? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The summer sun flooded the fields with molten gold. Dust drifted along the footpaths, mingling with the heavy stench of curing hay, livestock, and sun-baked earth. The wind rustled over the village, carrying the distant splash of the river, the drone of bees over the garden beds, and the rhythmic groan of the mill where Todyr threshed the grain. At night, lightwings—tiny moths whose wings shimmered with a soft blue radiance—danced over the grass like fallen stars. The peasants held them as omens of luck, but Violetta, inhaling their faint, honeyed musk, sensed something vital within them, as if the earth itself were whispering data into her mind.

  My senses are still recalibrating, she thought, sitting in the cabin's shadow. Sometimes I catch a new frequency; the image zooms or retracts on its own, but the spikes are becoming less frequent.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  The body grew and hardened. Day by day, she refined her crawl with relentless focus until, finally, Violetta stood. Her first steps were precarious, like a skiff in a gale, but within days she was sprinting through the house. Her feet moved with an innate certainty, as if they mapped the terrain before touching it. The household erupted in celebration: Marunya skipped and clapped, Lukia laughed through tears of joy, and Todyr hoisted the foundling high above his head, holding her like a gemstone meant to catch the light.

  “She’s something special, our girl,” he said quietly. Lukia nodded, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her skirt.

  A few days later, Violetta shattered their expectations further. Sitting in the shade, she pointed a steady finger at a moth fluttering over the garden.

  “Lightwing!” she declared, her voice clear and precise. Lukia froze, herb basket in hand. Todyr, repairing a wagon, looked up with a deep furrow in his brow.

  “When did she start talking?” he muttered. Lukia only shrugged, her eyes reflecting a volatile mix of pride and dread.

  For Violetta, language came as naturally as movement. Her voice was bell-like and pure, possessing a confidence far beyond a toddler’s years.

  “Lightwing, Mama!” she repeated, reaching for Lukia. The woman smiled, but a shadow lingered in her gaze: too fast, too strange.

  Todyr and Lukia were seasoned parents. Their own daughter, Marunya, had walked and spoken much later, like any human child. Combined with the pristine swaddles, the parents gradually accepted the fact: Violetta was an anomaly.

  Her “domain” now expanded beyond the timber walls. She patrolled the yard, tracking lightwings and geese. The body that once betrayed her will now obeyed with fluid grace. Once, while chasing a moth, she tripped over a gnarled root and slammed into the dirt. Marunya gasped, bracing for a scream, but Violetta simply stood up. Not a single tear. Her skin remained unblemished—no bruising, no swelling. It was as if the impact had never occurred.

  “Do you even feel anything when you fall?” Marunya asked, baffled, inspecting knees that lacked even a single scratch.

  Violetta only offered a small smile, glancing at her tiny pink palms. They, too, were intact.

  Just like when I bit myself... my skin repels all damage... it was forged for a different world, she thought, recalling her desperate attempts to mar herself in the cradle.

  The heat raged over the fields. Human bodies were slick with sweat, but Violetta felt only a warm breath caressing her skin. She loved running through the stubble; the dry stalks merely tickled her soles. If pain flared, it was extinguished instantly, like a flame doused by rain.

  I used to think walking barefoot was painful. But here... it feels like the earth is embracing me, she mused, pressing her toes into the damp, warm soil.

  Now that I can walk, I must learn everything about this world.

  Her memory logged it all: the scent of the river, the taste of honey sticking to her fingers, the groan of wagons rolling through the village. Day by day, the archive grew.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Beneath the floorboards, bone-gnawers crunched—mice with bony plates that had suddenly appeared this summer. They chewed through stone, leaving bizarre patterns. Lukia complained that these "long-tails" were ruining the foundation. Todyr, however, was convinced they "cleansed" the earth of evil. There was no time for the smoketails to nap in the shade now; they hunted the gnawers, venting acrid, silvery plumes.

  Once, Violetta watched a smoketail corner a bone-gnawer. Arching its back, the cat released a micro-burst of smoke—a glowing cloud that hummed with life. The scent—ash, herbs, and something sharp—hit Violetta’s nose, forcing her to look away. The gnawer inhaled the vapor and stumbled. Its legs tangled, and the cat claimed its prize with clinical ease.

  In the yard, Demko wailed loudly—cramps from unripe plums. Lukia did her best to heal her only son. She applied a warm cloth soaked in a decoction of nettle and yarrow to his belly, murmuring prayers to the earth spirits. Her hands were physically overflowing with love. Even Violetta felt it—a warmth that didn't come from the sun.

  Marunya returned from the fields, red as a beet and simmering with resentment because Lukia had once again left her to mind the children.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Everything is on me, as always,” she grumbled under her breath.

  In the yard, geese hissed, their hard, bony growths gleaming in the sun.

  I suppose they need that armor to break out of their shells, Violetta thought, analyzing the avian "plating."

  Nearby, light-feathered chickens, whose plumage cast a faint blue glow in the dusk, clucked as they laid eggs that warmed the palms with magical heat. Lukia gathered them for her brews, whispering that their mana-infused shells amplified healing. Touching the eggs, Violetta felt something vital. It vibrated beneath her fingers, a frequency she couldn't yet decode.

  But the real surprise was the cow: a massive beast covered in thick, bony carapaces, with horns twisted like those of an ancient monster. Violetta froze, her eyes wide with awe.

  “An armored fortress!” she exclaimed.

