**Age Five - The Year of Questions**
Five years old, and the world has become both larger and more complicated.
I'm tall enough now to see over market stalls without standing on my toes. My vocabulary has expanded to the point where adults sometimes forget I'm a child and speak to me as an equal—then catch themselves with startled looks. The curse still lurks beneath my skin, a constant companion that flares unpredictably, but I've gotten better at recognizing the warning signs and excusing myself before anyone notices my eyes flash red or my canines sharpen.
But it's the questions that define this year. Endless, relentless questions that pour from my mouth faster than I can stop them.
"Mama, why do some herbs work better when harvested during a full moon?"
"Papa, how does the ley line convergence affect weather patterns?"
"Elder Greenleaf, what happens if you over-saturate a plant with magical energy?"
"Captain Felric, why do you angle your blade that way during the counterattack?"
Miren calls it my "curious phase." Toren calls it "exhausting." Kaela calls it "Ren being Ren again."
I call it survival. Because every answer feeds my *enhanced understanding*—there, that's a good one—and every piece of knowledge is a tool I might need later. I'm still playing catch-up with this world, still filling in gaps that native-born children don't even realize are gaps.
This morning, I'm helping Miren prepare medicines in her workshop—a small building adjacent to our home that smells perpetually of dried herbs and antiseptic poultices. She's grinding moonvine leaves in a stone mortar while I carefully measure out willow bark powder.
"Three spoonfuls, level not heaping," I recite, using the special measuring spoon she's designated for this purpose.
"Perfect. Now add it to the base mixture slowly while I stir."
I do as instructed, watching the powder integrate into the viscous liquid. The color shifts from pale green to a deeper emerald, and I can sense the magical properties harmonizing. It's fascinating how mundane chemistry and magical energy interact—two systems that shouldn't work together but do, creating effects neither could achieve alone.
"Mama, if moonvine enhances mental clarity, and willow bark reduces pain, does combining them create a potion that makes pain easier to understand?"
She pauses her stirring to look at me. "That's... actually a very insightful question. And yes, in a way. The potion we're making helps patients remain clear-headed while managing pain, which is crucial for those recovering from serious injuries."
"Because pain can fog judgment."
"Exactly." She resumes stirring. "Where did you learn that?"
*From watching you work for five years while my weird brain cataloged every technique and principle,* I think. "I pay attention," I say aloud.
Her expression softens into that familiar mix of pride and worry. "You pay too much attention sometimes. It's alright to just be a child, Ren."
But I'm not just a child, am I? I'm a soul displaced from another world, gifted with accelerated learning, cursed with vampiric hunger, and apparently destined for something significant according to every seer and prophet who glances my way. Being "just a child" stopped being an option the moment I opened my eyes in this world.
I don't say any of that. Instead, I smile. "I like paying attention. It's fun."
"Fun," she repeats with a laugh. "Most five-year-olds think playing is fun."
"I play with Kaela all the time!"
"You spar with Kaela all the time. That's different."
She's not wrong. What started as childhood games has evolved into legitimate combat practice, even if we're both still too young for real weapons. Just yesterday, we spent an hour in the training grounds with wooden practice swords, and I'm pretty sure we alarmed a few watching adults with how seriously we took it.
The workshop door opens, and speak of the devil—Kaela bursts in with her usual lack of ceremony.
"Ren! You have to come see this!"
"Kaela, he's helping me—" Miren begins.
"It's important! There's a gnome in the village!"
I exchange glances with Miren. Gnomes are uncommon in Verdwood—not unwelcome, but rare enough that their visits are noteworthy.
"A gnome inventor," Kaela continues breathlessly. "With machines! One of them actually moves by itself!"
That gets my attention. Magi-tech devices are fascinating—the fusion of mechanical engineering and magical principles. I've read about them in books from the village library, but I've never seen one in person.
Miren sighs but smiles. "Go on. We're nearly finished here anyway."
I don't need to be told twice. Kaela grabs my hand and practically drags me out of the workshop, through our small yard, and toward the market square where a crowd has gathered.
