Time moves strangely for an infant.
Days blend together—soft lights, warm arms, the familiar creak of wooden boards beneath my cradle. But even though my body grows slowly, my mind sharpens with each passing hour.
My mother notices it first.
"He watches everything," she murmurs one morning as she lifts me from my cradle. Her voice is warm with wonder, the edges softened by sleep. "Every little thing… like he's studying the world."
She isn't wrong.
I study the way her hair falls when she bends over the fire.
I study the way the steam curls from the pot.
I study my father's fingers as he sharpens tools with practiced care.
I study the rhythm of footsteps outside the house, the patterns of the forest wind, the subtle tremors that come and go without warning.
And lately…
There are sounds I want to repeat.
Not fully. Not perfectly. But enough that I feel the shape of them forming at the back of my throat.
My mother carries me to the table and sets me gently in her lap as she kneads dough. Her movements are unhurried and practiced, flour dusting her palms and the wooden bowl before her.
"You're so quiet today," she hums. "Are you thinking?"
If only you knew.
She taps my nose lightly, leaving a small smudge of flour on my skin. "You're learning too fast. Soon you'll be telling me 'no' and running away."
The idea makes her laugh.
My father steps in from outside, brushing snow from his shoulders. He stomps his boots lightly before removing them, setting them by the door in their usual spot.
"Morning," he says with a tired grin. "Fire still warm?"
"Oh yes," my mother replies. "And look who's helping me cook."
She lifts my tiny hand, letting me brush it against the dough. My fingers sink into the soft surface. Warm. Sticky. Oddly pleasant.
My father chuckles. "Starting him young, are you?"
"He wants to touch everything these days," she says proudly. "He's curious."
Curious.
They say that word often now.
My mother resumes kneading, and I find myself watching her lips as she shapes the dough with rhythmic motions.
Bread.
She said the word earlier. I remember it.
Now, something inside me tries to imitate the sound. A small impulse rises in my chest, climbing up my throat.
"B—…b—…"
It comes out as a soft puff of air, hardly more than a sputter.
But my mother freezes.
Her hands stop mid-knead, eyes widening as she looks down at me.
"Did you hear that?" she whispers.
My father, halfway through removing his cloak, pauses. "What?"
"He tried to make a sound," she breathes. "He tried to… repeat me."
My eyes stay on her lips.
Bread.
Warm.
Soft.
I try again.
"Buh…"
The syllable is clumsy, barely coherent. But it's undeniably a sound. A deliberate attempt.
My mother gasps and swoops me up, hugging me tightly.
"Oh, spirits," she laughs, eyes glistening. "You spoke. You almost spoke!"
My father grins broadly and crosses the room in a few long strides.
"Well look at that," he says proudly. "First sounds already?"
I blink. My chest feels oddly warm—pleased, even though I can't place why.
He taps my cheek gently. "Say it again, little guy. Come on."
I try.
"Buh—…ba."
My mother looks like she might cry from joy.
"That's it," she whispers. "That's it…"
A faint note hums at the edge of my consciousness.
Daily Quest Added: Make a Sound
Reward: +1 Mind
Of course.
With effort, I push another small sound.
"A—…ah."
Daily Quest Completed
Mind +1
Reward: Minor Vocal Coordination Increase
My throat feels less strained now. My tongue moves a little more willingly. The system's influence is subtle—never overwhelming, never unnatural—but enough to refine movements that would otherwise remain clumsy.
My mother hugs me close again, pressing soft kisses to my cheek.
"You're growing too fast," she says, though her voice is full of wonder, not worry. "I can't keep up."
My father chuckles and brushes a thumb across my forehead. "Soon he'll be asking for meat instead of milk."
"Not yet," she scolds gently. "Let me keep him little just a bit longer."
But there's pride in her voice.
And relief.
And joy.
And something else… something tight beneath her words, as if each day of safety feels like a blessing she's afraid to lose.
The next few days follow the same pattern.
Words spill from my parents like warm water. They speak without thinking, explaining what they're doing as if I can understand everything.
"Stir the stew like this—slow, steady."
"Keep your fingers away from the flame."
"That's the sound of wind through pine trees."
"And that howl... that's a winter wolf. Don't worry, it's far away."
Sometimes, my mother points to objects in the house as she holds me.
"This is a bowl."
"This is the fire."
"These are herbs."
"This is bread."
Bread.
The word has stuck in my mind.
I try to shape it again, quietly, as she moves around the room.
"Buh…beh."
She pauses, eyes widening.
"Oh—he's trying again!"
My father grins over from sharpening his spear. "Let him. He's practicing."
Practicing.
That's exactly what it feels like.
Every little sound gets easier.
Every attempt refines my control.
Every moment with them feels like building blocks in a foundation of understanding.
They don't know the System nudges me.
They don't know how fast my mind is growing.
They don't know that each day brings me closer to speech, to thought, to awareness that transcends this tiny body.
But they see enough to feel proud.
And that's enough.
