King in another world

Terranus was six months old when he first locked eyes with his brother, Caelen Terradiva.

The older boy stared down at him from the doorway of the nursery, arms folded like their father’s, dark eyes full of suspicion. Six years old, already learning to fight, to hunt, to rule. He was everything a noble heir should be—disciplined, proud, and carrying the weight of expectations like a badge of honor.

And then along came Terranus.

Unplanned. Unwanted, at least in Caelen’s mind.

“I don’t like him,” Caelen muttered to the nursemaid. “He looks… strange.”

Terranus heard it. Understood it. But could only gurgle and blink like the infant he was supposed to be.

Inside, he wanted to smirk. Get in line, kid. Half the boardroom hated me too.

But outwardly, he played the role. He acted like a baby. He cried when he had to, laughed when expected. He watched everything.

Caelen would visit the nursery once a week, maybe less. He never held his brother. Never smiled. But he watched, too. He noticed that Terranus didn’t babble like other babies. That his eyes always followed conversations. That he didn’t grab at toys—he studied them.

By the time Terranus turned two, the family began to speak of him differently.

“He’s quiet, but sharp,” Lady Elana would say. “His eyes miss nothing.”

Darius, the father, began bringing him to the Great Hall during war councils—not as a participant, but as a shadow. He’d sit in a high chair at the edge of the table, chewing bread while men discussed border skirmishes, tax collections, trade disputes.

He wasn’t supposed to understand.

But he did.

Terranus was building a mental map of the territory. The five hamlets under Terradiva rule. The three roads connecting them. The stone bridge to the west, near the river, in desperate need of repair. The watchtower in the north, abandoned after the last bandit raid.

No logistics. No trade. No gold. No future.

But what did they have? Iron. Timber. Sand from the riverbeds. And a people who, while poor, were loyal to the bone.

It was enough. It was more than enough.

By age four, Terranus spoke fluently—and with a clarity that made even adults pause. Not precocious. Calculated. Clean. His tutors tried to steer his education toward poetry, religion, and noble etiquette.

He redirected it.

“I want to learn about trade routes,” he told one old scholar. “And law. Real law—not court etiquette. What happens when a miller can’t pay taxes? What does the charter say?”

The man blinked, stunned. “You are four.”

“I’m aware.”

At five, he sat beside his father as envoys from the capital arrived—soft-handed, silk-robed men who reeked of perfume and politics. They offered nothing but flattery. Terranus didn’t speak, but when one of them said, “The Vale is fortunate to remain under the crown’s gracious shadow,” Terranus met his gaze without blinking.

The envoy looked away first.

Later, in private, Darius chuckled.

“You don’t like them either?”

“They smile too much,” Terranus replied.

Darius roared with laughter. “You’ll do well in this kingdom, boy.”

That night, Lady Elana tucked him into bed, brushing his golden hair back.

“There’s something in you,” she whispered. “Something ancient.”

He didn’t answer.

But in his mind, he was already drafting the blueprints of the Vale’s future. Roads. Trade. Power. He couldn’t lift a sword yet, but he’d already begun to wage war—quietly, patiently, like a general with decades behind him.

Now at six years old, the age where boys began training with wooden swords, Terranus stood at the edge of the practice yard. Caelen, now twelve, was already skilled, slicing dummies with fluid grace. The two locked eyes as Terranus approached.

“Come to play prince?” Caelen sneered, offering a training sword.

Terranus took it.

And for the first time in both of his lives, he stepped onto a battlefield with no boardroom, no money, no armor—just instincts, grit, and the will to rise.

Terranus Terradiva was no longer just the Baron’s second son.

He was becoming something else.

It started with small things. Conversations most nobles ignored. The steward arguing with the blacksmith about late wages. The baker complaining about flour shortages. The shepherd boy who limped through the courtyard each morning—unseen, unheard.

Terranus saw everything.

And unlike most nobles, he remembered what it felt like to be one of the faceless. In his past life, he paid people like these with a pen stroke. He didn’t know them.

Now? He watched them sweat. He saw the toll poverty took. The way tired eyes averted when nobles walked by.

That wasn’t power. That was fear. And fear alone never lasted.

So he made his move.

It began with the steward, Thomald—old, lean, and sharp as a tack. The man had been managing the estate’s coin for thirty years and trusted no one.

Except maybe Lady Elana.

Terranus approached him one evening as he tallied parchment by candlelight.

“You underpay the farriers,” Terranus said flatly, standing beside the desk.

Thomald didn’t look up. “They get what they’re due.”

“They’re two weeks behind. And the horses limp because of it. Which slows deliveries. Which delays the markets. Which loses us coin.”

That made the steward look up. Slowly.

“You shouldn’t know that.”

Terranus shrugged. “But I do.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Finally, Thomald leaned back in his chair and poured the boy a sip of watered wine. He didn’t ask questions. Just muttered, “Tell me what you see.”

And from that day, Thomald stopped keeping certain records secret. A handful of parchments would find their way to Terranus’s quarters each week—disguised as lessons, but filled with real numbers. Inventory lists. Contracts. Names.

Information.

Then came Matya—the old maid with a memory sharper than a dagger. Terranus started sitting with her during laundry duties, asking about old lords, old feuds, rival houses, lost trade routes.

She became his historian. Feeding him the context behind names and titles the tutors wouldn’t touch, which family had once tried to seize Terradiva lands. Which ones secretly owed his father favors. Who the crown disliked. Who the merchants feared.

Information again. Slowly stacking like bricks.

But outside? He was still a boy.

Still expected to train.

The morning sun broke across the training yard, casting long shadows over the dummies and practice posts. Terranus stood barefoot on the packed earth, wooden sword in hand, facing Caelen—his older brother, heir, warrior-in-the-making.

“You hold it like a broomstick,” Caelen scoffed.

“Maybe you fight like a tavern drunk.”

Caelen’s eyes narrowed. No one talked to him like that.

They circled. The servants pretended not to watch, but eyes peeked from doorways. This wasn’t just sparring.

It was a statement.

Caelen lunged first—fluid and fast. The boy trained nearly every day, and it showed. Terranus barely deflected the first swing, stumbled on the second, and caught the third in his ribs.

Pain bloomed. He bit his lip. Didn’t cry.

Got up.

Again.

And again.

For half an hour, he got tossed like a sack of flour. But every time he rose, he learned something. Caelen’s footwork. His reach. The moment before his strikes.

Then something shifted.

Terranus fainted left, pivoted hard, and landed a clean jab to Caelen’s shoulder. It wasn’t strong—but it was smart.

The elder brother paused.

Then nodded. Just once.

That night, Caelen left a small satchel at Terranus’s door. Inside: a worn-out practice sword and a strip of cloth soaked in healing balm.

No note.

Didn’t need one.

Respect wasn’t always loud.

In the weeks that followed, Terranus trained harder. Sharper. He didn’t need to become the best swordsman in the kingdom.

He just needed to be good enough to survive.

Because power was coming. Real power. And power made enemies.

The forest whispered. The mountains loomed. The river swelled with spring. And in the south, across the flatlands, rumors stirred of nobles stirring, alliances shifting, and old debts being called in.

The game was about to begin.

And this time, Terranus Terradiva wasn’t just playing.

He was building the board.