**The Inventor**
The gnome is impossible to miss—not just because of her height (barely reaching my chest even though I'm five), but because of the spectacular mess surrounding her.
She's set up in an open area of the market square, and the ground around her is littered with tools, parts, half-assembled devices, and at least three small fires that she occasionally remembers to extinguish with a wave of her hand. Her copper-colored hair sticks out in all directions, singed at the tips, and her leather apron is covered in scorch marks and oil stains.
But it's the device in front of her that captures everyone's attention.
It's roughly the size of a large dog, constructed from brass gears, crystal focuses, and intricately engraved metal plates. As we watch, it takes a lurching step forward, joints articulating with mechanical precision, leaving small scorch marks where its feet touch the ground.
"Brilliant!" the gnome shouts to no one in particular. "The locomotion runes are holding! Now if I can just—"
The device stumbles, tilts precariously, and falls on its side with a tremendous crash. Gears spin wildly. Steam hisses from several joints. One of the crystal focuses cracks with a sound like breaking ice.
"—prevent that from happening," the gnome finishes sheepishly.
The crowd murmurs. Some laugh. A few children clap anyway because watching things fall over is inherently entertaining.
But I'm not laughing. I'm transfixed.
My *rapid analytical ability* is already dissecting what I've seen—the gear ratios, the placement of the magical focuses, the balance issues that caused the fall. It's a brilliant design hampered by a few key engineering flaws. The weight distribution is off, the locomotive runes are firing out of sequence, and the crystal focuses are overtaxing because they're trying to compensate for mechanical inefficiencies.
Before I realize what I'm doing, I've pushed through the crowd and approached the gnome.
She's muttering to herself while trying to right the fallen device. "Center of gravity too high, obvious in hindsight, stupid mistake—"
"The front left gear is stripped," I say.
She freezes, then turns to look at me. Her eyes are bright green and magnified slightly by the goggles pushed up on her forehead. "What?"
"The front left gear," I point. "It's stripped. That's why it's not articulating correctly. It's throwing off the timing for the whole leg assembly."
She stares at me, then at the device, then back at me. "How old are you?"
"Five."
"Five," she repeats slowly. "And you can see gear damage from six feet away?"
I shrug. "The way it was moving, the slight delay before that leg engaged—it's consistent with stripped teeth causing slippage."
The gnome blinks rapidly several times, then breaks into a wide grin. "You're absolutely right! Oh, that's brilliant! I've been troubleshooting the rune sequence for an hour when it was a simple mechanical failure!" She extends a soot-covered hand. "Elira Sparkwhisper, inventor and professional disaster magnet."
I shake her hand solemnly. "Ren Amaki."
"Amaki... you're Toren's kid! I heard about you. They say you've got some kind of learning gift."
"Something like that."
Kaela appears at my shoulder, looking between us suspiciously. "Ren, what are you doing?"
"Helping. This is Elira."
"I can see that. Why are you helping?"
"Because it's interesting!" Elira interjects. "And because this young man just spotted something I completely missed. Tell me, Ren Amaki, do you know anything about magi-tech principles?"
"Only what I've read in books."
Her grin widens impossibly further. "Oh, we're going to be friends. I can tell. Here—help me flip this thing upright, and I'll show you how the locomotion system works."
For the next hour, I'm in heaven. Elira explains her design while I ask questions and offer observations. She's brilliant but chaotic, her mind jumping from concept to concept so quickly that even my enhanced learning struggles to keep up. But there's a logic to her chaos, a method to her madness.
She shows me how magical energy can be channeled through properly inscribed conduits to power mechanical systems. How crystals can store and regulate that energy. How runes don't just contain magic but direct it, shape it, make it perform specific functions.
It's like discovering a entirely new language—one that bridges the gap between the science I vaguely remember from my previous life and the magic that defines this one.
"You're a natural at this," Elira says, letting me examine a small gear assembly. "Most people's eyes glaze over when I start explaining harmonic resonance frequencies."
"It makes sense though. If the magical frequency doesn't match the mechanical oscillation, you get energy waste and system stress."
