Two weeks ago, I could barely crawl like some half-drunk caterpillar. Now, I can walk. Sort of.
It's a humiliating kind of victory. My brain tells me what to do—plant the heel, roll the step, balance your center, keep your shoulders still. My body… doesn't listen. My head's too heavy, my legs too short, and half the time I topple forward like a sack of roots on a hill. But each day the steps come easier. Each day I fall less.
And every time I hit the ground, I tell myself the same thing: again.
I'm not going to waste this life trapped in weakness. Not when monsters prowl outside the trees. Not when whispers claw at the back of my skull. Not when I was given this second chance.
So I train.
-Stubborn Body, Stubborn Soul-
Training looks different when you're the size of a bread loaf. Push-ups? They're pathetic—my arms bend once, twice, before I collapse face-first into the mat. But I keep trying. Sit-ups? Don't even get me started. My stomach is soft dough, not iron, and it trembles with every effort. But I refuse to stop.
I grip the edge of a stool and practice squats, thighs burning after ten. I balance on one leg until I crash down. I run from one side of the hut to the other, legs wobbling, tripping over my own feet until my knees bruise.
My mother Liora catches me sometimes, watching with her soft, worried eyes. She doesn't scold me. She doesn't stop me. She just places a hand on my head and whispers, "Don't break yourself before you've even grown."
Kaelen? He laughs. "Good. If he falls enough, the ground will learn to fear him."
I like my father's version better.
Sneaking Out
The first time I snuck out, it was by accident. I woke in the middle of the night and found the door ajar, the rope bridge swaying faintly with the footsteps of patrols. The air was cool, damp with spores glowing faintly in the dark. Curiosity tugged harder than fear.
So I waddled out, gripping the rope rail with tiny hands, my heart pounding with both terror and excitement.
That's when I saw them.
The warriors.
Kaelen stood at the center of the clearing, his chest bare, muscles gleaming with sweat in the moonlight. Around him, younger men and women sparred with wooden weapons, their faces twisted with determination. Every swing echoed through the branches. Every grunt of effort vibrated in my bones.
And then came the mages. Mushroom kin with glowing veins, their caps shimmering as they channeled spores into spells. One drew water from the air and froze it into a spear. Another ignited spores into bursts of flame, showering sparks across the platform. A third bent light, creating illusions of phantom beasts that stalked the clearing before fading.
I crouched behind a pile of baskets, eyes wide, breath held.
This was it. The power I wanted. The power I needed.
I studied every stance, every swing, every chant. My fathers form was flawless: shoulders square, hips rooted, each strike efficient and merciless. The recruits wobbled, overreached, stumbled. He corrected them with sharp words and sharper strikes.
The mages fascinated me even more. Their control wasn't just about power—it was about patience. I could see it in the way they breathed, in how their hands twitched like they were weaving invisible threads.
My little body ached with jealousy. Soon, I told myself. Soon, I'll stand where they stand. And I won't just match them. I'll surpass them.
-Words on My Tongue-
At first, speech was harder than walking. My mouth wouldn't shape the sounds my brain demanded. I tried to say "balance" once, and it came out as "ba-na." Thalos laughed so hard he fell off the bridge.
But day by day, word by word, I forced my tongue to obey.
"Foot… wrong," I muttered one morning as Kaelen sparred. His head snapped toward me, eyes narrowing.
"What did you say?"
I pointed at a recruit, a boy of fifteen who kept lunging too far. "Hip… late. Breath… bad."
Silence. Then my father Kaelen grinned. "He's right. Fix it."
The recruit flushed red but obeyed. His next strike was sharper, more controlled.
My mother sighed, muttering something about her son being an old man trapped in a baby. She wasn't wrong.
Now, when I speak, people listen. Not because my words are perfect—they're choppy, broken, sometimes slurred. But because they carry weight. I don't waste them. Every word is a stone, and I throw them only where they'll hit.
Thalos teases me constantly. "You sound like a drunk elder trying to teach philosophy!" he crows. But when he's practicing stances with his stick, he always sneaks a glance at me, waiting for my nod.
And I give it—when he earns it.
Thalos the Menace
Thalos hasn't left me alone since the day we met. He barges into our hut, drags me out on his "adventures," and treats me like his sidekick.
"Come, Baby Hero!" he declares, hauling me toward a rope bridge. "Today we conquer the eastern tower!"
I stumble along, legs pumping furiously to keep up. Half the time he ends up carrying me under his arm like a sack of potatoes.
But he's not just noise and chaos. Beneath the mischief, there's power. Real power.