  Lukia, who was milking the beast, snapped her head up.

  “Ahah, exactly. Like a royal castle,” she agreed, but her smile quickly faded. She went still, a shadow of alarm crossing her eyes.

  How does she know what an 'armored fortress' is?

  Oops... caught again, Violetta thought, averting her eyes.

  Her vision suddenly zoomed in on the cracks in the cow’s carapace, rendering the coarse texture in high definition—then, in a flash, the world returned to normal.

  That evening, as Violetta curled into a ball on her blanket, Lukia pulled Todyr into the larder. The flickering lamp-light danced on her face as she whispered:

  “Todyr, she said ‘armored fortress’... Where does she get such words? She’s a babe, yet she speaks as if... as if she’s seen castles, wars. It’s not human.”

  Todyr frowned, rubbing his calloused hands.

  “She’s special, Lukia. We knew that. But...” he sighed, “is it a gift? Or a curse? We must watch her. If the villagers start whispering...”

  Lukia nodded, her fingers white-knuckled around a rag. The parents stared into the darkness where Violetta slept, like a tiny star in their home—beautiful, incomprehensible, and dangerous.

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  The days stretched like warm treacle, filled with the scent of mown grass, the ring of the dwarf-smith’s hammer, and the splash of the river shimmering beyond the village. Violetta learned that their village was one of the last on the Empire's eastern frontier. It clung to dense forests and impossibly beautiful valleys where flowers bloomed with a faint twilight glow. Almost everyone in the village was human. There were only two "others": Violetta and the dwarf, who kept to himself in his forge, hammering horseshoes and grumbling at anyone who disturbed him.

  Sometimes refugees arrived: exhausted, red-eyed. They whispered of a "God’s Scourge" from the east that "swallowed the earth" and the people with it. Their voices trembled, fear saturating their words like poison. Violetta sat by Lukia and listened intently, though she couldn't yet separate these horrors from the hissing of geese or the creak of the mill.

  There was no church in the village, but the weight of the Imperial Faith hung over the people like a shroud. It preached the supremacy of the human race. The villagers, while not hostile, sometimes cast sideways glances at Violetta’s fox-like ears and tail. An old crone, coming to Lukia for a fresh light-feathered egg, muttered: “She is too beautiful to be human. Too beautiful. And wise... no human child her age looks at the world like that.” Lukia looked away, hiding her trepidation behind a practiced smile.

  After another day of exploration, Violetta lay curled on her wool blanket. After a heavy rain, the night turned cool. The house, like a stone boot, held the summer’s heat. Her eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off. The dream returned... from her past life. Darkness. Cold. Gloom. Silence. Then, the text: white symbols on a black void, flashing and dying like the code in the pod that fell from the sky. The symbols were sharp, alien, as if cut from steel. She remembered them, but they remained unreadable.

  She woke with a start. The symbols hadn't vanished. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

  Wait... What is this?!

  In the corner of her vision, a line flickered—incomprehensible yet familiar, like a fragment of her past life where she saw holograms, screens, and scrolling digits.

  These marks... like the holograms of my past world, but forged by someone who surpassed everything I once knew, she thought. Is this... a biosystem? Diagnostics? She blinked, but the symbols remained etched in her sight. Eventually, exhaustion won, and she slept.

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  From that moment, everything shifted. Waking the next morning, Violetta felt a new power. She began to hear things she had never heard before—but now, it was controllable. If she focused on Zlata’s heartbeat in her sleep, the village sounds receded, leaving only the target frequency. Her vision, when she wanted to examine a lightwing, zoomed in until every scale on its wing was rendered in detail. She inhaled the scent of Lukia’s brews and caught the spark in the woman’s palms as she healed Demko. She saw thin currents flowing through her body. Awe mingled with terror, as if she were peering into something forbidden.

  Mana sparks... can only I see the currents of energy flowing through the bodies of other beings? Her eyes glittered with wonder.

  Once, touching Marunya’s hand as she wove a wreath, Violetta felt an impulse, like a mild electric shock. A new line of text flared in the corner of her vision—brief, unknown. She yanked her hand back, and the text vanished. Memory logged it all: the warmth of Marunya’s palm, the rhythm of her breath, the spark trembling within her. Later, stroking a smoketail, she felt a similar pulse and her vision caught the sparks in its vapor. It was magic, laid bare.

  It was beautiful. And... terrifying. Like looking beneath the skin and seeing the machinery of life itself. Her body accepted this as if it were the natural order.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Violetta lay beneath the ancient oak, savoring its shadow and pressing her fingers into the earth. Nearby, Zlata laughed while Demko shrieked. Near the cabin, smoketails chased bone-gnawers, leaving silvery trails. Lightwings drifted from flower to flower, their radiance casting cryptic shadows.

  Violetta watched a magical moth and dived into her thoughts.

  I’ve been watching them from the window since before I could even sit up properly...

  I still think like a youth... But when I hear Zlata’s laughter, when I lick honey from my finger, when I touch the earth with my bare feet... I feel that I’m not just inside this girl’s body. I am in her life. In her world.

  As a youth, I still like girls. That hasn't changed. My body is... different in form. It lacks the chemistry I once knew. But I am still me. My male essence remains. This new body is just... a new version, forged for this world.

  This world isn't mine. But with every step, every touch, every whisper of the earth, and every flutter of a lightwing—I am becoming a part of this strange reality.