She stops working and just stares at me. "Okay, that's officially weird. You're five."
"I get that a lot."
"I bet you do." She sits back, wiping grease on her already-filthy apron. "Tell you what—I'm going to be in Verdwood for a few weeks. Want to be my apprentice? Unofficial, obviously. You're way too young for formal apprenticeship."
My heart leaps. "Really?"
"Really. I could use an extra pair of hands, and you've clearly got a brain that appreciates this stuff. Plus, it's nice to talk to someone who doesn't immediately assume I'm going to blow something up."
"You set three fires in the last hour," Kaela points out.
"Small fires. Controlled fires. Mostly controlled." Elira waves dismissively. "So what do you say, Ren? Want to learn how to make impossible things possible?"
I look at Kaela, who rolls her eyes but nods. "Go ahead. Someone needs to keep you from spending all your time with swords and books. At least this way you'll learn how to blow things up properly."
"I'm not going to blow anything up!"
"Yet," Elira and Kaela say simultaneously, then look at each other and laugh.
And just like that, my world expands again. A new teacher, a new field of study, a new way to apply my *unique cognitive gift*—I really need to settle on one term for this—to understanding this magical world.
**The Workshop**
Elira has temporarily set up shop in a corner of the Craftsman's Quarter, renting a small workspace from a sympathetic blacksmith who finds her chaos amusing. The space is cramped, poorly ventilated, and absolutely perfect.
Shelves line every wall, packed with components, tools, half-finished projects, and things I can't identify. A workbench dominates the center, its surface scarred by burns, chemical stains, and what looks like claw marks (I decide not to ask). Blueprints and sketches cover every available surface, held down by various bits of machinery serving as paperweights.
"Welcome to organized chaos," Elira announces proudly. "Rule one: don't touch anything unless I say so. Rule two: if something starts glowing, smoking, or making ominous sounds, tell me immediately. Rule three: questions are encouraged, but save them until I'm not in the middle of something delicate."
Over the following days, I become a regular fixture in the workshop. Miren is cautiously supportive—she likes that I'm learning practical skills and making friends. Toren is more skeptical, worried about the danger of experimental devices, but he respects Elira enough not to forbid it.
Kaela comes with me sometimes, though she's less interested in the technical aspects and more fascinated by the things that explode. She's convinced Elira is going to accidentally invent a weapon, and she wants to be there when it happens.
"It's not a weapon," Elira sighs, working on a new device. "It's a communication crystal amplifier."
"But could it be used as a weapon?" Kaela presses.
"...Technically, if you threw it at someone with enough force, yes."
"See? Weapon."
I'm learning at a pace that clearly unsettles Elira, though she tries to hide it. Concepts that should take weeks to grasp, I understand in hours. Techniques that require years of practice, I can execute after a few attempts. My small hands and limited strength are the only real limitations.
"You know," Elira says one afternoon, handing me a delicate crystal component to install, "when I was five, I was eating dirt and crying when my toys broke. You're over here discussing runic harmonics like a journeyman artificer."
"Is that bad?"
"No, just... unnerving. In a good way! Mostly." She watches me carefully seat the crystal into its housing, my movements precise despite my age. "Your gift—the Infinite... what do you call it?"
"Depends on my mood," I admit. "Sometimes my 'enhanced learning.' Sometimes my 'weird brain.'"
She snorts. "Weird brain. I like that. Well, whatever you call it, it's something special. I've never seen anyone pick up magi-tech principles this fast."
"It's not just picking them up," I try to explain. "It's like... I see the patterns. The underlying logic. Once I understand the rules, I can extrapolate the applications."
"That's exactly what makes you special. Most people have to memorize applications one at a time. You're deriving them from first principles." She leans against the workbench. "Do you know how rare that is?"
I shrug uncomfortably. Praise always makes me uneasy—partly because I don't feel like I deserve it (I'm just using abilities I didn't earn), and partly because being "special" in this world seems to come with dangerous expectations.
"Hey, I'm not trying to weird you out," Elira says gently. "I'm just saying... you've got something incredible. Don't waste it."