I've seen him concentrate until mushrooms sprout from his palms, glowing faintly before crumbling to ash. I've seen him jump higher than other kids his age, his veins lighting up faintly as spores pulse beneath his skin.
He doesn't understand what he is yet. But I do. He's special. Different. Like me.
One day, we'll stand side by side—not as child and baby, but as warriors. For now, I let him call me "Baby Hero" while secretly plotting how to beat him in every duel we'll ever have.
-The Warriors and the Mages-
I keep sneaking out. Every chance I get.
I hide behind baskets, under platforms, in the shadows of thick roots, watching the warriors and mages train. I memorize every movement. Every mistake. Every moment of brilliance.
My father, Kaelen's drills are brutal. He makes recruits run until their lungs burn, spar until their arms tremble, hold stances until sweat drips into their eyes. He doesn't coddle. He doesn't praise. He simply says, "Again."
And they obey.
The mages are different. Their training is quieter, subtler. They sit cross-legged, breathing spores into patterns, weaving them into shapes that shimmer like fireflies. Sometimes they fail—bursts of smoke, flashes of light, burns on their hands. But when they succeed, the air hums with power.
I want both. The strength of steel. The patience of magic.
I want it all.
The Whispers
They haven't gone away. If anything, they've grown louder.
Grow. Consume. Protect.
Sometimes they come when I train, urging me to push harder. Sometimes they come at night, whispering promises of power if I just… let go.
I don't know if they're a gift or a curse. But I know this: they want something from me. And I refuse to give it until I understand.
For now, I use them. Their voices fuel me when my legs ache, when my arms shake, when I hit the ground for the hundredth time. They remind me that weakness is temporary.
Belonging
A month has passed since I learned to walk.
I'm still clumsy, still stumble, still too small to do half the things I want. But I'm no longer helpless. I can move. I can train. I can watch, listen, learn.
The village no longer sees me as just a miracle baby. They see me as something more. Not fully one of them yet, but not apart either.
Kaelen calls me "stubborn." Liora calls me "old soul." Thalos calls me "Baby Hero."
Me? I call myself Riven.
Split. Reforged. Stronger at the seams.
And every night, as I lie in my cradle with bruised knees and aching arms, I whisper the same word to myself.
"Again."
Because one day, these clumsy little hands will hold steel. One day, these unsteady legs will carry me into the heart of battle. One day, the whispers will answer to me, not the other way around.
Until then, I train.
Until then, I watch.
Until then, I wait.
And when the Mawborn come again—and they will—I'll be ready to stand.
-My Birthday-
I don't remember my first birthday on Earth. Nobody does. But here? I'll never forget it.
The village smelled of roasted roots and spore-wine, the air thick with glowing flecks that drifted like lazy fireflies. Rope bridges were strung with woven fungus-lanterns, casting soft gold across the platforms. Even the warriors—scarred, sleepless, always alert—allowed themselves to sit for once, though they still kept their weapons close at hand.
I sat in my mother's arms, staring at them all. A child to their eyes, but inside, my heart thumped like a drum because I knew what this day meant. Names are more than sounds here—they're anchors. Without one, I was just "the half-breed," a curiosity, a curse, a miracle, depending on who you asked. With one? I'd be real. Claimed. Unignorable.
Liora stepped forward, her cap gleaming faintly, golden spores leaking from her hair like falling stars. Kaelen walked beside her, shoulders broad, the scar down his jaw catching the light. He held me as though I weighed nothing, but his grip was iron.
When the fire's crackle faded, my mother spoke.
"Riven."
The sound cut the night in two. A murmur spread through the crowd.
"In the tongue of my people," she continued, "it means split, yet growing anew. Torn, but alive. Stronger for the break."
Kaelen's voice followed, deep as thunder. "In the tongue of mine, it means reforged. A blade cracked, but hammered harder than before. He is Riven—our son."
Some clapped. Some scowled. Some whispered curses they thought I couldn't hear. But it didn't matter. The word was mine now. My name. My chain. My weapon.
I clenched my tiny fists, staring at them all, and promised myself: I'll make you choke on this name one day.
-A Week of Peace-
The days that followed felt lighter. Children came closer, curious now that I wasn't nameless. They tugged at my arms, laughed at my stumbling steps, and shrieked when Thalos declared me his "Baby Hero" sidekick and paraded me around like a stolen banner.
I could walk better now. Still clumsy, still falling, but I forced my legs to obey. Every stumble was training. Every bruise a lesson. At night, I whispered the same word until sleep stole me: again.
