Chapter 4 - First Steps, First Word

By nine months, Erven mastered the art of crawling with the precision of a soldier on a mission, but crawling soon proved itself insufficient.

Every expedition to the study or pantry felt like a war – slow and painful. Erven soon began hooking onto any nearby objects or even Harold’s boot, cruising along shakily, one step at a time.

Not much better but better nonetheless.

Little Ev had no intention of becoming sturdy in body as he did in his former lives. His muscles were soft, mushy, and undeveloped at this young age; plus training without mana flow was futile anyway. His core was not yet fully formed, or as he read in his foundation tier mana guides: without an emergence, his mana channels remained clogged up and sealed.

So instead of forcing his body, Erven focused on what he could change, and sharpened his mind and soon enough his mind was deadlier than any axe sharpened before.

He read.
And read.
And read.

Pamphlets, scrolls, books, even recipe books. Anything containing some form of script or letters became food for him to dissect. He’d mastered reading and understanding the regional dialects and was beginning to move on to archaic rune forms, although his study was lacking in books including these. As his comprehension skills bloomed, so too did his obsession for knowledge.

In the background of this obsession, one particular ghost would not stop haunting him.

The duel he witnessed at the Festival of Mana.

The flames. The frost. The applause. The explosion. The diamond snow. The passion.

Each and every moment of the duel played like a broken record in Ev’s mind, not traumatically, but as fuel causing his passion to burn with a freshness you only get when you initially get the spark of motivation when trying something new you enjoy.

I want to learn it all. No. I have to learn it all.

Mana. Combat. Tactics. Weaknesses. Culture. Theory. Affinity Evolution. There was too much he didn’t know and even more that he hadn’t even heard of. That alone was unacceptable to this former king who knew everything.

Though internally he was not the infant he appeared to be, at times he almost felt as though he was one. Perhaps because, it was his first time actually being a child.

At ten months old, he found himself gripping to the edge of a chair, his legs trembling with an intensity that to him felt like an earthquake right at his feet.

He lifted one foot.

Then, the next.

A step. A full step.

Ev’s world, shifted completely from that moment, before he collapsed face first into his mother’s lap. Ev shot his eyes up slowly before letting out a subtle smile, as Lyria passed her fingers through his brunette hair.

“Mama”, are you proud?

What on earth am I saying, how could anyone be proud of me.

Ev said that entire thought in his head as usual – except he didn’t.

Lyria’s hands froze.

Wait, I just said that didn’t I. I didn’t just think it, I said it. I said “Mama”

Erven blinked to double check he was seeing the situation right.

When he opened his eyes, he felt a tear land on his cheek, but it wasn’t his tear. Lyria crumpled her face and buried her forehead against Ev’s. She cradled him tighter than she had previously before releasing, realising he was not yet even 1 years old.

“You said my name,” she gasped. “Your first word was Mama—Harold!” she yelled toward the kitchen, “He said Mama!”

“I heard it!” Harold shouted back. “I was here! You don’t have to scream like that!”

Lyria paid no mind. She rocked Erven gently, brushing his messy black hair back from his forehead, laughing and crying all at once.

Erven sat quietly in her arms, small fingers gripping the fabric of her tunic.

I don’t understand.

But he let his head rest on her shoulder.

I don’t understand this warmth that’s filling the room, or why my own chest feels oddly light. But for the first time across all my lives, I won’t fight it.

Maybe, just this once, it’s alright not to understand.

Maybe it’s okay to feel something I can't measure.

Even if I have no name for it.