They thought I was sleeping.
I lay in a cradle carved from moonwood, its edges inlaid with tiny runes that glowed faintly whenever I breathed. Silk curtains surrounded me, swaying gently as warm air passed through the room. Two maids stood nearby, whispering softly so as not to disturb the "fragile" infant.
Fragile.
If only they knew.
I listened to everything.
"The physicians say she barely cries," one maid murmured.
"A blessed child," the other replied. "And did you hear? Lord Valemont ordered a full astrological reading. They say the stars shifted when she was born."
Stars didn't shift.
But power did.
I could feel it now—more clearly than before. Mana pulsed through the air like a second atmosphere, flowing through the walls, the floors, even the people around me. When I focused, the warmth in my chest responded instantly, eager, obedient.
Too obedient.
In my previous life, I had studied neuroscience and systems theory in scraps of stolen time, always wondering what it would feel like to have a mind unburdened by exhaustion and fear. Now I knew.
My thoughts were sharp enough to cut.
Days passed. Or weeks. Time was strange when measured between feedings and naps. Yet with each passing moment, my awareness expanded. I learned the rhythm of the household—the precise footstep of my father's guards, the lighter tread of my mother, the scent of rare herbs that always preceded the arrival of healers.
My father, Lord Alaric Valemont, came often.
He would stand silently beside my cradle, eyes studying me as though I were a priceless artifact and a riddle wrapped into one. When our gazes met, something unreadable flickered in his expression.
One evening, he spoke quietly to my mother.
"She watches," he said. "Not like a child."
My mother smiled, brushing her fingers through my hair. "You're imagining things. She's simply… attentive."
But I was watching.
And listening.
The Valemont family ruled more than wealth. They controlled trade routes, magical academies, and entire cities through contracts written in gold and blood. Other noble houses bowed not out of loyalty, but necessity.
Enemies existed. Of course they did.
Which meant power alone wouldn't be enough.
One night, when the moon hung low and the mana currents were calm, I tried something dangerous.
I focused inward.
In novels, children like me waited years before awakening their abilities. But I didn't have years. Knowledge without action was just wasted potential.
I reached for the warmth in my chest—and pulled.
Mana surged.
The runes carved into my cradle flared violently, light spilling across the room. The air thickened, humming like a struck bell. I couldn't stop it—my control wasn't refined enough.
The curtains burst into shimmering motes.
I cried out, this time not pretending.
The door flew open.
My mother rushed in first, followed by my father and three mages in ceremonial robes. The moment they saw the glowing cradle, their faces drained of color.
"A spontaneous mana draw?" one mage whispered in horror. "At this age?"
My father stepped forward, eyes blazing—not with fear, but awe.
The light faded as quickly as it had come. I lay there, exhausted, my tiny chest heaving. Tears streaked down my cheeks, real this time.
My mother scooped me up, holding me tightly. I felt her heart racing.
"She's harmed?" she demanded.
"No," the eldest mage said slowly. "But… my lady, your daughter has just done something unheard of."
Silence fell.
"She sensed mana," he continued, voice reverent. "And responded to it. Instinctively."
My father closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"A genius," he said at last. "Or a monster, if mishandled."
My mother stiffened. "She is our child."
"And the most valuable existence in the empire," he replied calmly. "From this moment on, Aurelia Valemont will be protected beyond measure. No one learns of this. No one."
As they carried me from the shattered cradle, fatigue dragged at my thoughts—but beneath it, satisfaction burned bright.
I had crossed the first line.
They knew now.
I was not ordinary.
And next time, I would be ready.