you one?"
Dudian blinked. "What?"
"A name. A home. Food every day. An education." She tilted her head. "In exchange, you'd have to be my son. Officially. Legally. Vane name, Vane protections, Vane expectations."
Dudian's brain, which had processed complex engineering problems and multi-million-dollar contracts, short-circuited.
"You want to... adopt me?"
"I want to collect you." Her smile turned sharp. "You're interesting, little merchant. The most interesting thing I've found in decades. I don't let interesting things stay in alleys. So: my name, my protection, my resources. In return, you be my son. You grow up. You cause trouble. You become something worth watching." She extended a hand. "Do we have a deal?"
Dudian looked at her hand. Perfect nails, rings worth more than this entire district, power radiating off her like heat from a forge.
He thought about the slums. The cold nights. The constant hunger. The way people looked through him like he was garbage.
He thought about Earth. The endless work. The loneliness. The regret.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Lady Hathaway Vane."
Dudian's eyes widened. Even he, a slum child, knew that name. The Ash Witch. The most powerful Magus in the kingdom. The woman people whispered about in fear and awe.
"You're—"
"I'm aware of what I am." She was still smiling, still waiting, still watching him with those whiskey eyes. "Does it change your answer?"
Dudian looked at her hand again.
Then he took it.
"My name," he said, "is whatever you want to call me. But I have conditions."
Her eyebrows rose. "Conditions?"
"The other kids in the slums. The ones who watch my back, share information, warn me when guards come. They get help. Nothing obvious—they'd get targeted. But food drops. Anonymous coin. A healer who visits 'by accident.' I don't want them to suffer because I left."
Lady Hathaway Vane studied him for a long moment.
"You're five," she said quietly. "And you just negotiated better terms for your 'allies' than most nobles manage for their own houses."
"The streets teach fast."
"So they do." She squeezed his hand—gently, surprisingly gently. "Done. Your friends will be cared for. Now come, little merchant. Let's go home."
She stood, still holding his hand, and led him out of the alley.
Dudian glanced back once. At his blankets. His hiding spot. His life.
Then he faced forward and walked into whatever came next.