**Age Two - The World Expands**
The forest speaks to me in a thousand voices.
I'm two years old now, and my world has expanded far beyond the wooden walls of our home. Miren takes me into the village daily, sometimes to help with her healing work, other times simply to let me explore under her watchful eye. But it's the forest itself that calls to me most strongly—the ancient trees, the carpet of moss and fallen leaves, the streams that catch and reflect the ley lines like liquid silver.
"Stay close, Ren," Miren calls as I toddle ahead on the forest path. My legs are steadier now, my movements more confident than any two-year-old should possess. The Infinite Skill has been analyzing human locomotion since before I could walk, and now my body executes movements with unconscious precision.
I pause at the base of an enormous tree, its trunk wider than our entire home. The bark is rough under my small palms, and I can feel something pulsing within—not just sap, but magical energy flowing through its ancient heartwood. The ley lines connect to it, feeding it, drawing from it. Everything in this forest is part of a vast, interconnected web of magic.
"Mama, tree sings," I say, patting the bark. My vocabulary is expanding rapidly, though I'm careful not to speak too well too soon. Even with the Infinite Skill as an explanation, there are limits to what won't raise alarm.
Miren kneels beside me, her healer's senses attuned to the same energies I feel. "You can hear it? The life-song of the forest?"
I nod, pressing my ear against the rough bark. It's not hearing, exactly—more like sensing a vibration that exists on multiple levels simultaneously. The tree's growth, the flow of nutrients, the gentle pull of magic through its roots and branches. All of it creates a symphony that most people in this world can feel only as a vague impression.
But I *see* it. The Infinite Skill breaks it down into components I can understand, patterns I can recognize and, eventually, replicate.
"You have a gift, little one," Miren says softly, running her fingers through my hair. "A precious, dangerous gift. We must help you learn to use it wisely."
The word "dangerous" makes something in my chest tighten. She doesn't mean the Infinite Skill alone—she means the curse. In the year since that first episode, there have been three more. Each time, the hunger rises like a tide, demanding blood, demanding life. Each time, I've managed to push it down, though it gets harder. My parents know. They watch me with love and worry in equal measure, and I catch them having hushed conversations late at night about "control" and "training" and "keeping it secret."
I press harder against the tree, drawing comfort from its ancient presence. In my previous life, I was—what? An adult? A student? The memories are nearly gone now, leaving only fragments: the concept of computers, the memory of coffee, the feeling of being someone else. This life, this world, has become my reality in a way that makes the past feel like a half-remembered dream.
"Come," Miren says, standing and offering her hand. "I have patients to see, and you have growing to do."
I take her hand, and we continue deeper into the village.
**The Healer's Rounds**
Watching Miren work is an education in itself.
Our first stop is a small home on the village's eastern edge where an elderly woman named Elara is recovering from a fall. The moment we enter, I smell the herbs Miren has been using—a mixture of comfrey for the bones, willow bark for pain, and something with a sharp, clean scent that must be preventing infection.
"How do you feel today, Elara?" Miren asks, setting down her satchel and moving to examine the woman's splinted leg.
"Better, dear. That salve you made works wonders." Elara's eyes drift to me, and she smiles. "And you've brought your little shadow."
I'm used to this now—being called Miren's shadow. I follow her everywhere, watching, learning. Most people think I'm just a curious child. They don't realize that I'm memorizing every technique, every herb combination, every diagnostic method.
Miren unwraps the splint carefully, her fingers gentle but precise. I move closer, standing on my toes to see. The bruising has faded from purple-black to yellow-green. The swelling is significantly reduced. The bone alignment looks good—I can see the subtle straightness of the leg compared to the other.
"The bone is knitting well," Miren announces. "Another two weeks, and you'll be walking with just a cane."
As she works, I observe the way she channels a small amount of healing magic through her hands. It's subtle, not the dramatic displays I've seen from combat mages, but no less sophisticated. She's guiding the body's natural healing processes, accelerating them, ensuring they proceed correctly. The ley lines respond to her intent, flowing through her and into the patient in carefully controlled measures.
