“Cake?!” I exclaimed, holding the whopping slice on a plate with both hands.

My parents laughed, satisfied at my surprise. “You hear that, Gwen? He already knows what cake is!” 

Mother kneeled to my level. “It wasn’t easy! I spoke with just about everyone in the village, trading anything I could to get all the ingredients.” She planted a kiss on the top of my head. “It’s a recipe that my mother used for special occasions and was one of my favorites, so it seemed perfect!”

My patience was tested to its limit, but I waited until she finished speaking before digging in. A coating of sweet cream covered the spongy pastry, and a layer of the icing filled its center. Oh glorious heavens, this is the most exquisitely delectable piece of cuisine I’ve consumed in a lifetime, is what I wished to say. “Mmmm! Yummy, yummy,” however, is all I could manage.

Father knelt down and put an arm around mother. “Happy birthday, Crow.”

Life was good as a two-year-old. Instead of a crib, I had my very own bed to sleep in now, my hair was coming in quite nicely, and, just one other small detail, I could walk--on my feet! I was still far from mastering its technique, but there was an exhilaration to the newness of it all. Sure my royal stride was replaced with a waddle that caused my entire body to rock like a rowboat in a hurricane, but that was only temporary! Now that I was on my own two feet, the rest would follow; it was only a matter of time.

My empty plate fell from my sticky hands. I darted my eyes across the room, a wild animal searching for prey. There! More cake upon the table! “Dah-dee, up! Up,” I commanded.

“Alright you little cake goblin, here you go,” my father chuckled as he lifted me to my seat.

My speech was coming along as well. Yes, I referred to my father as daddy; the pronunciation is far better suited for my current capabilities, especially compared to the alternatives of father or Krig. Plus, Father sounded so formal, and calling him by his first name seemed utterly archaic.

Still, despite my progress, my vocal limitations proved to carry their own difficulties.

Father, approximately one year and eight months ago, you defeated a fire breathing wolf with nothing but deft swordsmanship and acrobatic flare! Where did you hone such prowess? Is the question I wished to ask. What came out though was, “Daddy learn fight?”

“That’s right, Crow! Daddy is in the Hunter’s Guild! Can you say hun-ter?”

Questioning Mother on where she learned to produce such focused spellcraft yielded similar results. Though my curiosity gnawed at me like a ravenous animal, it seemed I would have to wait for fully-formed articulation before I’d receive my answers.

Thankfully, some information could be gathered without requiring use of my voice. 

Observation proved to be an essential ally. Through my cottage window, just a few short weeks following the marshal’s departure, I watched the empire’s soldiers march into our small village, and they had yet to leave. At Auntie Bev’s Kitchen, I had heard how they’d been sent for our protection, to deal with any more infused beasts. As altruistic as the empire claimed to be, I knew the truth of the occupation: to keep the commoners in line.

Though the soldiers’ presence became just another piece of the daily routine over the past year and three quarters, it never seemed necessary. No attacks occurred, from infused beasts or otherwise, and no magical artifacts or happenings were ever found in the village, despite the random searches. The occupancy felt less like soldiers fortifying the village defenses and more like unmannered bullies mooching off our already-small supply of food. Coupled with the ever-rising taxes, it was a true wonder that my mother could bake such a fine dessert. I grabbed another handful.

“Oh, Krig, his stomach will become upset,” my mother scolded. “And he’ll never get to sleep after all this. You’re giving him more cake, you’re putting him down tonight!” Her serious tone would have been intimidating had she not giggled between each word.

Mother’s premonition held true: I did have trouble falling asleep that night, but not merely from the cake’s lingering sweetness coursing through my veins. While the balance of my step and the cut of my tongue each needed their fair shares of practice, keen eyes and ears were not my only notable traits. I crept to the door and let myself out of the cottage as my parents slept.

By the light of the moon, I trotted to the wood’s edge, hands outstretched on either side to keep from teetering over. Within the cover of the vegetation, I resumed my practice, flexing my fingers and stretching my hands. It was clear that the empire had no intention of keeping my village safe, and I wasn’t so foolish to place the safety of my family in the hands of inept soldiers tasked to do so.

A slow breath passed through my lips. My hands twisted in controlled movements, each finger straightening or curling with deliberate intention. Two years.

The small stone lifted into the air. Alright, good. My practice had been consistent, sneaking out after Mother and Father retired to their bed nearly every night for the past year. The results, however, had only just become adequate in recent efforts and what could have been done in my sleep in my past life now required my full attention. Let’s see how far this can go.

My hand pushed upwards against some invisible force, my arm tense and shaking. Two more stones joined the first, drifting in the air before all three dropped to the dirt. Wooh! I can’t believe it! It’s all coming back. I sighed an exhale before positioning my hands to start again.

Glad it’s starting to pay off.