**Early Days**
Consciousness returns in fragments.
I float in a haze of sensation—warmth, the rhythmic sound of a heartbeat, muffled voices that vibrate through me. My understanding of time in these early days is fluid, unreliable. Hours blend into days, days into weeks. The memories of my past life continue to fade like watercolors in rain, leaving only vague impressions: the concept of technology, the feeling of being older, the abstract notion of a world without magic.
But this world—Terra Solaris—is aggressively, undeniably real.
My infant body is a prison and a revelation. I cannot walk, cannot speak, can barely control my own limbs. Yet through these helpless eyes, I see wonders that my previous life never imagined. The ley lines are a constant presence, silver threads weaving through everything. They're more visible at dawn and dusk, pulsing with the rhythm of something vast and alive. I watch them for hours, my infant mind cataloging patterns, recognizing structures, understanding in ways I shouldn't be capable of.
The Infinite Skill is already at work, even now.
My mother, Miren, tends to me with gentle hands and infinite patience. She smells of herbs—chamomile, sage, something sharp and green I don't recognize. Her voice is a constant melody, speaking to me in the common tongue of this world. Somehow, impossibly, I understand her. Not just the meaning behind her coos and whispers, but the actual language itself. It's as if my brain is absorbing and processing linguistic patterns at an accelerated rate, building a vocabulary from context and repetition in a fraction of the time it should take.
"You're so alert, little one," she murmurs one morning as she changes my swaddling. Her fingers trace the soft curves of my face. "Your eyes follow everything. Sometimes I wonder what you see that we cannot."
*More than you know,* I think, but all that emerges is a gurgling coo. She laughs, the sound warm and rich, and kisses my forehead.
My father, Toren, is a different presence entirely. Where Miren is softness and nurturing, he is strength and vigilance. Even when he holds me—carefully, as if I might break—there's a coiled readiness in him. He's a warrior, I understand now, a protector of this village. I see it in the way he moves, economical and precise, always aware of his surroundings. When he looks at me, I see pride warring with worry in his deep brown eyes.
"He'll need to be strong," he tells Miren one night. I'm supposed to be asleep in my cradle, but I'm awake, listening, watching the ley lines dance through the gaps in our wooden walls. "The world is dangerous, and with a gift like his..."
"He's just a baby, Toren," Miren replies, but her voice carries an edge of the same concern.
"A baby who made the ley lines sing at his birth. A baby the elders are already whispering about." He pauses, and I hear the creak of wood as he sits. "I won't let them put that burden on him too early. He deserves a childhood."
Their words settle over me like a weight. Even in this new life, I'm marked. Different. The thought should frighten me, but instead, I feel something else—determination. I've been given a second chance in a world of magic and wonder. I won't waste it cowering.
**Three Months**
By the time I'm three months old, I'm already defying expectations.
I can hold my head up steadily. I reach for objects with surprising accuracy. Most telling, I'm starting to manipulate the smallest threads of magical energy around me. It's nothing dramatic—just making small stones glow faintly when I touch them, causing ripples in water without physical contact. But it's enough to make my parents exchange worried glances when they think I'm not watching.
The village of Verdwood reveals itself to me in layers. Our home is modest but comfortable, carved from the heart of a massive ironwood tree. The walls are smooth, shaped by magic rather than tools, and covered with protective runes that pulse with gentle light when darkness falls. We're in what I've learned is called the Residential Circle, where families cluster by clan affiliation.
Through our windows, I can see other homes, connected by elevated walkways that weave through the massive trees. During the day, the forest canopy filters sunlight into shafts of green-gold radiance. At night, the ley lines provide illumination, their silver glow casting everything in ethereal beauty.
Miren carries me through the village often, introducing me to neighbors and conducting her work as a healer. I absorb everything—the layout of the village, the faces and names of people, the customs and courtesies they exchange. My infant brain shouldn't be capable of retaining all this information, but it does. Every detail is catalogued, processed, understood.
The Craftsman's Quarter smells of wood shavings, hot metal, and magical ozone. I watch artisans shape wood with a touch, see smiths infuse blades with elemental properties, observe elderly enchanters carefully inscribing runes onto everything from door frames to children's toys. The Infinite Skill drinks it all in, analyzing techniques, understanding principles, storing knowledge for when this body is capable of putting it to use.
The Temple District is quieter, more contemplative. Here, I feel the ley lines most strongly. They converge above a central grove where an ancient stone circle sits, its weathered pillars covered in moss and carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. A woman often stands there—Seraphine, the seer. Her silver eyes find me even when Miren tries to pass by quickly. Each time, I feel her gaze pierce through me, seeing not just an infant but something more.
