His father, Aldric, finally looked at him not with pity, but with something unfamiliar: respect.
"Yes," Cain said, drawing the rusted blade. It flaked but did not break. "We lost because our ancestors defended the bridge. This time, we'll let them cross it. And then we'll delete the bridge."
"A baron who cannot fight," Aldric muttered, "and an heir who cannot cast. We are ghosts, Elara. We just haven't stopped breathing yet." His father, Aldric, finally looked at him not
"He's small, Elara," Baron Aldric von Silvera said, his voice a low rasp. "The mage said his mana core is cracked. He'll never cast a proper spell."
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. "We lost because our ancestors defended the bridge
Dorian blinked. "What?"
"That the past isn't dead. It's not even past. And I brought the whole library with me." We are ghosts, Elara
"Father, do you remember the Battle of Broken Bridge? Year 312 of the Royal Calendar?"