"I won't."
"Good. Now, hand me that calibration tool—the one with the blue handle—and let's see if we can make this thing work without exploding."
**The First Success**
Two weeks into my unofficial apprenticeship, we complete a project together: a small device that purifies water using a combination of filtration and magical sterilization.
It's not revolutionary—similar devices exist—but this one is more efficient and cheaper to produce. Elira designed the core principles, but I contributed several key modifications that improved the magical energy flow and reduced the number of expensive components needed.
When we test it on a bucket of visibly dirty water, and it emerges crystal clear and safe to drink, Elira actually whoops with joy.
"It works! It actually works on the first try! Do you know how rare that is?"
I grin, feeling genuine pride for the first time in a while. "We did it."
"We did!" She picks me up and spins me around, making me laugh. "You and me, kid! Best team in Verdwood!"
Kaela, watching from the corner where she's been "guarding" us (her words), claps slowly. "Congratulations. You made water less gross."
"This water purifier could save lives in communities without clean water sources," Elira says seriously. "It's not just about making water less gross."
Kaela's expression softens slightly. "Okay, fine. That's actually pretty cool."
The purifier becomes Elira's gift to the village healer's house—a practical demonstration of what magi-tech can accomplish when designed thoughtfully. Miren is particularly delighted, immediately putting it to use preparing sterile water for wound cleaning.
But the real gift is what I've learned: the satisfaction of creating something useful. Of taking abstract principles and making them tangible. Of seeing a problem and engineering a solution.
My *enhanced aptitude* lets me learn fast, but the joy of creation? That's something no ability can give you. You have to discover it yourself.
**The Curse Stirs**
Late one evening, working alone in the workshop while Elira runs an errand, the curse flares without warning.
One moment I'm examining a partially assembled device. The next, hunger crashes over me like a wave, so intense that I drop the component I'm holding. It shatters on the floor, crystal fragments scattering, but I barely notice.
My vision sharpens. The world takes on a predatory clarity. I can smell blood—not in the workshop, but from the blacksmith next door who must have cut himself on something. The scent is intoxicating, overwhelming, demanding.
My gums ache as fangs push through, sharper and more pronounced than ever before. I'm five now, and the curse is growing stronger with me.
*No,* I think desperately, wrapping my arms around myself. *Not now. Not here.*
But the hunger doesn't care about convenience or safety. It wants. It *demands*.
I stumble toward the door, needing to get away, to find somewhere isolated before I lose control. But my legs won't cooperate properly. The world tilts, and I realize with distant horror that I'm on the verge of a full episode—worse than any I've had before.
Then Elira's voice cuts through the haze. "Ren? You still—what's wrong?"
I can't answer. Can't form words. She's between me and the door, and I can hear her heartbeat, smell her life, feel the curse reaching toward her with greedy claws.
"Ren, your eyes..." She takes a step back, hand moving toward something on her belt. A weapon? A tool? I can't tell through the red haze.
With the last shred of control I possess, I force out two words: "Get. Out."
To her credit, Elira doesn't ask questions. She backs toward the door, movements smooth and non-threatening, while keeping her eyes on me.
"I'm getting your father," she says calmly. "Just... just hold on, okay?"
She's gone, and I collapse against the workbench, chest heaving. The hunger rages, demanding satisfaction. My fingers dig into the wood hard enough to leave marks. Everything in me screams to chase after her, to find the source of that tantalizing scent from next door, to *feed*.
But I don't. I use every technique Seraphine has taught me for managing the curse. I visualize a wall between me and the hunger. I count my breaths. I focus on the pain of my fingers digging into wood, using physical sensation to anchor myself in humanity.
Minutes pass like hours. The hunger gradually, grudgingly recedes. My fangs retract. My vision returns to normal. By the time Toren bursts through the door, I'm curled on the floor, shaking and exhausted.
He doesn't say anything. He just scoops me up and holds me, and for a moment, I'm not a prodigy or a cursed being or a soul from another world.
I'm just a frightened five-year-old, grateful for his father's arms.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "Always, Ren. I've got you."