I stare through the window, my small hands pressed against the cool glass.
Two years. It's been two years since I was thrust into this world, into this tiny, helpless body.
The beginning was a trial, an exercise in utter powerlessness.
Having no control over my own limbs, my own functions… it was humbling, and frankly, a bit disgusting.
But every humiliation had a silver lining: I didn't have to worry about a thing.
My mother, with her gentle hands and endless patience, cleaned up every mess.
In a strange way, there was a certain freedom to it—to simply relieve myself wherever and whenever the urge struck.
Now, things are different.
My hands and feet listen to me, mostly. I can walk, a clumsy, stumbling gait, but it's progress.
It allows me to reach this window and peer out at the world.
It's a beautiful world, I'll give it that. Far more vibrant than the one I left behind. And far stranger.
In my previous life, I was a prince.
I knew of "magic," but it was the cheap theatrics of the royal court—sleight of hand and illusions meant to entertain bored nobles.
I once cornered a court magician and demanded his secret.
"Prince," he had said with a knowing smile, "it is merely a trick of the eye."
He was a fool. What I've seen in this life is no trick.
It is raw, world-altering power.
I've seen my mother conjure a globe of dancing fire in the palm of her hand.
I've seen our maid soothe a deep gash with nothing but a touch.
My father, Keal, possesses no such gifts, which tells me this power isn't universal.
Perhaps not everyone can use magic.
But I have a growing suspicion… that I can.
Though I'm still wrestling with the alphabet, I am determined to learn.
Whenever I can, I sneak away to the underground library, a place of stone, silence, and the scent of aging parchment.
My prize is a single, massive tome.
It's a monster of leather and vellum, so heavy that dragging it to my room leaves my toddler's body trembling with exhaustion.
I read in stolen moments, my heart pounding whenever I hear my mother's footsteps nearby.
She worries, I know. I even read late into the night, the words on the page illuminated by a sliver of moonlight.
"Aah… aah… aaaaaaaahhhhh."
I sigh, rolling my eyes. My parents, in the room below.
They have no idea their son, whose ears are sharper than they know, can hear their nightly chorus of love.
Honestly, the lack of subtlety is astounding. Shaking my head, I decide it's best to sleep.
The next day, I am back in the book's embrace.
It's a veritable encyclopedia of this new world, with chapters on witches, dragons, and the very mechanics of magic.
I flip to a well-worn page, page 67.
"If you can feel mana, then congratulations, you can perform magic. Mana is the unseen energy that permeates our world. While invisible to the naked eye, it can be felt through concentration. Only those who have reached the absolute zenith of magical mastery can perceive it visually, as shimmering particles of blue light."
Blue light? My eyes widen.
Is it talking about the tiny, swirling blue motes that dance in the air before me, that have always been there, just at the edge of my vision?
The book says that's a sight reserved for masters.
Whatever the reason, one thing is certain: I can use magic.
I can feel it now, a tingling energy that pools in my palms when I focus.
Let's try.
I hold out my hands, concentrating with all my might, trying to grasp the blue motes and bend them to my will.
A flicker. A pulse. A single, perfect drop of water materializes and falls from my fingertip.
Then, a wave of exhaustion crashes over me, so profound I nearly collapse.
Only water? The book explains this, too. Elemental affinity. It seems my element is water.
Months pass. My practice continues in secret.
The single drop becomes a trickle, the trickle a stream, the stream a ball of churning water.
Now, I'm confident I could conjure a sphere of water large enough to obliterate a small house.
A tantalizing thought, but I have nowhere to test such destructive power.
My musings are interrupted as my mother sweeps in from behind, lifting me effortlessly into her arms.
"Come on, little one," she coos. "Time for sleep."
I fume internally. Mother, have you any idea who I am? I was a king! You cannot simply hoist me like a sack of potatoes!
Just as the royal indignation swells within me, a tell-tale warmth spreads through my diaper, and my grand dignity evaporates in a puff of utter humiliation.
My mother glances down, a soft smile on her face. "Oh, dear. Let's get you cleaned up."
She changes me, lays me on the bed, and busies herself with other chores. This is my chance.
As soon as she's gone, I wiggle my way to the edge of the bed. It's a perilous drop for someone my size.
With a soft thud, I land on the floor and tiptoe back towards the library.
But I've only just reopened the heavy tome when her voice cuts through the silence.
"What are you doing…?"
And just like that, I am scooped up once more and carried back to bed.
Do you have any idea how much effort it takes for a body this small to make that journey?
With a final, weary sigh, I surrender to her will. This time, I let sleep take me.
Five years pass.
The routine of secret study and mundane childhood continued, but now, I am seven.
The world has opened up to me. I can read fluently, speak clearly, and my control over magic is something I can be proud of.
One evening, as I'm engrossed in a chapter on draconic runes, my father claps a hand on my shoulder.
"Come, Shlok," Keal says, his voice warm. "Let's go for a walk."
We wander into the woods as twilight paints the sky in shades of orange and purple.
We walk farther than usual, and I don't ask where we're going, content to just be with him. Then, I see it.
It's a tree, but that word is an insult to its majesty.
It towers over the forest canopy, its trunk as wide as a house, easily ten times the size of any other tree I've ever seen.
Its leaves shimmer with a soft, ethereal light.
"This is a Guidance Tree, Shlok," my father says, his voice filled with reverence.
"We come here to ask its blessing, to pray for our family's protection. Go on, bow before it."
I do as he says, bowing my head.
As I do, a powerful gust of wind rustles through the ancient leaves, and I feel a distinct, gentle pressure on my head, like an invisible hand offering a blessing.
By the time we turn back, night has fallen.
The path is cloaked in darkness, the silence broken only by the chirping of crickets.
Then, a scream shatters the peace.
It's a woman's voice, raw with terror, coming from a nearby house.
Keal and I both freeze, the sound echoing in the still night air. Another scream, then another, before it's abruptly cut off.
Without a word, Keal breaks into a sprint. I follow close behind.
He reaches the house and shoves at the door, but it's locked fast.
"Shlok, wait here! Don't move!" he commands, before turning and disappearing back into the darkness to get soldiers.
I stand there, my heart hammering against my ribs. My eyes are drawn to a small window.
Hoisting myself up on my toes, I peer inside. The scene is a nightmare painted in blood.
A woman lies dead on the floor.
Standing over her is a man, his face a mask of insanity, a large, dripping knife clutched in his hand.
And cowering in the corner is a small elf girl, no older than six, her body wracked with silent, terrified sobs.
The man turns, his crazed eyes fixing on her. He is going to kill her next.
Any other child would have run.
Any other seven-year-old would be paralyzed by fear.
I am not any other child.
My eyes scan the ground and find a heavy, jagged rock.
With a grunt of effort, I lift it, swing it with all my might, and hurl it at the window.
The glass shatters inwards.
Without a second thought, I scramble through the broken frame, landing on the floor inside and placing myself directly between the killer and the elf girl.
The man's head snaps towards me, his lips peeled back in a snarl.
He has decided to kill, and he doesn't care that another child has just appeared in his path.
He lunges.
Time seems to slow.
I see the knife arcing towards me.
But I am not helpless.
I stretch out a hand, focusing on the power I've nurtured for years.
I call upon the mana, the shimmering blue particles that only I can see, pulling them from the air, packing them into my palm.
Just as the tip of the blade is about to pierce my skin, I release it.
A thunderous roar rips through the small house as a massive, high-pressure explosion of water erupts from my hand. It strikes the man with impossible force. The blast is so powerful it instantly vaporizes his entire lower body, the shockwave blowing the walls of the house outwards and shaking the very foundation of the forest.