One evening, as snow begins to fall outside, my father sits cross-legged on the floor. His tools are spread out: a small whetstone, a dull dagger, a few iron nails for mending something later.
My mother hands me to him.
"Hold him while I check the stew," she says.
He gathers me carefully, settling me on his leg, braced against his chest. His warmth seeps into my back.
"Hey there," he murmurs, gently tapping my arm. "Want to learn something?"
He points the dull dagger toward the firelight, showing me the flat side—not the edge.
"This is a blade," he says. "You don't touch the sharp part. Ever. Only the handle."
He places the handle near my hand.
"Here, feel that."
I curl my fingers around it.
The wood is worn smooth. Warm from the fire. Familiar somehow, though I've never held such a thing before.
Father hums thoughtfully. "Good grip."
Then he looks toward the door, toward the faint silhouette of the forest beyond the window.
"You'll need a strong grip in this world," he murmurs. "Everything—hunting, climbing, holding your ground—it all starts with your hands."
I don't understand everything he's saying.
But I feel it.
The weight of his words.
The quiet worry in his voice.
He cups the back of my head with his other hand, steadying me.
"You'll be strong," he whispers. "I know it."
My small fingers tighten around the handle instinctively.
Daily Quest Added: Hold an Object
Reward: +1 Strength
With focused effort, I keep my grip steady.
Daily Quest Completed
Strength +1
Reward: Slight Dexterity Increase
My father blinks slowly, then chuckles.
"Already trying, are you?" he mutters, clearly impressed. "Good. Keep that spirit."
My mother returns with a spoon and a satisfied smile.
"You two look adorable," she says, kneeling beside us.
Father glances at her with feigned offense. "We're training."
"Oh yes," she teases. "Teaching him the ways of the world at… what, four months old?"
"Never too early to learn," he insists, though his smile gives him away.
She kisses my forehead. "Don't teach him dangerous things yet."
"It wasn't sharp," he defends. "I checked."
They share a soft laugh.
My mother cups my cheeks gently.
"You'll learn real weapons when you're much older," she says. "For now… let's learn words."
Words.
Language.
Sound.
Meaning.
Every moment feels like unlocking another piece of existence.
"Can you say 'ma'?" she asks softly.
I blink.
Her eyes shine with hope.
I try.
"Ma—…"
It comes out soft and broken. But the shape is right.
The intention is clear.
My mother's breath catches.
"Oh… oh spirits…"
Father leans closer, eyes wide.
"Say it again," he whispers.
I push another sound.
"Mah…"
Just that.
My mother's eyes fill with tears. She wraps me in her arms, holding me close as her voice trembles with pure, overflowing love.
"My baby… my sweet boy… you said it…"
She laughs through her tears, and the sound is the warmest thing I've ever heard.
My father wipes his eye discreetly with the back of his hand.
"I told you," he murmurs. "He's too smart for his age."
Smart.
Growing.
Learning.
Their love wraps around me like a second blanket.
I am safe.
For now.
The next morning arrives with faint sunlight pushing through the shutters, leaving thin golden lines across the wooden floor. My mother holds me close as she moves around the room, humming softly while checking the windows and stirring the embers back into flame.
My father is already outside. I hear the rhythmic thudding of his axe splitting wood—the deep, practiced sound of someone who's been doing it all his life. The pattern is steady, reassuring. Every crack of the logs feels like another promise of warmth for the day.
My mother wraps a blanket more securely around me and carries me to the table. Her face is bright, hopeful — still glowing faintly from yesterday's attempt at speech.
"Let's see if you remember," she whispers, brushing a thumb along my cheek.
She taps her chest lightly.
"Ma."
I stare at her. Her eyes shine with the kind of love that makes my throat tighten despite my infant body.
She waits, leaning in slightly.
"Ma," she says again, a little softer.
A small impulse rises inside me, the System's faint hum smoothing the motion of my tongue and lips.
"Ma…"
Her breath catches. She pulls me to her chest, hugging me tightly.
"There it is," she whispers into my hair. "My sweet boy…"
Her voice trembles like she's trying not to cry too hard. But her arms hold me with a confidence that says she wants to feel this moment with her entire being.
She kisses the top of my head again and again. "You're growing. So fast… too fast…"
Her words warm me in a way fire never could.
A knock sounds at the door.
My father's heavy boots creak across the floorboards as he steps in from outside, carrying a stack of split logs. He sets them down near the fire and notices my mother's tear-bright eyes.
"What happened? He's okay, right?"
"He said it again," she whispers.
My father's expression softens instantly. He steps over to us, brushing away a stray tear from her cheek.
"Let me hear it," he says gently, turning to me.
He leans in until our faces are close.
"Can you say 'Pa'?" he asks.
He taps his chest lightly—mirroring my mother.
"Pa."
His voice is low, warm, encouraging.
I try to mimic the shape his mouth makes. The System offers a faint sensation—an alignment, a subtle fine-tuning.
"P—…pah."
He freezes.
Then grins.
A wide, bright grin that transforms his entire face.