My fingers twitch. I want to try it, to see if the Infinite Skill can grasp the principles of healing magic. But I'm two. Any display of magical ability beyond the occasional accidental spark would raise questions I'm not ready to answer.
"Ren, would you hand me the brown jar from my bag?" Miren asks without turning around.
I toddle to her satchel, proud that she trusts me with this task. The bag contains at least fifteen different jars and pouches, but I know exactly which one she means—brown ceramic, sealed with wax, containing the pain-relieving salve. I retrieve it carefully and bring it to her.
"Thank you, love." She takes it with a smile, but I catch the slight widening of her eyes. She hadn't told me which brown jar, yet I'd chosen correctly from several options. The Infinite Skill strikes again, reading context clues and past patterns to predict her needs.
I need to be more careful.
**First Friendships**
After leaving Elara's home, we head toward the Market Square. It's mid-morning, and the square bustles with activity. Merchants call out their wares, children play in the spaces between stalls, and the smell of fresh bread mingles with the earthy scent of vegetables and the metallic tang of smithwork from nearby forges.
"Miren!" A woman's voice rises above the crowd. "And little Ren!"
A broad-shouldered woman with flame-red hair approaches. Even at two, I recognize her—Greta Fireborn, a warrior of some renown and aunt to a girl around my age. She's carrying a basket of training weapons, wooden swords and staves worn smooth from use.
"Greta," Miren greets warmly. "How's the family?"
"Chaotic, as always. Kaela's been begging to start proper training, though she's barely old enough to lift a practice sword." Greta laughs, but there's pride in her voice. "Speaking of which—Kaela! Come here!"
A small figure detaches from a group of children playing nearby. She's perhaps a few months older than me, with the same shock of red hair as her aunt, tied back in a practical braid. Her clothes are already scuffed from play, and there's a determined set to her jaw that makes her look older than her years.
"This is Kaela," Greta says. "Kaela, this is Ren Amaki. You two should be friends."
Kaela studies me with intense amber eyes. I study her back, noting the way she stands—balanced, ready, like a warrior even at this young age. She's been watching the adults train, I realize. Mimicking their stances when she thinks no one's looking.
"You're the weird baby," she finally says.
"Kaela!" Greta's voice holds a warning.
But I'm not offended. Children are direct, and there's no malice in her observation. "You're the loud girl," I counter, keeping my words simple but my tone matter-of-fact.
For a moment, she blinks in surprise. Then she grins. "I like loud. Loud means people listen."
"Or run away," I point out.
She laughs, a bright, fierce sound. "Running's for cowards."
Even then, even at two and three years old respectively, we recognize something in each other. A kindred spirit, perhaps. Or maybe just the acknowledgment that neither of us fits quite right into the molds the world expects.
"Want to play?" she asks, gesturing toward the other children.
I glance at Miren, who nods permission. "Stay where I can see you."
Kaela grabs my hand without ceremony and drags me toward the group. They're playing some kind of game involving a ball and a lot of running. I'm smaller than most of them, and my two-year-old body has limits even the Infinite Skill can't fully overcome. But I watch, I learn, I adapt.
Within minutes, I understand the rules—a complicated mix of tag and keep-away with arbitrary boundaries and shifting alliances. Within an hour, I'm holding my own, my small size actually an advantage as I duck and weave between larger children.
Kaela plays with abandon, laughing when she's caught, crowing when she evades capture. There's a joy in her that's infectious, and I find myself smiling—genuinely smiling—in a way I haven't since arriving in this world.
Maybe childhood in this life won't be entirely wasted on pretending to be less than I am. Maybe, with friends like this, I can find moments of genuine innocence amid the weight of knowledge and power I carry.
**The Demonstration**
Our play is interrupted by a commotion near the training grounds adjacent to the square.
"Demonstration!" one of the older children shouts. "The guard's doing a demonstration!"
The entire group of children streams toward the source of excitement, and I'm swept along in the current. The training grounds are a large, open area with packed earth, target dummies, and practice rings. Today, several members of the village guard are putting on a show for an audience of civilians.
