Another two weeks. Another eternity spent staring at the carved obsidian ceiling of her nursery.The room itself was insane. The walls were etched with the history of the Lycan and Vampire bloodlines—scenes of ancient battles, ritual sacrifices, and, inexplicably, a rather fetching etching of a multi-headed serpent doing a complicated jig. It was majestic, terrifying, and completely irrelevant to Eleanor Thistle's immediate goal: rolling onto her stomach.
I am the daughter of the King of all monsters. I have the potential to split continents and turn moonlight into solid weapons. And yet, I am currently defeated by my own center of gravity. Clarissa, you were pathetic in life, and you are pathetic in rebirth.
Her physical existence was a prison. Every attempt to shift her body required the coordination of someone learning to pilot a human-sized mech suit. She'd been practicing, though. Secretly. Every time she was placed on her back, she'd dedicate all her mental energy the soul power that made Caius spew glitter to simply tucking an arm.
Today, she was going for a full rotation.
She took a deep, shuddering baby breath, channeling the cold, focused fury that usually came when she remembered the texture of the corn dog's batter.
Concentrate. Core strength. This is just a reverse sit-up. You filed 100 tax returns in one day; you can do this.
She tensed her minuscule abdomen. Her right arm, already half-tucked, strained. She pushed with her left leg, twisting her lower half with the agonizing speed of drying cement.
"aah?!" A noise escaped her. Not a wail of magic or rage, but a small, pitiful grunt of pure physical exertion.
Success! Her upper body flopped over, landing with a soft thump on the silk mattress.
I did it! I am victorious! Roll over, ye mighty, and despair! Now, I shall observe my surroundings from a different angle—
" huh?!, huh!?" Why can't I change angles?, oh no , And then, the immediate, horrifying reality of being a face-planted baby hit her. She couldn't lift her head. The weight of her enormous hybrid skull was too much.
Oh, gods. I can't breathe. I can't breathe! I've survived the existential trauma of reincarnation only to suffocate on my own mattress! It's the corn dog all over again!
Her victory instantly turned to pure, primal panic. She thrashed, her lungs struggling against the silk. The terror was overwhelming, completely derailing her usual internal composure.
A new scent entered the room: spicy, musky, and faintly metallic. Rafe, her second oldest brother ,(caius is just the third brother), the silent, perpetually bored Lycan hybrid stood watching her from the corner, leaning against the cold obsidian wall. Unlike Dmitri, who laughed, and Caius, who insulted, Rafe simply observed.
He said nothing. Just watched her flounder.
RAFE! Help me! Stop being so moody and brooding! This is a medical emergency! I swear, if I die again because of an ergonomic failure, I will come back as a dust mite and infest your perfectly coiffed hair!
Rafe pushed himself off the wall, walking with the quiet grace of a predator. He reached the crib, his expression completely neutral, and instead of helping, he slowly placed a raw, glistening piece of elk venison,(a snack!), apparently , on the edge of the cradle.
"It's easier to reach when you're on your stomach," Rafe stated, his voice flat. It wasn't helpful advice; it was a detached statement of fact, as if observing a nature documentary.
You are literally dangling bait over a drowning victim! I hate this family!
Driven by a mix of fear, oxygen deprivation, and pure, unadulterated shame, Eleanor focused the energy of her entire being. Not on magical discharge, but on the primal, desperate need to live.
With a final, gargantuan effort a silent psychic scream that probably registered as an earthquake on some distant mortal seismograph she pushed. Her head rose, wobbling violently, her silver eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand suns and the fear of a twenty-two-year-old accountant who should have died in a car crash, not this.(-.-)
She managed to hold the pose for three seconds before her arms gave out. She face-planted again, but this time, the struggle had exhausted her. She let out a whimpering, defeated cry.
Rafe didn't even flinch. He simply picked up his venison, nodded once, and stalked out of the room.
That's it. That's my life now. Being judged by my brothers for my inability to conquer basic musculoskeletal development. Next week, I master sitting up. And I will use my powers to stick my eldest brother's feet to the ceiling. Revenge will be mine, eventually.
She managed to hold the pose for three seconds before her arms gave out. She face-planted again, but this time, the struggle had exhausted her. She let out a whimpering, defeated cry.
Rafe didn't even flinch. He simply picked up his venison, nodded once, and stalked out of the room.
That's it. That's my life now. Being judged by my brothers for my inability to conquer basic musculoskeletal development. Next week, I master sitting up. And I will use my powers to stick my eldest brother's feet to the ceiling. Revenge will be mine, eventually.
The sheer physical exhaustion combined with the emotional trauma of the whole roll-over-and-almost-die incident was too much for the body of a four-week-old infant. The spiritual fury of Clarissa O'Connell hit a wall of baby hormones, and the result was catastrophic.
The whimpering turned into a full throated, ugly cry.
Tears, hot and plentiful, streamed down her cheeks, mingling with the silk. It wasn't the tactical wail she usually employed to express righteous anger. This was a deep, soul-wrenching cry of genuine misery, humiliation, and powerlessness.
No! Stop it! I am an adult! I am a powerful being! I do not cry because a moody teenage werewolf was rude to me! This is pathetic!
But the baby's body paid no mind to the adult soul's protest. Her throat tightened, her face went red, and she lost complete control of her bodily functions, letting the sound of pure, helpless distress fill the cavernous room. It was the sound of a queen-to-be who had just lost the battle against her own neck muscles.
This is the greatest indignity. Greater than the corn dog. Greater than the glitter. I am literally crying like a baby! I have nothing left! I have no dignity!
The sound brought the servants running. Two pale, silent Blood Maidens rushed to the crib, their movements swift and practiced. One gently scooped Eleanor up, her cold hands a stark contrast to the baby's burning rage.
"Hush, little princess," the Maiden soothed in a soft, toneless voice. "It is merely a hunger cry."
It is NOT a hunger cry! It is a primal scream against the unfairness of reincarnation physics!
The Maiden began the process of changing her. As the ultimate, final humiliation was being administered, Eleanor was forced to endure the presence of the servants, the indignity of the clean diaper, and the crushing realization that, for all her future power, she was currently a creature entirely dependent on the goodwill of others.
The crying finally subsided into hiccuping breaths as the Maiden cradled her. Eleanor shut her eyes, resolving that every single tear shed in this pathetic, fleshy form would be repaid with a thousand years of terrifying, competent reign.
I will not forget this. I will master rolling over. I will master walking. And then, I will master vengeance. But first, I need a nap.