Here is Chapter Three, continuing from the tone and stage established in Chapters One and Two — still early childhood, but now moving toward James' first signs of intentional development and awareness of his powers.
Time passed quietly in the servants' wing. Seasons shifted outside the cracked windows, and James grew—small in body, sharp in mind. No one marked his milestones. No nursemaid recorded his progress. There were no tutors, no doting relatives, no expectations.
Only the AI whispered in the silence.
Language assimilation: 82%. Speech capability approaching threshold.
Recommendation: Begin verbal interaction to increase influence and autonomy.
James sat upright on a worn rug, a chipped wooden block in hand. Mira scrubbing laundry across the room barely glanced at him.
He had learned to crawl early, walk earlier still, and climb before anyone realized he could stand. The servants assumed he was unusually quiet, not unusually capable.
He tested his voice only when no one was there to hear—soft sounds, syllables, fragments, assembling slowly into possibility.
Vocal control stable. Optimal moment for integration: imminent.
That moment arrived when Mira dropped a stack of linens and muttered under her breath, "Too many chores… and not enough hands."
James watched her, expression unreadable. Then, with careful intent, he spoke his first word in this life.
"Water."
Mira froze.
Her head turned slowly, eyes wide and disbelieving. "What… what did you say?"
James blinked once. Then repeated, clearer this time. "Water."
She stared at him as though he'd sprouted wings. "You— you're not even two winters old yet."
He didn't respond further, only held out the empty cup beside him.
Mira, still stunned, filled it from a nearby basin and handed it over with mechanical care. He drank without spilling a drop.
When she reported it to the other servants, they dismissed it as exaggeration.
"Babies mimic sounds all the time," one scoffed. "He probably burbled something and she imagined the rest."
But the next day, he said more.
"Bread."
"Cold."
"Sleep."
"Fire."
Simple words, but clear. Precise. Intentional.
Mira stopped doubting then. She began speaking to him more, if only to convince herself he was real.
The others remained skeptical—until the steward came to inventory the pantry.
An old man with thinning hair and a permanent frown, he knelt when he noticed James sitting quietly against a barrel.
"What are you doing here, boy?"
James met his gaze without hesitation. "Listening."
The steward's expression twitched—annoyance first, then surprise. He straightened and looked around. "Where is your minder?"
"Busy," James said simply.
The steward left without responding, but the story spread faster than any servant could carry a tray.
The bastard child could talk before the baron's heir had at that age.
Rumor did not improve his standing—but it made people watch.
Observation: increased scrutiny detected. Strategy adjustment required. Maintain controlled output.
James obeyed.
He spoke only when necessary. He listened always.
Cedric, the baron's trueborn son, passed him in the hall weeks later and narrowed his eyes.
"So the little whelp can talk," he muttered.
James said nothing.
Not because he couldn't—but because the moment to speak to Cedric had not yet arrived.
That night, as the torches burned low and the estate creaked with age, he lay awake in his small straw-stuffed mattress.
Cognitive and sensory growth on target. Next phase: spell framework recognition.
Emotional suppression stable.
He closed his eyes, not to rest, but to think.
The world was still too small.
But it would not stay that way.