I push through the crowd—easy to do when you're small—until I can see clearly. Two fighters circle each other in the central ring, both armed with practice swords. One is a seasoned guard I recognize as Captain Felric, a man with gray threading through his beard and scars marking decades of service. The other is younger, perhaps in his mid-twenties, eager and talented but less experienced.
They engage.
The Infinite Skill activates immediately, analyzing every movement. I see the weight distribution in their stances, the micro-adjustments in grip pressure, the subtle tells in shoulder position that telegraph strikes a heartbeat before they're launched. I watch Felric feint high and strike low, watch the younger guard overcommit to a parry and nearly lose his balance.
This is *fascinating*.
"Ren, you're going to hurt your eyes squinting like that," Kaela says from beside me. She's less interested in the technical aspects, more enthralled by the flash and clash of combat itself.
I'm not squinting—I'm concentrating, burning every detail into memory. The way Felric uses economy of movement, never wasting energy. The way he controls distance, always just outside his opponent's optimal range while remaining inside his own. The psychology of combat, how he baits reactions and punishes overconfidence.
The match ends with Felric's practice blade at the younger guard's throat. The crowd applauds. I barely notice.
"That was amazing!" Kaela bounces excitedly. "When I'm bigger, I'm going to fight like that!"
"You will," I say absently, still processing what I've seen.
She looks at me strangely. "How do you know?"
I blink, pulling my attention back to her. How do I explain that I can see it in her—the natural athleticism, the fearless aggression, the instinct for combat that's already evident in how she moves? "You're strong," I say simply. "And brave."
She puffs up at the compliment. "I am! My aunt says I'll be the best warrior in my generation!"
"Maybe second best," I counter without thinking.
Her eyes narrow. "Oh yeah? Who's first?"
I realize my mistake too late. I can't exactly tell her that I'll be first, not without sounding ridiculous. I'm two years old and barely coordinated. "Um... hasn't happened yet?"
She processes this, then nods sagely. "That makes sense. The best warrior probably isn't even born yet."
I let her believe that, relieved to have dodged the awkward moment. But a seed has been planted between us—a friendly rivalry that will shape both our futures.
**Evening Lessons**
That night, after a simple dinner of soup and bread, Toren asks if I want to "play" with him outside.
I know what this means. It's happened a few times before—quiet moments when he takes me to the small courtyard behind our home and begins teaching me things a two-year-old shouldn't be learning. How to fall safely. How to stand with balance. How to track moving objects with your eyes.
He's being careful, couching everything as games and play. But we both know what it really is: the beginning of my training as a warrior.
"Ready, son?" He stands in the center of the courtyard, the ley lines casting his shadow in strange, elongated shapes.
I nod, moving to stand across from him. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming flowers and the ever-present undertone of magic.
"Show me your stance," he says.
I settle into the basic position he taught me weeks ago—feet shoulder-width, knees slightly bent, weight balanced. It's rough, my toddler body not quite capable of the precision I can visualize, but it's better than it should be.
Toren walks around me, making small corrections. A touch to straighten my back. A tap on my ankle to adjust foot position. He's patient, never pushing too hard, but I can sense his satisfaction when I implement his corrections immediately.
"Good. Now, watch." He moves into a basic sword form—no weapon, just the movements. It's slow, deliberate, designed for me to follow. "This is called the Dawn Salute. Every warrior in Verdwood learns it first."
I watch intently as he flows through the sequence. Twelve distinct positions, each one flowing into the next. My mind maps the transitions, notes the weight shifts, calculates the angles and force vectors.
"Your turn. Just the first three movements."
I attempt to copy what I saw. My body betrays me—I'm too small, too uncoordinated—but the intent is there. I can feel the Infinite Skill working, taking the observations and translating them into physical understanding that my muscles will eventually be able to execute.
"Not bad for a first try," Toren says, and I hear the carefully controlled emotion in his voice. Pride. And worry. Always worry. "We'll practice this every night. Slowly. Carefully. When you're older, you'll find it comes naturally."
He doesn't know it already is coming naturally, that I've essentially memorized the entire form from one viewing and just need my body to catch up to my mind. In a year, maybe two, I'll perform it flawlessly. In five, I'll be able to teach him variations he's never considered.
