Morning after the Porcu-lion Incident was… suspiciously kind.
Sunlight did not so much "rise" as it tiptoed into the nursery, the manner of a butler who enters after mistakenly knocking. It crept across the cedarwood floorboards and hung politely in the vicinity of the curtains, not wanting to awaken me. The air held the faint smell of lavender disinfectant over the previous night's cedar smoke — an aroma that stated, "Yes, we exorcised the demon toy, but also, please don't mind the scorch marks."
The repair crews made of rune workers had labored through the night. Where the porcu-lion's had left possessed squeals burnt into small craters in the flooring, clever embroidery now covered over the damage. At a distance, the new designs appeared to be jaunty suns. Close up… ah, let's just say the threadery was a tad too lopsided for master artistry. But it's the intention that matters.
The Great Possession Debate
I awoke to the gentle clash of viewpoints from my nursemaids.
"Possession," stated Mira, arms folded. "Clear indications. That growl? Textbook case."
"Clockwork failure," retorted Tali, sniffing. "Gear slip. Afflicts spring models."
"Both," said a third, who thought herself a peacemaker. "Possession… and sabotage. Like a soufflé — you can taste both the eggs and the betrayal.
Ultimately the group gravitated toward "Possession with a side of Sabotage Soufflé." And because the human brain adores ritual, they ringed my cradle with protective salt lines. Scientifically irrelevant… but lovely. Morale is important. I repaid them with a slow smacking drool.
Meteor Fever
The day went by in a sort of suspicious peace. No possessed toys. No random rune flares. The pendant my parents had given me remained cool against my body. The cradle's IDPS — Infant Detection & Protection System, portable version — showed a tranquil teal glow.
There was a meteor shower tonight, and tension crackled in the manor. Varundar, my father, declared a "family watch-party" on the balcony, including guards stationed on the parapets and spiced hot cider for the grown-ups.
When the hour arrived, Ishvari wrapped me up in a moon-embroidered shawl. Her pulse beat against my ear — a rhythm I had involuntarily learned. We emerged onto the balcony.
Above, the sky roiled with rich velvet clouds, and then—
A line. Silver, crisp, slicing through the stars. Gasps rippled outward. Then another, this one green with a glowing tail.
Soon hundreds were flashing overhead, coloring the heavens in cosmic confetti. I allowed myself to gape with open mouth — sincere baby wonder, not tactical for once.
But beauty is often bait.
Mana on the Wind
My "sixth sense" — actually the mana-overlay network in my brain — picked up something strange. Strange currents of energy were riding the meteor trails, sliding into the ley-lines. Some of those currents splashed against the wards of the manor, causing the glyphs to flash like celebratory sparklers. Nice, yes. But also a possible intrusion vector.
I squirmed deliberately — a calibrated wiggle. The portable cradle runes strapped to my stroller flared amber. Ishvari glanced down, instantly concerned. Without hesitation, she took me inside before the shower's finale.
Good call, Mother. If this was a mana fishing expedition, we'd just denied someone their catch.
Night Whispers
Later, after the meteor glow faded, the castle fell into that deep nighttime quiet where every creak sounds like a conspiracy.
It was time to implement PBS: Passive Baby Surveillance. I narrowed my eyes to slits and listened.
"…Magister Aldric declares meteor mana can energize forest spirits."
"…Suspected sabotage: renegade artisan fired last year."
"…Delegation from temple comes next week to 'evaluate' the child."
That last one made my pretend hackles bristle.
Temples have two modes when dealing with "gifted" children: 1) parade you around as their sacred mascot, or 2) make you a sacrifice for "cosmic balance." Neither was part of my plan. I spun up Operation Pacifier in my mind:
Step 1: Remain cute.
Step 2: Recon temple design for vulnerabilities.
Step 3: Gather blackmail information (ideally involving the abbot's alleged candied fig habit).
The Disco-Ball Dust Mop Returns
Midnight. The cradle softly glowed azure. Everyone slept soundly. Even the oil lamps dozed, their flames tilting drunkenly.
And then I heard it: a crystalline chirp.
Looking over the rail of the cradle was it — my shiny spy friend. Imagine a cat, if a cat were created by an overexcited jeweler and sprinkled with stardust. Lantern-gold eyes looked at me, unwinking.
I cooed softly — tone modulation: "non-threat, open handshake." The silver-furred dust mop cocked its head, then stretched out a dainty paw, brushing the rune slat on my cradle. The wards pulsed in recognition. Handshake accepted.
It bowed (because apparently magical cats even have manners) and shot off, tail sending a fine mist of silver light flying. Probably reconnaissance. Probably not an enemy. Friends come in strange packages.
An Intruder in the Nursery
Minutes afterward: another sound. Heavier. Adult footsteps, but muffled — armorless, but slow and deliberate.
The door to the nursery creaked open. I glimpsed the shadow through eyelashes. My initial thought: steward Rava. My second thought: too wide in the shoulders.
The figure stepped over to the bookcase, pulled out a ledger, pocketed a scroll, and started to turn. My heart hammered in my ears.
This was an inside spy.
Now was the decision: reveal my identity to sound the alarm, or release the spy and maintain my surveillance edge. But if the pilfered scroll was imperative…
Decision. My lips parted. Wail triggered.
Before sound leaked, the runes of the cradle went off on their own — a sharp chime resonated through the guard net. Hall torches ignited; incoming boots boomed. The spy got out of there in an instant, before the Captain of the Guard burst in.
The captain swept the room, saw nothing but one (admittedly smug-looking) drooling infant, grunted, and departed.
Data Logged, Suspects Pending
The spy escaped, but not entirely unseen. I'd logged the walking cadence, approximate height, and — crucially — the matte boots, a rare make favored by stable hands and certain stealth-minded courtiers.
Tomorrow, I'd start compiling a suspect list.
Morning Calm (Mostly)
First light crept in, pale and gold. Ishvari came in, hair disheveled from sleep, dark circles under her eyes. She was exhausted and resolute — a look I was learning to call "motherhood."
She reached my cradle. I smiled at her with a grin honed to melt steel.
She smiled, but hers was laced with suspicion.
"Why are you smiling, hmm? Dream of starlight? Or plotting?
I latched onto her cheeks — partly for comfort, partly to scan her freckles for future genealogical metrics (don't judge).
Her warmth and lavender scent cut through the tangled web of schemes in my head.
She kissed my forehead. "You're going to change everything, aren't you? Starting with our sleep schedules and ending with reality itself."
I didn't respond out loud, naturally. But mentally, the strategy was crystalline: Yes. Beginning with sleeping patterns.
Foreshadowing in Fur
In the corner of my eye, just as Ishvari was about to turn away with me in her arms, I caught movement on the balcony railing. Two tiny forms. The dust-mop cat in its gleaming silver fur. and another, identical except for its tip of slightly darker tail. Both regarding me.
I blinked. They blinked back, in perfect sync.
And then, silently, they disappeared into the dawn.