My mother had died.

  I had been one and a half years old.

  Her illness - whatever it had been, as I had understood little of such matters - finally took her in the quiet hours of dawn.

  I remembered being carried out of the room before she passed… but I remembered the sound of Father’s voice cracking.

  I remembered Jakob’s fists clenching until sparks lit between his fingers. I remembered Maren burying her face against Father’s sleeve, pretending she wasn’t crying.

  We had all been at her bedside.

  Then came the funeral.

  They dressed her in white and gold, a symbol of peace and protection from darkness. The clergy chanted spells of safe passage, glowing runes rising like fireflies into the air, drifting skyward.

  Her coffin was carved from pale oak, lined with gentle flowers.

  People whispered.

  How could she - of all people - have fallen to something as mundane as illness?

  Mother’s family line had been one of iron. Warriors whose bodies were said to resist poison and plague alike. And mages with blood so saturated in magic that disease recoiled from them. They had been supposed to be untouchable.

  And yet, she had died. Strange, wasn’t it?

  Some servants muttered that it must have been a curse. Others blamed a hidden wound from battles long past. I couldn’t imagine that this mother of mine had been a warrior.

  Every rumor reached my ears eventually. It could have been anything, but it truly seemed like it had just been a common illness. Nothing special.

  Father stood tall, but his eyes were hollow.

  They laid her to rest in the Lightbane mausoleum - our family’s ancestral tomb in the town of Endil.

  Mother’s family didn’t approve.

  They wanted her returned to their home, honored among warriors and arcane scholars.

  They claimed her spirit would be stronger there, that her legacy belonged with her own lineage.

  But Father refused.

  “Her life was here,” he said.

  And though his voice was steady, his grip on the coffin trembled.

  Her side of the family stood at a distance at the funeral while the stone lid sealed shut.

  Me?

  I held a tiny wooden toy my mother had carved for me - a little cat, smooth and worn from her thumb rubbing it as she checked for splinters.

  I squeezed it. It wasn’t that I felt small, but it was as if a chunk of me was already missing, and that chunk would have felt her death the most.

  I wondered: I had been given a second chance. Had she?

  The rustle of robes, the chants of priests, and the steady thump of dirt on wood filled the air as the grave was closed.

  A month passed.

  A month of quiet meals.

  A month of Father staring at empty chairs.

  A month of my siblings training harder, as if strength could shield them from sadness.

  And then came the nanny. My father had been too distraught to truly keep up with the needs of three children.

  She was graceful, with long green hair. She wore glasses.

  I liked her immediately. Not in the I want to hug her forever way - that would have been normal for a baby - but in the other way, the way that wasn’t normal for someone my age. Plus, she was older than my father.

  Whenever she smiled, and I caught myself staring at the way her hands moved as she adjusted my blanket or picked up a book from the floor, my heart fluttered.

  Everything about her seemed impossibly… elegant.

  Of course, I knew it would never work.

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  Still, every morning when she arrived, I tried to sit a little straighter in my crib. Tried to look attentive, clever, fascinating.

  She taught me words and songs. My far-away beauty.

  Oh well. Things were funny like that sometimes.

  Other than that, I did what I usually did with my time when I had it to spare: I read.

  Many of Father’s books were about healing magic.

  Medical theory.

  Spells of stasis and prevention.

  Spells that could make the body stronger.

  Scraps of hope that hadn’t worked out in the end.

  In the mornings, Father had usually been in the kitchen humming some tune, making tea or something of the sort - but he stopped.

  In the mornings, the hearth was cold, and so were the hearts of this family, for the moment.

  One night, after everyone had slept, I slipped out into the hallway. The house felt bigger knowing that Mother would never fill its corners again. I made my way into the library - my sanctuary.

  Over the months, Father had brought in more books alongside the medical volumes - but it was then that he appeared.

  Not with light or thunder.

  Moonlight pooled across the floor like silver water.

  He simply… was there. Sitting by the desk as if he had always been part of the room.

  Long white beard.

  Eyes like galaxies.

  Ink stains on his fingers.

  Geshich.

  “Hello again, mortal - or should I call you Caleb now?” he said, his voice as casual but mighty as I remembered. “Sorry about the delay. I was… busy.”

  I stared at him.

  “I’ve heard about the death of your mother, and I’m sorry to hear it. Well, that’s what I heard should be said when someone dies. Not that I’ve known many who ever have. But I’ve read about it many times. Mortal fates are complicated. Her - your mother - her story had reached its natural end.”

  “I felt like she deserved better.”

