A cascade of starlight whisked past my vision, each sparkle merging into a watercolor blur before a searing brilliance forced my eyes closed.

  “What… what is happening?”

  In that comforting darkness, a torrent of memories began to flow—a series of recollections I scarcely recognized.

  Faces and sounds emerged from the haze:

  A radiant, playful voice chirped,

  “Peek-a-boo! Oh, there it is—such a charming smile!”

  A young boy’s joyful cry:

  “Pass the ball!”

  An elderly man’s resonant announcement:

  “Please step forward to receive your diploma.”

  A little girl’s earnest plea:

  “Come play with me, Big Brother!”

  Though bewilderment swirled within me, a profound tranquility also settled in—as if exhaustion had rendered me too weary to question the unfolding events.

  Gradually, the rush of memories and confusion ebbed away until an unexpected, searing pain roused me from my reverie.

  It struck like wildfire—each patch of skin aflame, compelling a cry of anguish. Yet strangely, the sound was muffled, as if my ears were submerged in water.

  Slowly, clarity returned. The relentless pain receded, and the ambient silence—punctuated only by the gentle crackle of a distant fireplace—grew distinct.

  Compelled by a quiet resolve, I finally lifted my eyelids. No harsh, glaring light welcomed me; instead, a dim, blurred scene revealed itself. It was initially disappointing, yet as moments passed, the haze lifted to disclose a rustic wooden ceiling crowned by a solitary beam piercing through the darkness.

  I marveled at the expanse of the ceiling, its distance a peculiar mystery. Reaching out, I discovered with dismay that my hands were small and pudgy—infantile in every way.

  A soft murmur escaped me, a series of unintelligible sounds:

  “…Gah?”

  “Huuuh!?”

  “Gbaa?”

  “W-What the!?”

  “Gubfaaa!”

  In that moment, a stark realization emerged—I was a baby. A surge of confusion overtook me. Why did this feel so inherently out of place? Who was I? Where was I? A vital fragment of my identity seemed lost.

  Suddenly, a woman’s face materialized before me—a visage of gentle beauty. Her light blonde hair was neatly braided over one shoulder, and her deep brown eyes sparkled with affection, complementing a face that was both youthful and gracefully mature. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties.

  In a language at once foreign yet soothing, she murmured,

  “Oh myraha? Dukara neexi malkalith?”

  Before cradling me in her arms, her smile radiating tender love as her hand brushed gently against my cheek.

  “Du rylaxa arata striti, Dara,” she added, her voice faltering with emotion.

  Could this be my mother? The notion, though strange, felt inevitable.

  With deliberate care, she lowered her shirt to reveal the soft curve of her bare breast, aligning my face to it with maternal gentleness.

  “Dirkadica. Groavin elixia, Dara,” she intoned. Though her words eluded my comprehension, their meaning was as clear as the hunger that now stirred in my belly.

  Despite the naturalness of the act, a blush of embarrassment warmed me—yet hunger demanded I feed. As I latched on, I surrendered to the soothing rhythm of nourishment, my mind gradually drifting back into the delicate embrace of sleep.

  And thus, in that tender haze, I experienced my first day in the world.

  A month had passed since my birth—or so I believed, for time held little meaning for an infant. Days blurred together, marked only by the gentle shift of light streaming through our doorway, as our modest home lacked any true windows. In this early period of my new life, I began to piece together fragments of my existence, even as my understanding of the world remained rudimentary.

  I had come to learn my name: Dara. It was a simple name, lacking the formality of a surname – a reflection, perhaps, of the humble station into which I was born. Strangely, I possessed knowledge that defied explanation. For example, I understood that five times five was twenty-five, yet I couldn’t recall where such truths had taken root. I was aware of my own infancy, of the subtle differences between myself and other infants, and of concepts like “windows” and “time.” Such knowledge, inexplicable and unmoored from memory, made my early days all the more peculiar.

  My existence was modest, shadowed by poverty, a circumstance inherited from a father who was either absent through his own choice or claimed by fate amid the harsh realities of a medieval world. Regardless, my mother and I found shelter in a small, cramped house with barely enough room to call it home.

  My mother was beautiful, though her beauty was simple and unadorned—a gentle reflection of her unassuming life as a basket weaver. She infused my daily existence with warmth, diligently nurturing my budding language skills through constant, loving conversation. I responded in kind with babbles and gurgles that, however imperfect, always elicited a smile from my mother. Though many words remained mysteries, I became familiar with a handful of essential ones—“milk,” “feed,” and the like—each a stepping stone toward fluency.

  Curiosity about the world beyond my crib kindled within me, though I was confined to the safe boundaries of our home. Time passed slowly as I honed my motor skills and expanded my vocabulary, though the routine was monotonous. Two more months slipped by—at least by my infantile understanding —until a sudden, exhilarating discovery changed everything:

  I could move!

  My first tentative crawl surprised my mother, whose astonishment somewhat confirmed that I was, in some small way, more advanced than my peers. I wondered if my newfound consciousness or a unique birthright had set me apart.

