After the nap I've been trying to count days and It had been weeks of grueling, invisible training. While the rest of the Supernatural Court assumed that I Princess Eleanor Thistle was simply gurgling at shadows, i was actually conducting a rigorous, self-imposed program of physical reclamation.
Observe, monsters. Observe the power of sheer, spiteful willpower.
Eleanor executed the move with the practiced precision of an Olympic gymnast completing a routine. She tucked her left arm under her torso, twisted with a sharp, controlled snap of her lower back, and rolled onto her stomach. This time, there was no panic, no frantic gasping. Only the smooth, quiet triumph of a queen conquering a soft mattress.
She then employed a powerful push up, utilizing the dense musculature of her hybrid shoulders. Her head lifted, her tiny neck straining but holding steady. She was upright, surveying her domain from a horizontal perspective.
Victory! Phase One: The Rotational Maneuver, is complete. I will never again be trapped face down by the cruel mistress that is gravity. I can now avoid the venison dangling antics of my moody brother, Rafe.
My next challenge was immediate: The Sit.
A quick pivot of her pelvis, a careful shift of weight, and then, slowly, majestically, Eleanor pulled her torso vertical. She braced her hands on the silk, her spine straight, her silver eyes focused with the intensity of a thousand year old predator.
She was sitting.
Behold! The Ascension of the Lower Torso! I am no longer a horizontal liability! I can now make eye contact while insulting my family! Take that, millennia of human evolution!
She held the position, basking in the profound, silent glory of her achievement. Now that she was upright, however, she immediately noticed a new, irritating physical malfunction.
A long, glistening string of saliva detached itself from her lower lip and stretched to the mattress.
Oh, for the love of—! What is this? Am I drooling? I am drooling. I am a sovereign and a slob! This is unacceptable! Is this some kind of biological handicap attached to the 'Vampire Baby' starter pack?
The annoyance was so great it nearly toppled her. She focused the same furious energy she'd used to sit up and forcefully sucked the saliva back into her mouth.
Must maintain dignity. No king or queen should look like a leaky faucet while plotting world domination.
Just then, her mother, Queen Lilith, swept into the nursery. Lilith was dressed for court a dress of shimmering black scales that seemed to absorb the light. She looked down at Eleanor, who was perfectly balanced, gazing back at her with the cold, assessing stare of a tax auditor.
Lilith's lips curled into a pleased, predatory smile. "Well done, my little Eleanor Thistle. You finally look capable of murder."
I am capable of filing a class action against the entire royal family, which is worse, but thank you for the compliment.
Lilith approached, effortlessly gliding across the floor. She did not pick Eleanor up, but instead knelt gracefully, placing a single, polished blood orange on the mattress next to the princess.
"Your father and I were discussing your future," Lilith murmured, her eyes glittering. "He believes you should learn to harness the Wilds first. I, however, think you should master the art of consumption."
Eleanor stared at the blood orange. It was round. It was perfectly spherical. It was approximately the same size and shape as the choking hazard that had ended her first, pathetic life.
Oh, you have to be kidding me. Is this some kind of royal psychological torture? A passive-aggressive test? I will not be defeated by citrus!
"You are stronger than a simple piece of fruit, my daughter," Lilith purred, gently tapping the orange. "But you must prove it. Your brothers, especially Caius, are beginning to doubt your ability to handle anything that isn't soft. Show me you are worthy of your blood."
Eleanor glared at the orange. She could feel the lingering phantom terror from the corn dog incident. the throat tightening, the sheer helplessness. The orange wasn't a danger; it was a symbol of her past failure.
She looked up at Lilith, and in her internal voice, she was a snarling queen. Fine. You want consumption? I'll show you consumption.
With a ferocious, guttural squeal, Princess Eleanor Thistle launched herself at the blood orange, intending to obliterate the smooth, round fruit with her gums. She missed, headbutted the mattress, and started drooling again.
