The first thing I heard was a soft, rhythmic murmuring—two voices, gentle yet strained, speaking in a language unlike anything I knew. The words moved like wind over leaves, elegant and flowing, but their meaning was lost to me. Still, the tones carried enough:
Worry.
Care.
And the exhaustion of new parents.
My consciousness floated somewhere dark and weightless. The last memory I had was pain so profound it swallowed thought. But here… there was only a quiet drifting.
I tried to move my hand.
Nothing.
My fingers felt submerged in thick, heavy water—as if the commands from my mind were sinking before reaching their destination. A cold realization crept through me:
This body isn't responding.
This body… can't move.
A soft rustle came from behind, followed by cautious, almost hesitant footsteps. Then a young voice spoke—a boy's voice, bright but resonating faintly with mana.
"Who are you?"
My awareness turned toward him—not through eyes, but through some inner sense—and I saw him manifest piece by piece. Shimmering strands of light knit together, forming the figure of a youth around seventeen. His hair shone like spun moonlight, and his eyes were deep silver, old in their wisdom despite his young form.
He wore a long coat woven from pure light, its edges translucent. At his side rested a blade made of starlight, humming with contained power.
He studied me, composed yet curious.
"A soul," he said quietly, "trying to intrude into my body."
I answered honestly. "If you were born today… why do you look seventeen?"
His expression remained steady. "Souls appear in their idle age. This is mine."
Elegant. Strange. Beautifully simple.
"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I didn't come to disturb your life. My original body was destroyed."
A soft pulse traveled through his outline. "So?"
"So," I continued gently, "your soul can't sustain this body yet. And I was sent here—not by choice."
He crossed his arms, his posture more curious than guarded. "Does that mean I'll grow strong enough to handle it alone?"
"Yes," I replied. "If you grow properly."
He tilted his head. Although he looked seventeen, his emotional reactions were unmistakably those of a child—instinctive, trusting, searching for guidance.
I bowed my head. "Let me coexist with you. I won't interfere unless you allow it. But if you tell me to leave… I will die. And so will you, because your soul isn't ready."
His silver gaze softened.
"Take it," he said. "A blessing of the almighty. Live here. With me. You don't leave me any choice."
A warm brush of light touched me—permission.
"But," he added seriously, "step out of my body now. Don't look around unless I let you."
"I understand."
I withdrew, letting my sense fold inward until I could only hear—not see. My vision dimmed into darkness again, leaving me resting quietly within his soul-space.
His luminous form compressed and shrank—until he became the shape of a toddler. Barely three years old.
This was his true physical age.
I felt the new body again—tiny limbs, weak muscles, mana pathways still forming. A soul too strong for a vessel too small.
---
Days passed.
Through sound alone, I learned the rhythm of this world and slowly pieced together meanings.
Two names repeated often:
Garron Stoneveil — the father.
His voice was deep, like rolling earth. A demi-human, part human and part dwarf, built like a mountain—6'5, solid muscle shaped by war and duty. Even without sight, I sensed the grounded thrum of earth mana clinging to him like dust to stone.
Elowen Starcrest — the mother.
Her voice shimmered with spirit mana, each word a gentle glow. A half-elf with a rare affinity for spirit arts. When she spoke, her tone soothed and warmed, like moonlit water. Her emotions were always close to the surface—tender, anxious, quick to worry over even the smallest bruise.
Their grief hung constantly in the air.
A tremble in Garron's voice when Aeldir cried.
A faint crack in Elowen's breath when she whispered lullabies.
Soft pleas like, "We will protect him right this time," and "No more losses."
Whatever they had suffered before… it ran deep.
---
One bright morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, and I felt Aeldir stir. Elowen's voice chimed softly.
"You can do it, my little star. Just one more step."
Garron's heavy steps approached, warm and proud. "Come on, Aeldir. Up you go, little stone."
Aeldir pushed himself upright—wobbling—
One step.
Two—
And he toppled forward.
Elowen gasped and rushed to him, lifting him with trembling hands.
"Aeldir! Slow down—slow down, sweetheart! You're not ready yet…"
Garron exhaled shakily. "He grows too fast… way too fast."
Their fear was raw and real.
I said nothing. I stayed silent, a guest inside their child, watching, waiting.
Later that day, after they tucked him into the upstairs room…
Aeldir woke.
The moment the door clicked shut, he wriggled out of the blankets, dropped onto the floor, and began crawling—determined and giggling softly.
Toward the stairs.
His body was unsteady.
His balance was nonexistent.
The stairs were steep—ten or twelve steps, easily lethal for a child his size.
I whispered urgently:
"Aeldir. Stop."
But he only giggled louder—pure, innocent joy.
And crawled toward death without understanding it.
That was the exact second I understood—
If I didn't intervene… he would die.