But for now, I'm just a toddler stumbling through basic movements under my father's gentle instruction.
"Why teach me?" I ask, keeping my words simple.
Toren crouches to my level, his large hands resting on my small shoulders. "Because the world is dangerous, Ren. Because you have a gift that makes you special, and special things attract attention—not all of it good. I want you to be able to defend yourself. To make your own choices. To be strong enough to protect what matters."
His words carry weight beyond their surface meaning. He's talking about the curse. About the Infinite Skill. About the destiny Seraphine hinted at when I was born. He's trying to prepare me for a future he can't fully predict but knows will be challenging.
"I'll be strong," I promise, and I mean it. In this life, in this world, strength isn't optional. It's survival.
We continue training as darkness deepens and the ley lines grow brighter. Father and son, warrior and protégé, moving through ancient forms under an alien sky.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond Verdwood's boundaries, I feel that same watching presence I've sensed since birth. Patient. Waiting. Growing stronger.
The curse stirs in response, recognizing its kin.
I push it down and focus on the training.
**Age Three - Expanding Horizons**
By my third birthday, I'm speaking in full sentences and moving with a grace that constantly surprises onlookers. Miren has given up trying to keep me from "helping" with her healing work—I know the herbs better than some of her apprentices now, though we both pretend it's just good memory rather than the Infinite Skill's analysis of medicinal properties and chemical interactions.
Toren's nightly training sessions have evolved. We're still "playing," but the games have gotten more sophisticated. Balance exercises on increasingly narrow beams. Reflex training with thrown bean bags. Gentle sparring where he'll "attack" and I need to dodge or block. My body is finally starting to catch up to my mind's understanding, and the results would be alarming if we weren't so careful to keep it private.
But it's my friendship with Kaela that shapes this year most profoundly.
She's four now and has begun official training with the village guard's youth program. Every morning, children aged four to six gather at the training grounds for basic conditioning and weapon introduction. I'm technically too young, but Kaela insists I come watch, and no one has the heart to tell her no.
I sit on the sidelines, supposedly there to cheer for my friend. In reality, I'm absorbing every lesson the instructors give. I watch the older children drill with practice swords, see the instructors correct forms and explain principles. The Infinite Skill catalogs it all.
"Ren, you're staring again," Kaela says during a water break. She's sweaty and grinning, despite the grueling conditioning they've just completed.
"Sorry. It's interesting."
"Then join us!" She makes it sound so simple. "I bet they'd let you, even if you're little."
"I'm three."
"So? You're smart. You pick things up fast." She leans in conspiratorially. "I've seen you practicing when you think no one's watching. You're better than some of the four-year-olds already."
I freeze. Have I been that obvious? "I don't know what you mean."
She rolls her eyes. "Ren, I'm not blind. You do those sword forms your dad teaches you. I've watched from my window sometimes when I can't sleep." At my panicked expression, she laughs. "It's fine! I think it's neat. You're weird, but in a good way."
There's something refreshing about Kaela's blunt honesty. She sees me—really sees me—and doesn't find it threatening. Just interesting.
"Promise not to tell?" I ask.
She spits in her palm and offers it to me. "Warrior's oath."
I hesitate only a moment before spitting in my own palm and clasping hers. The gesture is childish but carries a weight in this world. Promises between warriors, even child warriors, matter.
"Your secret's safe," she says seriously. Then her grin returns. "But you owe me. When you get good enough, you have to spar with me for real."
"Deal."
"And someday, we're going to be the greatest warriors Verdwood has ever seen!"
Her enthusiasm is infectious. "Together?"
"Of course together! Heroes always have partners, right?" She punches my shoulder—gently for her, but still enough to make me stumble slightly. "You be the smart one, I'll be the strong one, and together we'll be unstoppable!"
Looking at her fierce amber eyes and confident grin, I believe her. Somehow, this four-year-old firecracker of a girl has become my first real friend in this world. Not Miren and Toren, who love me but worry constantly. Not the other village children, who play with me but don't truly know me.
Kaela sees who I am—strange, gifted, driven—and accepts it without question.
"Unstoppable," I agree, and the word feels like a vow.