"The child thrives," she says one afternoon, her voice carrying an otherworldly quality that makes the air shimmer.
"He does, thank the Ancients," Miren replies, holding me a bit tighter.
"The Ancients have little to do with it." Seraphine steps closer, and I smell rain and starlight—impossible scents that somehow make perfect sense. "This one charts his own course. The question is whether the world is ready for where that course leads."
Miren doesn't respond, and we continue our walk. But I feel Seraphine's gaze following us, and in her silver eyes, I see the reflection of the ley lines and something else—the shadow of futures yet unwritten.
**Six Months**
The curse makes itself known on a warm summer evening.
I'm six months old, sitting propped against cushions in our home while Miren prepares dinner. The scent of roasting vegetables and some kind of game meat fills the air. Toren is due home soon from council duties. Everything is peaceful, domestic, normal.
Then the hunger hits.
It's not the simple need for milk or food. This is something deeper, more primal. My gums ache. My vision sharpens until I can see the individual threads in the fabric of Miren's dress, the pulse of blood in her neck. The smell of the cooking meat becomes overwhelming, almost intoxicating, but it's not the meat I want.
I want what flows beneath skin. I want warmth and life and—
A whimper escapes me, thin and distressed. Miren turns immediately, her healer's instincts alert to suffering.
"Ren? What's wrong, sweet one?"
She lifts me, and being so close to her makes it worse. I can hear her heartbeat, strong and steady. I can smell her—really smell her—in ways I couldn't before. The hunger roars louder, and I feel my face contort, feel something in my mouth shift.
Terror floods through me. Not mine—or not just mine. My infant instincts are frightened by the sensation, but the consciousness from my past life understands what's happening with horrifying clarity.
*The vampiric curse.*
I force my tiny hands to press against Miren's shoulder, pushing weakly away even as every fiber of this new body screams to move closer. She mistakes it for discomfort, tries to adjust her hold. The hunger spikes, and I feel my control slipping.
Then Toren is there, home earlier than expected. His warrior's senses immediately read the situation, though he can't possibly understand it fully.
"Give him to me," he says, his voice calm but urgent.
Miren transfers me to his arms, and the distance helps. Toren's scent is different—sweat, leather, steel, and something else. Authority. Strength. It cuts through the hunger like a blade, not eliminating it but making it manageable.
"His teeth," Miren breathes, and I realize my mouth must still be showing whatever physical change the curse triggered. "Toren, did you see—?"
"I saw." His arms tighten around me, protective rather than restraining. "We'll talk about it tonight. For now, let's just... let's just calm him."
He carries me to the window, letting cool evening air wash over us both. The ley lines are visible outside, their pulsing rhythm gradually syncing with my racing heartbeat. Slowly, painfully, the hunger recedes. My mouth returns to normal. The sharpened senses dull to merely enhanced rather than overwhelming.
I sag against Toren's chest, exhausted and shaken. In my previous life, I'd read stories about vampires—fiction, entertainment, cautionary tales. Nothing prepared me for the reality of having that hunger gnaw at your soul, for feeling your body demand something your mind finds horrifying.
"It's alright, son," Toren murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "Whatever this is, we'll face it. Together."
That night, after they think I'm asleep, I hear them talking in hushed, worried tones. They use words I'm not supposed to understand: "curse," "bloodline," "danger." Miren cries quietly. Toren's voice is steady but strained as he promises to protect both of us, to find answers, to keep this secret until they understand it better.
I lie in my cradle, staring at the ley lines visible through the ceiling, and make my own silent promise. I will master this curse. I will not let it define me or endanger the people in this new life. The Infinite Skill gave me the ability to learn and adapt faster than anyone. I'll use that gift to control this curse, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs.
**One Year**
My first birthday is marked by a small celebration—just family and a few close friends. I'm walking now, earlier than most children according to Miren's delighted observations. What she doesn't know is that I've been practicing every moment I can, using the Infinite Skill to analyze the biomechanics of movement, to understand balance and momentum, to train this young body with the knowledge of an adult mind.
The curse has remained mostly dormant since that first frightening episode, only rarely surfacing as a dull ache in my gums or an odd sensitivity to the scent of blood. I've learned to push it down, to wall it off in a corner of my consciousness. It's not a solution—merely a delay—but it's all I can manage for now.
What I can't suppress is the Infinite Skill itself. It's not something I can turn off, nor would I want to. Every moment is a learning opportunity. I watch Miren prepare medicines and understand the properties of herbs. I observe Toren practice with his sword in our small courtyard and comprehend the principles of leverage, timing, and force. I listen to neighbors gossip and build a mental map of village politics and relationships.