"There it is!" he laughs. "Hear that? He said it!"
My mother laughs too, relief and joy spilling out of her.
Father lifts me from her arms, bouncing me lightly.
"Pa," he repeats, tapping my nose. "Say it again."
I do.
"Pa."
He laughs again, delighted — a deep, unrestrained laugh that fills the room like rolling thunder.
"That's my boy," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Spirits, you're clever."
My mother comes up beside us and rests her head on his shoulder.
"We're lucky," she whispers. "So lucky…"
My father nods slowly, still carrying me.
"We have to make sure he stays this happy," he says softly. "This world… it's not always kind."
My mother closes her eyes and nods too.
"We'll protect him," she says. "No matter what."
The sun climbs higher as the day unfolds.
With my father home for a short break, the house is filled with more movement, more noise, more warmth. He sets me on a layered blanket near the fire while he and my mother fix a broken chair leg.
My mother glances over her shoulder constantly.
"Keep an eye on him," she whispers.
"I am," my father assures her.
He truly is.
Every shift I make — every little wiggle or squeak — gets his full attention. I lift my head for a moment, moving just enough to see the fire flicker. My father grins proudly.
"There he goes," he mutters. "Little warrior."
"Don't call him that yet," my mother scolds, though her smile betrays her amusement. "Let him be small for a while."
She steps over, kneels beside me, and runs a hand gently over my back.
"Lucifer," she whispers. "My sweet little one."
Her voice is warm enough to chase away all the shadows in my mind.
She holds out her fingers, and I reach toward them. My hand finds hers, and her face lights up again.
"You see?" she says to my father. "He understands."
"Of course he does," he replies. "He listens to everything."
He takes my other hand gently and begins moving it in a slow line.
"Look, little one," he says. "This is your name."
He traces it in the air.
"Lu-ci-fer."
The way he says it is soft. Proud. Confident. Like he's giving me something sacred.
My mother watches quietly, eyes shining.
"Teach him the world," she murmurs. "But keep him close."
My father nods. "Always."
For a while, the three of us simply sit there — my parents flanking me, their hands resting lightly near mine, the fire crackling in the background.
This peace feels fragile.
But precious.
But real.
Later that evening, the sky shifts from pale gold to dusky lavender, then deep navy. Snow begins falling lightly outside, tapping against the window in soft rhythms.
My father sets me in his lap again as he works on binding leather around a wooden handle.
"You hear that?" he says softly. "That's snow on the window. You'll play in it someday."
My mother smiles from where she's stirring the pot over the fire.
"And you'll complain it's cold," she says, glancing back at us.
My father laughs. "Maybe. Or maybe he'll love it."
"He'll love it if you teach him poorly," she retorts. "Don't let him roll in snowdrifts like you did as a child."
"It builds endurance," he says stubbornly.
She shoots him a look.
"Not when they're toddlers."
He shrugs, unbothered. "When he's bigger, then."
"Much bigger," she insists.
Their banter flows around me like the comfortable notes of a familiar song.
My father traces a small circle on my back with his thumb.
"Snow," he says softly. "Can you say snow?"
I blink up at him, lips parting.
"Suh…no."
It's rough. Barely shaped. But both my parents freeze.
"He tried," my mother murmurs, covering her mouth with her hand. "He tried for the whole word…"
"He's incredible," my father whispers, pride overwhelming his voice. "Absolutely incredible."
The room feels warm enough to melt winter.
A soft system hum flickers through my awareness, reinforcing the muscles used for speech, sharpening the coordination of my tongue and lips.
Mind +1
The growth is tiny. Barely noticeable.
But it's enough.
Enough to steady my next sound.
"Noh…"
My mother's eyes shine like stars.
My father's shoulders tremble as he laughs.
"You're going to talk before spring," he marvels. "Spirits help us."
My mother leans in, touching her forehead gently to mine.
"You're our miracle," she whispers. "Even if I pretend otherwise."
I don't understand everything.
Not yet.
But I understand this warmth.
This pride.
This love.
And I cling to it like a lifeline in a world I'm only beginning to understand.
The night grows deeper. The fire dims. My parents settle into their sleeping mats near me.
My mother rests her hand on the edge of my cradle. "Goodnight, little one."
My father reaches over and taps the wooden frame twice — a small gesture, almost ritualistic.
"I'm right here," he murmurs.
Their breathing becomes steady. Calm. Safe.
The forest outside groans once, as if shifting in its sleep. But the tremor is distant. Faint.
Not tonight.
Tonight belongs to peace.
I close my eyes.
"Ma," I whisper quietly — a small breath of sound.
My mother shifts in her sleep, smiling.
I turn my head slightly.
"Pa."
My father's fingers curl loosely as if reaching toward me without waking.
The system quiets in my mind.
My heartbeat slows.
The world softens into gentle darkness.
And I sleep.
Tomorrow I will learn more.
Tomorrow I will grow stronger.
Tomorrow I will speak again.
But tonight…
I rest in the warmth of the two people who gave me this new life.
And I dream.