The village moved with rhythm again—hunters leaving at dawn, smiths hammering by noon, guards sparring at dusk. Refugees trickled in, bringing stories of howling Mawborn packs in the groves. Kaelen listened with a face carved from stone. Liora healed until her eyes glowed faint gold from strain.
I pretended to be a baby in the day. At night, I snuck to the shadows, watching the warriors swing blades and the mages weave spores into light. I memorized every stance, every chant. I was starving, not for food, but for their knowledge.
For once, peace seemed possible.
Which, of course, meant it couldn't last.
The Invasion
The horn blew at dusk.
Not the short blast for returning hunters. Not the low hum for meeting. The long, trembling wail that meant only one thing: Mawborn.
The air itself tightened. Warriors grabbed spears, children were rushed into huts, rope bridges shook as guards sprinted to their posts.
From the west they came—ten of them, snarling, howling, their twisted bodies illuminated by the firelight.
The first looked like a wolf stretched too thin, its ribs caged outward, its jaw unhinged too far. The second crawled on six limbs, each one jointed wrong, its spine bubbling as though something beneath its flesh wanted out. Behind them came more—shapes barely animal, mouths lined with teeth that didn't match their skulls.
The warriors met them at the main bridge. Kaelen's roar cut through the panic, his sword catching fire as he cleaved into the first beast. Mages hurled spores that erupted into flame and light, coating the battlefield in sparks.
Chaos. Screams. The sound of claws on wood.
I was shoved toward the children's shelter, Thalos at my side, his cap glowing bright with panic. We were herded into a hut, the younger kids crying, clutching each other.
And then the wall shook.
One of the smaller Mawborn had slipped past the front. Its eyes gleamed in the dark, its body hunched and twitching. Drool hissed as it hit the wooden floor. The children screamed.
And no adults were near enough to save us.
-The Children in Danger-
The beast stalked forward, maw opening wider than its head should allow. Its breath stank of rot and blood. The younger kids pressed back against the wall, sobbing.
Thalos grabbed a stick from the firewood pile, his hands shaking. "Stay back!" he shouted, voice breaking but loud enough to echo.
The Mawborn didn't care. It lunged.
Without thinking, I moved. My legs wobbled, my balance faltered, but I planted myself between it and the children. My fists clenched, my jaw tight.
I was one year old. But I'd died once already, and I wasn't about to let anyone else here share that fate.
-The Fight-
Thalos swung first, a wild arc that smacked the Mawborn's snout. It snarled, shaking its head, then slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. His cap glowed furiously as spores burst from him, distracting the beast with a flash of light.
"Up!" I shouted, the word raw on my tongue. My first real command.
Thalos scrambled to his feet, stick raised again.
The Mawborn turned toward me. My heart hammered. My body screamed to run. Instead, I dropped low, the way Kaelen always did in drills, and shoved forward with all my weight. My tiny shoulder slammed into its leg. Not strong enough to topple it, but enough to make it stumble.
"Now!" I yelled.
Thalos swung down with both hands, his stick cracking across the beast's skull. It howled, twisting toward him. I grabbed the broken leg of a stool and jabbed it forward, aiming for the soft place under its jaw.
It sank in an inch. Not much. But enough.
The Mawborn shrieked, thrashing, blood spraying dark across the walls. Thalos screamed too, but he held on, ramming his stick into its eye. I pushed harder, driving the stool leg deeper until the beast convulsed and collapsed.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then the children cheered, their terror flipping into wild, shaky laughter.
We stood there—me, panting and trembling, Thalos with his stick still dripping—and stared at the corpse.
We'd done it. Somehow.
-Aftermath-
The warriors burst in moments later, weapons drawn, Kaelen's sword still flaming. They froze at the sight: two children standing over the body of a dead Mawborn.
Liora rushed to me, scooping me into her arms, sobbing into my hair. "Foolish boy! Brave boy!" she whispered over and over.
Kaelen stared at me, eyes sharp, unreadable. Then he gave the faintest nod. Approval. Pride.
The other children looked at me differently now. Not as a miracle baby. Not as a half-breed. But as someone who had stood between them and death.
Thalos puffed his chest out, grinning through blood on his cheek. "Told you, Baby Hero. We're unstoppable."
I laughed, breathless, exhausted, but alive.
That night, under the glow of burning Mawborn bodies and drifting golden spores, I realized something simple and terrifying:
I wasn't just living in this world anymore.
I was part of its battles.
And this was only the beginning.