Being a baby with adult memories was one thing. Being a toddler with questions was a whole new level of existential chaos.
By age one, I'd mastered walking (mostly in zigzags), wielding a spoon (occasionally aimed at my nanny), and faking naps like a pro.
By age two, I had a growing suspicion that I wasn't in Kansas anymore—or anywhere remotely Earth-adjacent.
Because, let me tell you: my nursery had a literal floating bookshelf. The sky glowed lavender at dusk. Talking owls delivered scrolls. Not to mention the heirloom sword in the hallway that pulsed with mana every time I walked past.
Nope. Not Earth.
That was when I started piecing things together. The world I was born into was called Elysium—a realm of dragons, divine bloodlines, and magic woven into every stone.
My mother? Lady Thalia Aetheria, daughter of the Spirit King.
My father? Duke Lorien Aetheria, a war hero, swordsmaster, and political force of nature. He once slayed a sea leviathan with one sword and a sarcastic comment.
I was born to power. But I still wasn't sure why.
---
The people around me didn't treat me like background fluff. They gazed at me as if I held ancient secrets.
I could feel magic twitching inside me. Garden leaves leaned in my direction. The wind hummed when I giggled. Flowers unfurled wider just to say hello.
One time, I accidentally made the greenhouse sprinkler system go off in the middle of winter. The gardener screamed, slipped, swore revenge, and demanded divine compensation.
Theo high-fived me. Mother just laughed and said, "At least she's not freezing the koi pond this time."
---
Let's talk about Theo.
He was five years older, sharp as a dagger, dramatic like he was raised by a Shakespearean ghost.
He used to scowl at me like I was a puzzle missing half the pieces.
Now? He kind of liked me—which, in Theo-speak, meant we were basically besties.
He'd sneak me spell scrolls under the table. He pretended not to see me levitating carrots when I didn't want to eat them. Once, he dramatically fainted after I summoned a wind gust that flipped his tea table.
"Tragedy," he gasped from the floor. "Betrayed by my own flesh and blood."
"You spilled your own juice," Mother said dryly.
"I spilled my soul!" Theo wailed.
---
By age three, I could sense magic everywhere: runes glowed along the halls, protective glyphs shimmered on windows, and ancient mana trails whispered whenever I touched a crystal.
I was still trying to figure out my exact role in this glittery, terrifying fantasy world.
Because here's the thing: It felt familiar. Too familiar.
Like a half-remembered dream or an old novel I read during a sick day binge.
I recalled vague bits:
A divine heroine.
Two swoony male leads.
A looming demon invasion.
A forgotten little sister who dies early.
But proof? Zero. Just gut instinct and growing dread.
So for now, I played the part of a sweet, slightly unhinged toddler with a suspicious number of magical accidents:
I turned the dining hall floor into a skating rink. My nanny slipped and muttered holy verses.
I made the greenhouse roses sing—in Latin.
I enchanted Theo's journal so every time he wrote the word "hero," it glittered.
Mother gave me a look that said: "Oh no, she inherited that."
Theo laughed so hard he fell off the bench.
---
One evening, I sat beside Mother under the garden's star-studded canopy and asked the question I'd been dying to know:
"Mama, why does the wind talk to me?"
She didn't even blink.
"Because it knows who you are, my flower. Even if you don't yet."
Then she handed me a crystal.
"This is Veilshade. When the time comes, it will help you hide… until you're ready to be seen."
Cryptic. Terrifying. And—frankly—kind of awesome.
---
That night, I stared out the window and whispered to the stars:
"If I'm in that story… I will be the author of my own ending."
[End of Chapter 2]