  He shrugged, tapping his quill against the desk. “That’s not my domain. But no matter-”

  He reached into his cloak and pulled out a big, blue, hard-covered book. The air hummed around it.

  He placed it in front of me.

  I opened to the first page.

  Blank.

  “This is your story. Not the one you live - though that is fascinating - but the one you choose to record. Write in it when you feel compelled to. I will read it. But it must reflect reality, at least for the most part.”

  “Why? Why do it like this? Couldn’t you watch me from wherever your library was?”

  “Entertainment,” he said simply. “When you’re ready to be interesting,” he added with a grin, “start writing. But don’t take too long now. I’ve seen, heard, and read much, but that doesn’t mean my patience is endless. This is what awaits you if you can offer me nothing.”

  For a moment, his eyes - those swirling, star-filled voids - pulled me inward, and something inside me remembered. Not clearly, not like a memory, but like a pain recognizing itself.

  First, there had been nothing. Not sleep, not silence - no nothing. A vast hollow where thought scraped against its own fading edges. I drifted in black eternity, with no body, no breath, only an unraveling awareness of me dissolving into not-me. I realized I was still thinking only to fear that soon I wouldn’t. Numbness gnawed at my being, yet fear roared louder than any heartbeat ever could.

  A terror so absolute it drowned even its own meaning. It felt like forever - like an eternity tightening around my soul until even fear would be digested by the dark. And then, like a rope thrown into the abyss, life and the light of the moon dragged me upward into sensation again - almost blinding, burning, unbearable.

  And Geshich- Geshich stood there?! His expression hadn’t changed, but even a second in the void had given me a new appreciation of life, and his face seemed full of things I had almost forgotten, though it remained stone-faced.

  “This was but a moment from my own power. My power, however strong, is dwarfed by the immensity of the god who rules the place beyond life. Farewell, mortal.”

  And then he was gone.

  “Interesting.”

  Was he kidding?

  What stories could be told about a toddler that weren’t mind-bogglingly stupid or boring?

  How could I make a god pay attention?

  Fear flashed through me - the fear of dying again, forgotten and irrelevant. The void.

  But fear… could be fuel.

  I knew a few spells now - definitely more than most other children my age.

  Healing and protections first and foremost. Things that made me or anyone else stronger, faster, and more durable.

  A thought slithered into my mind.

  If I found a threat - a monster, a bandit, something dangerous lurking, or an evil plot - and destroyed it…

  That would have been interesting, wouldn’t it?

  I clutched the magical book close to my chest.

  Tomorrow night, when the moon was high… I would sneak out.

  And search it out.

  A hero needed action.

  So I did just that… I snuck out.

  It turned out sneaking out was comically easy. Adults slept like there was a spell on them. Servants too. Even my siblings, usually full of manic energy, slept like rocks dropped down a well.

  My heart hammered like a war drum.

  The book was strapped under my shirt.

  I whispered,

  “Mach.”

  It was a simple spell of speed that I hadn’t often tried, but I had practiced it enough to know I could reliably cast it.

  White lines of magic spiraled around my legs. My body blurred forward - too fast - and I crashed into a hallway table, nearly toppling a vase. Quietly.

  Right. I rubbed my head in pain.

  Precision before speed.

  By the time I reached the house next door, my control had improved, and I could speed my way through things without constantly bumping into them.

  I rifled through offices, cupboards, pantries, storage rooms.

  Nobles had fewer dark secrets and far more embarrassing nightgowns than I had expected.

  Every night, I searched one house thoroughly.

  I gave up when I found myself holding a weirdly modern and sexy pair of panties.

  Should I have taken them with me?

  Was being a pervert an interesting plot point?

  Lord forgive me. I put them on my head, took a breath… they smelled like nothing at all.

  Well.

  No conspiracies. No traitors.

  Just boring, very human… stuff.

  I pulled the panties off my head and put them back where I had found them.

  What was I thinking?

  Maybe the real stories were farther out.

  On the edge of town, a forest loomed - called the Hronaya. A place children were warned about.

  Which meant opportunity.

  Over the next few days, I searched the forest. There had to be something.

  Then… I saw it.

  Firelight flickering through the branches.

  At least a dozen figures gathered around a few wagons.

  Weapons at their hips.

  Painted faces.

  Rough laughter.

  Bandits.

  Real, actual bandits.

  Yes!

  This was it - the moment of truth.

  Realistically, I should have run.

  I should have called for help.

  But I didn’t.

  I crouched, watching their silhouettes.

  My heart warred with my mind.

  I was two.

  I was scared.