The Queen merely smiled. "Excellent effort. We will try again tomorrow." She ruffle Eleanor hair and stand back up straight and dusk her dress of before walking out, at the head pat Eleanor had let out a soft surprise sound and look Lilith walk away.
What was that flutter feeling just now!,but I felt it, a warm feeling deep in my heart.
She place a serious expression and place her left hand on her tiny chest . Was this some sort of spell they place on me?, she look down on the sheet beneath her.
My real mother was a nagging person and alway a life teaching person but-, she thought about Lilith , Lilith had stood, her shimmering black dress whispering around her ankles. She leaned down and delivered a single, affectionate pat on Eleanor's head a gesture that was surprisingly gentle, yet delivered with the powerful finality of a benediction.
"Sleep, my little rebel. You have much to conquer," Lilith murmured, then straightened and swept gracefully from the nursery, the great obsidian doors closing behind her with a soft thud that settled the air.
Eleanor was left alone, sitting upright and seething, her little body throbbing with frustrated hybrid power. The spot where Lilith had touched her head felt strangely warm.
'Little rebel.' 'Sleep.' It's all so incredibly patronizing. It's the same tone my—.
The thought hit her with the force of a magical blast: 'Oh, for heaven's sake, Clarissa, are you going to wear that stained sweater again? Go change! And for the love of God, chew your food!, don't speak the mouth full!'
The memory was sharp and loud: the familiar, nagging voice of her mother from her past life. The constant worry, the exasperated affection, the endless, utterly mundane concern over sweaters and proper chewing habits. Lilith's cold, regal pat, so unlike a mortal touch, had somehow triggered a deep, unexpected well of mortal nostalgia.
Eleanor's silver eyes widened. Her sophisticated internal rage sputtered out, replaced by a sudden, complex wave of emotion she hadn't allowed since her rebirth. Without thinking, the baby's left hand the tiny hand that had accidentally summoned glitter came up and pressed against her chest, right over her heart.
A sound started in her throat. Not a baby squeal, but a low, dry chuckle.
Oh, Mother. You would absolutely hate this. I am now the princess of monsters. I wear silk instead of stained sweaters. And I died exactly how you told me I would, choking on food. You win. You were right all along.
The absurd humor of the situation overwhelmed her. She began to laugh, a series of hiccuping, adult guffaws trapped in a baby's body. Her small shoulders shook with the pure, ridiculous irony of fate.
But laughter, in this fragile state, was too close to crying. The hysterics turned rapidly, and the genuine, soul deep tears the ones of grief and loss for the life she dismissed as 'pathetic' began to flow. They were silent at first, then quickly escalated into the same loud, distressed baby wails she had endured earlier. She cried for the mother she'd lost, the life she hadn't finished, and the sheer terror of her monstrous new existence.
This is humiliation squared! Laughing, crying, drooling, all in three minutes!
What Eleanor didn't know was that she was not alone.
Rafe, the moody, silent second brother, had not left the room. The moment the doors closed, he had simply activated his highly refined Lycan Fae invisibility ability, remaining perfectly motionless against the cold obsidian wall. He often did this, watching the Fourth Blood, trying to scientifically gauge her strange, uncontrolled power.
And he saw it all.
He saw the tiny hand press against her chest. He saw the shift from fury to that impossible, dry, adult chuckle. He saw the distinct shift in her posture, the way she sat straighter, more deliberately, when the laughter started. He saw the very moment the child slipped away and the person took over, only to be overwhelmed and revert back to a helpless baby.
Rafe's neutral expression finally cracked. His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. He wasn't seeing a baby throwing a tantrum. He was seeing a grown person having a breakdown in a miniature, powerful form.
He watched her wail for another minute, his mind racing. Then, satisfied that he had witnessed something truly aberrant, Rafe dissolved his invisibility, stalked to the crib, and placed a clean, soft cloth near her sobbing face.
"Cry harder," he advised, his voice still flat. "It strengthens the lungs. Good for screaming in battle."
Then, without waiting for a reply, he left, leaving Eleanor to wallow in her confusion and her surprisingly strong lungs.