The drums never stopped.
Even in sleep—if what I experienced could be called sleep—they were there. A constant, distant thunder rolling beneath every moment of my new existence. Sometimes loud, sometimes faint, but never gone.
At first, I thought they were real.
Now, I wasn't so sure.
---
Days passed.
Or at least, I assumed they were days. Time was harder to measure when your entire world was reduced to flickering firelight, rough wooden beams, and the steady rhythm of someone else's heartbeat beneath your ear.
I had learned three things very quickly.
First: I was, without question, a baby.
Second: That meant I was completely helpless.
And third…
This place was not forgiving.
---
"Again."
The voice snapped through the longhouse like a whip.
I couldn't turn my head properly yet, but I didn't need to. I had already learned to recognize that voice.
The chieftain.
My father.
A sharp *crack* followed—wood striking wood, or maybe bone. Then a grunt of pain.
"Too slow," he said coldly.
"I—I tried—"
"Trying keeps you alive for a moment. Being strong keeps you alive longer."
Another impact. Heavier this time.
The longhouse was never quiet. Even when there was no fighting, there was sharpening, repairing, arguing, laughing—everything loud, everything raw. But moments like this changed the air.
People listened.
Not out of curiosity.
Out of necessity.
Because weakness was being corrected.
---
I lay in a bundle of furs near the central fire, staring up at the smoke-darkened ceiling. My body was small, but my mind… my mind was racing.
That wasn't training.
It was survival being hammered into someone.
Literally.
A boy—older than me by maybe ten or twelve years, from the sound of it—was being forced to fight. And losing.
Badly.
"Stand," my father ordered.
Silence.
Then the scrape of someone struggling to rise.
"I said *stand*."
A choked breath. A stagger.
Then—
A dull thud.
The boy had fallen again.
The next sound came faster than I expected.
A kick.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But solid.
Enough to send a message.
---
"Pathetic," the chieftain muttered.
Something twisted in my chest.
Not just fear.
Recognition.
I knew that word. Not the language—it translated itself in my head somehow—but the meaning behind it. The tone.
I had heard it before.
Different world. Different life.
Same weight.
---
"Stop."
The voice was sharp.
Familiar.
My mother.
The room shifted. Not physically—but emotionally. Like a bowstring pulled too tight.
"He has trained since sunrise," she said, her tone controlled but firm. "He needs rest."
"He needs strength."
"He needs to live long enough to gain it."
Silence.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
I couldn't see them, but I could feel it—the invisible line between them. Not equals, exactly… but not something as simple as dominance either.
A clash.
Of will.
---
After a long moment, my father exhaled through his nose.
A sound of annoyance more than agreement.
"Tch. Take him, then," he said. "But if he dies in battle one day, it will not be because I was too harsh."
"No," my mother replied quietly. "It will be because the world is."
Footsteps followed. Softer ones this time. Someone being helped… or carried.
The tension eased.
The longhouse breathed again.
---
I stared at the ceiling, unmoving.
That was normal here.
Not shocking.
Not cruel.
Normal.
And that was the problem.
---
Later, when the fire had burned lower and the noise had settled into quieter murmurs, I felt arms lift me.
Warm.
Steady.
My mother.
She adjusted the furs around me, her fingers surprisingly gentle for someone living in a world like this.
"You heard," she murmured, more to herself than to me.
I blinked slowly.
Of course I heard.
I hear everything.
I just can't do anything about it.
Yet.
---
"You must not be weak," she continued softly, her eyes studying my face as if searching for something deeper than a newborn could possibly show. "Not here."
Her thumb brushed across my cheek.
"If you are… they will not wait for you to become strong."
---
I wanted to respond.
To tell her I understood.
That I *knew* what it meant to be overlooked, underestimated, dismissed.
That I had lived that life already.
And died in it.
---
Instead, my tiny hand twitched weakly against the fur.
That was all I could manage.
But her gaze sharpened slightly, as if she noticed.
"Hmm," she hummed quietly. "Good."
Good?
For what?
I barely moved.
---
Across the room, I felt it before I saw it.
A presence.
Heavy.
Watching.
My eyes shifted—slow, clumsy—until they landed on him.
The chieftain.
He was seated near the far side of the fire, a drinking horn in one hand, his posture relaxed… but his eyes were not.
They were on me.
Not warmly.
Not coldly, either.
Just… watching.
Measuring.
Again.
---
For a brief moment, something passed between us.
Ridiculous.
I was a baby.
He was a war-hardened leader.
And yet—
It felt like he was waiting.
Not for who I was.
But for who I would become.
---
"Name him soon," someone nearby said. "A chieftain's son should not remain nameless."
A low murmur of agreement followed.
Names mattered here.
I could tell.
Names weren't just identity.
They were expectation.
Burden.
Future.
---
My father didn't answer immediately.
He took a long drink, then set the horn aside with a dull thud.
Finally, he spoke.
"When he earns it."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Ripples spread instantly.
"A child—"
"He will earn it," the chieftain repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Silence followed.
No one challenged him.
No one dared.
---
My mother's grip on me tightened—just slightly.
Not enough to hurt.
But enough that I noticed.
---
And just like that…
I understood.
---
I wasn't just born into a brutal world.
I wasn't just the son of a powerful man.
I wasn't even guaranteed something as basic as a *name*.
---
I had to earn it.
---
A strange feeling bubbled up inside me.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something sharper.
Something… familiar.
---
In my past life, I had drifted.
Unnoticed.
Unremarkable.
Forgettable.
---
But here?
That wasn't an option.
---
I stared into the fire, its flickering light reflecting in my unfocused eyes.
Fine.
If this world demanded strength…
If even a *name* had to be earned…
---
Then I would earn it.
---
No matter what it took.