  The freedom of exploration, however, was still curtailed by my diminutive size; I could not yet grasp the door handle that beckoned me to explore beyond the confines of our home. However, that never quite deterred me from trying, something that seemed to cause my mother much vexation.

  “Honestly, Dara” she would say, whenever she found me in my latest attempt “I don’t know why you long to venture outside so badly.”

  Though my speech remained a jumble of early sounds, I understood her words as she dragged me away from the door and cradled me in her arms, her delicate fingers threading through my silky hair.

  With a playful pout, she teased, “It’s a bad omen for children to go out before their first year, you know!” Her fingertip prodded my nose, eliciting a ticklish protest I could only express in my own infantile language.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Thus, the door remained forever closed—a sentinel forbidding the world beyond, perhaps out of concern for my tender constitution, unaccustomed to the rigors of temperature and the threats of illness. I mused, in the quiet wonder of a child's mind, whether this ‘bad omen’ business was a custom unique to our village or a universal truth in this new world I had found myself in.

  My world was confined to the modest home where my mother diligently crafted baskets to trade with passing merchants. Evenings blended into nights as I listened to her soft, rhythmic work and my own gentle explorations, until she would finally gather me in her arms to prepare me for sleep.

  One such night, as she began readjusting her dress in preparation for my meal, she inquired softly, “Hmm… are you hungry, Dara? It is about time for bed, isn’t it?” Though I felt the stirrings of hunger, I remained silent, my thoughts expressed only in the subtle language of infant wonder. She observed the familiar ritual with mild curiosity, remarking gently as I closed my eyes before feeding—a habit that both puzzled and, in its own way, amused her.

  But just as I was about to latch on and surrender to the comfort of nourishment, a sudden clamor arose from outside.

  The usual sounds from the village—a distant carriage’s rumble, murmured conversations, the pitter-patter of playful children—had always conveyed a gentle normalcy. But now, the world outside was alive with terror: anguished screams, clashing steel, and the hissing crackle of a raging fire. Chaos had broken loose.

  “What… what is happening?” I wondered, my thoughts trembling with uncertainty.

  “Bandits?” my mother gasped, her voice catching as she gripped me tighter. I looked up to find her expression hardened into one of grim determination, her face blanching with fear.

  “Dara. You must be silent, understand? Please—stay quiet for me,” she pleaded softly. Before I could form a response, she swept me up and hurried toward a pile of discarded basket materials. With swift, anxious motions, she nestled me inside and covered my head with straw.

  “Just remain there, no matter what,” she said, forcing a reassuring smile though her voice quivered with panic and dread. Murmuring to herself, she added, “Okay, let’s do this, Rael. Just as Mama taught you.”

  It was then that I realized—her name was Rael. There was no time for idle wonder. My mother slowly unbuttoned her shirt, revealing a hint of her cleavage, then brushed her hair into a tight ponytail that swung over her shoulder.

  “A-appear good enough to be used, but never taken. Come on, Rael. Dara still needs his mother,” she muttered under her breath.

  Before I could process her whispered words, a resounding crash shattered the tenuous calm. The door exploded into splinters as a fierce woman with a deep scar carving a rugged line across her face stepped into the room. My mother’s face drained of color.

  “Oya? What’s this? Some harlot living in a little village like ours?” the intruder sneered, resting a bloodstained sword on her shoulder. The metallic tang of fresh blood confirmed my growing terror—this was no ordinary vandal, but a ruthless bandit.

  Her gaze narrowed malevolently. “You’re fine enough to fetch a high price, provided we locate a willing buyer,” she declared with a chilling smirk.

  “N-No!” my mother cried, recoiling in horror. “Get away!”

  “Oh, yes,” the bandit replied with a mocking lilt. “Now come here! Do not resist!”

  The bandit tapped her sword tip against the floor, a cruel punctuation to the unfolding threat. I trembled, powerless and desperate, as the weight of impending doom pressed upon me. I longed to act, yet I knew I was helpless.

  Then my mother’s eyes met mine—briefly, with fierce resolve. “All right. I—I’ll go with you…” she stuttered, her voice choked with grim determination.

  Not wishing to betray her trust, I held my breath even as a rising tide of dread surged inside me. My mother advanced toward the bandit, her steps measured yet resolute, all while the violent clamor from outside grew louder.

  “Good girl,” the bandit taunted, “and perhaps your pretty face will please our client.”

  I watched, heart in my throat, as my mother crouched deliberately before the bandit, slowly reaching for the carving knife concealed at her thigh.

  No—this couldn’t be real. My mother was no warrior!

  “G-Gah!” I cried out in protest.

  The bandit’s eyes snapped towards me, her expression darkening with predatory mRael, as an inexplicable pressure made me feel as vulnerable as a rabbit beneath a stalking lion. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each beat overwhelming the silence, each breath a desperate struggle.

  “What's this? A little brat—Ack!?”

  Before she could finish, my mother’s hidden knife fell in a swift arc toward the bandit’s neck. Reacting on instinct, the bandit dodged, and the blade instead bit into her shoulder, sending a stream of blood cascading over the wooden floor.

  Time slowed; every second stretched into an eternity as the bandit slowly extracted the knife, crimson droplets marking the silence of the room. “You… you just did that… didn’t you?” she hissed.

  Though the oppressive aura began to ebb, my relief was short-lived and my terror only deepened. My trembling hands betrayed me, my entire small frame quivering in fear as my mother stepped back, turning to face me with desperate eyes.

  “Dara! R-run—gah—!” she stammered in a final bid for survival.

  A flash of cruel violence erupted: the bandit’s sword sliced through my mother’s chest, sending rivulets of blood across the floor.

  “Who’s running where, huh!? Dammit. Now Hector will be on my ass for needing his damn healing magic,” the bandit jeered, spitting contemptuously as she pressed a hand against her bleeding shoulder.

  I stood frozen, my mind a blank canvas of horror as my vision focused on my mother—fallen to her knees, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, her life visibly slipping away.

  “Seems you had a brat after all. Too bad your Daddy isn’t here, or you might have escaped,” the bandit sneered. “Now, let’s have a little look-see.”

  In that moment, I was lifted roughly by the scruff of my neck. “A quiet brat, aren’t you? Must be scared shitless,” she mocked, her voice laced with cruelty.

  My mother—whom I had only just come to know—was now bleeding far too much, a growing puddle of copper marking the tragic descent of her life. The overwhelming scent of blood filled the air, etching itself into my memory.

  “No… Mom… please!” I whimpered.

  “Boring, really. Not that anyone could care for you now; consider this a mercy instead of starving,” the bandit spat as she drew a dagger, its tip pressing against my throat. Even with my life hanging by a thread, a numb despair clouded my senses.

  Just then, a burst of white flashed across my vision accompanied by the howl of wind and a distant, resonant boom.

  Blood sprayed onto my face as the arm holding me was flung aside, and the bandit’s head sailed through the air in a gruesome arc.

  A moment of disorientation later, I was caught by another set of arms—warm, tender, and infinitely more comforting.

  “Tch. Elara! Get over here!” a deep voice roared. I looked up to see a formidable woman with broad, scarred shoulders and a single strap of fabric barely covering her chest. An eye patch accentuated her rugged features, yet it was the pair of grey ears protruding from her matching grey hair that rendered her otherworldly.

  Before I could fully process her presence, I cried out, “Gah! Ungaa!” reaching desperately toward my dying mother.

  Recognizing my plea, the stalwart stranger gently lowered me to the ground. “Adira! It’s terrible! What—Oh, my!” she exclaimed, as another figure—a young woman—entered the space, her arrival marked by a fluid, graceful motion.

  The newcomer knelt beside my mother and pressed her glowing hands, now alight with a gentle green radiance, over the gushing wound. “Oh merciful Mother of Gods, please mend this one’s injuries and restore her to health!” she chanted with fervor.

  Despite her mystical efforts, her voice trembled as she realized, “It’s not working! It’s too deep! We need advanced rank at least!”

  My mother coughed weakly, turning her gaze to me. “Dara… G-gah,” she whispered.

  Her hand reached up to tenderly caress my cheek, and in that touch, memories flooded back like a lifeline. I recalled her warm laughter as she coaxed me to crawl, her gentle admonitions when I playfully closed my eyes, her soft tales of wonders and warnings.

  “Dara…,” she rasped. I clutched her frail hand in my own, striving to anchor her to the living world.

  “Don’t, Mom! Please don’t leave me!” I pleaded inwardly, even as her vibrant eyes dulled and tears pooled in both hers and mine.

  “My… baby,…” she managed, and then, summoning what strength she had left, she pressed onward: “Please… take care of my son… please…” Her voice trailed off as the young healer nodded solemnly.

  “I—I will! Absolutely…” she began, stopping abruptly as she took in the true extent of my mother’s injuries.

  I felt her delicate hand tighten as my mother’s head drooped lifelessly to the side, her eyes vacant but bearing a final, serene smile.

  A surge of overwhelming grief burst forth from within me—a torrent of despair that left me no choice but to wail in heartbroken agony, “Uuu… Uwaa!”

  Blurred memories mingled with the harsh reality: I was lifted by the luminous healer, her arms cradling me and muffling my anguished cries as she rocked me gently in an effort to soothe the pain.

  Before long, I was taken from the ruined house, my tear-blurred eyes taking in the devastation of the village—a shattered, haunting landscape that marked the end of my old life.

  Exhaustion eventually overcame me, and sleep claimed me as the day—a day filled with horrors and the collapse of my only home—dissolved into a nightmare that felt all too real.

  Thus, after a mere three months in this cruel world, I had lost everything I had known. And yet, unbeknownst to me, amid the ruin and sorrow, a new family and a new destiny awaited.