**Trigger Warning: Graphic Violence**

Tyvan had never felt comfortable entrusting his safety and well-being to another person… not until he met her.

Michiyo was a peculiar human in that she always seemed busy-- on the phone, working on reports at her desk, attending… board meetings or some such at her company.

Despite that, Tyvan remembered her being present and available during his childhood more often than not.

He always found comfort in her presence, whether she was answering his pedestrian inquiries or providing superfluous warnings about climbing irregular, freestanding architecture. Over so many months and years, her mere voice-- its sound and cadence, was enough to put him at ease.

Perhaps it was because she was his mother.

From what he understood, mothers had a legal obligation to provide basic care to their children. Michiyo performed that duty admirably, going far beyond the scope of what he deemed necessary.

As protective guardians were wont to do, she did her best to shield him from the harsher truths of the world. Perhaps she hoped that the illusion of fairness and safety could be preserved long enough to mold him into a just and hopeful adult.

Unfortunately, Tyvan started to regain his past life’s memories shortly after he learned how to walk.

He remembered many things that a human child was not supposed to know. Some, of course, provided indelible advantages. He learned grammatical rules while being inundated in his target language. He was better able to correlate a speaker’s tone, scent, expressions, and body language to their words in order to derive a socially acceptable response.

…He could arrange his plastic soldiers in ten-human squads, led by the most senior members of the unit.

Other memories were more troublesome.

He recognised the ebb and flow of mana, ever-present in the world... and he knew how to bend it to his will if he so desired.

In his dreams, he saw occasional glimpses of his past associates. The bleeding body of a forgotten prince convulsing as his belly was pierced with a knife. A woman with grey and white hair, still beautiful despite, taking her last breath after a life well lived.

A strong-jawed warrior pounded his chest, honest tears spilling down his face. He swore on his honor that he would be stronger, next they meet. On that sun, they would eat and drink their fill. They would speak proudly of their lives, of their battles, and of all the things they loved.

That meeting would not come to pass. It was a statistical impossibility... yet it remained a heartening reminiscence.

Then... in those dreams... gods were real.

--and they could be killed.

Tyvan contemplated their machinations often. Why was he born in his new world? --and for what purpose? The gods-- or moreso the fates... they were whimsical and cruel, their designs so unfathomable to mortal understanding that it was futile to think otherwise.

He was legitimately concerned that he was to be the ⟦Hero⟧ of his new world. It was an arbitrary selection, imperious and insolent... but as the years passed and his memories accumulated, so did his cynicism.

For all his ever-burgeoning power and ability... there must have been an equitable price.

Thus, Tyvan sought to enjoy his fleeting childhood suns, pretending to be oblivious to his predetermined destiny. He spent time learning from and supporting his mother. He advised his father on best practices to regulate his health and improve his businesses. He developed his physique, mental capacity, and mana circuits for the gratification of self-improvement rather than necessity or future ambition.

He learned as much as he cared about his new world, the society in which he lived and its colourful history-- its wonderful cuisines. (Oddly enough, his preferred fare was... anything conjured by his mother.)

He established a rapport with several humans that worked or resided near his home. Yet-- likely influenced by his previous life, he favoured the company of a rather outspoken gardener snake that took refuge in his mother’s garden.

According to his encyclopaedia, his proper classification was a garter snake... or Thamnophis sirtalis infernalis, to be more specific.

Mother insisted that the diminutive was better. She also insisted that he respectfully address his friend as Hebi-san or Mister Snake. That was asinine, of course; Tyvan was the elder between the two.

Snake-kun didn’t have a proper name. Perhaps it was because he was hatched apart from his brood or that he was young and his bloodline memories had yet to awaken.

Their friendship developed over time, bonding over mediocrities shared between two hatchlings.

Tyvan brought Snake-kun into the warmth of his family home during the colder seasons. He recommended hunting stratagems and providing locations of bird nests and the eggs therein. Once, the hatchling required assistance in removing his shed eye-caps. For near a week afterward, he expressed shame for his inability-- gratuitous and completely unwarranted.

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Besides keeping Mother’s garden safe from pests, Snake-kun allowed Tyvan to confide in him-- mostly regarding his past life’s memories. He was a wonderful listener, rarely interrupting, and providing simple and refreshing insights only possible from an outside perspective.

When Tyvan turned ten, he shared with Snake-kun the secret of his unwanted yet inevitable destiny. He had absolute certainty that the fate of the world would soon figuratively rest on his physically immature shoulders.

Snake-kun offered his condolences. And... he also offered to provide aid in any fashion he was capable. Garter snakes had few skills pertinent to saving the world, but his sincerity was appreciated, nonetheless.

Of course, they also had their differences-- a notable disagreement concerning a particularly wily field mouse. Snake-kun was adamant that Tyvan should participate in the repulsion of the invader, as the yard was under his protection.

Tyvan had several plans he could have enacted. He could have asked Father to purchase rodent traps or flooded the burrow with water. He could have hunted the foul beast, himself.

He did none of those things. It was beneath him. Conversely, the challenge was appropriate for Snake-kun. Rising to and above would be conducive to his growth, regardless of the outcome.

In retrospect, he didn’t verbalize his expectations. Perhaps that argument could have been avoided.

Then... Tyvan turned eleven.

No owl came for him-- no invitation to train in an illustrious magical academy. No government agent knocked at his door, hoping to recruit him to their righteous cause. He didn’t even receive a nigh-incomprehensible prophecy from an eccentric soothsayer.

A celebration was held. Tyvan received a mundane present from Father. He recalled being grateful despite the particular gift not being memorable. Mother baked or requisitioned a cake. He remembered the taste of strawberries.

That entire day passed without incident-- 24 entire hours. The sun rose, then it fell. Even measured from the time he was birthed, he’d spent eleven full years in his new world without contact from anything resembling a greater power.

He was perplexed. He was... bewildered?

He was…

Insulted.

It was impossible to live the normal life deserved of a child, so cursed with memories of war and loss. For every fantastic, hard-won battle, cutting far deeper was each heart-wrenching… nightmarish… inconsolably frustrating loss.

It might have been a gift. It should have had a purpose toward a grander design.

Yet it seemed that the fates– as blind and as callous as the fates of his previous world… had forgotten about him.

Tyvan laid awake that night, unable to quell his indignation. As his mother was asleep, he dressed appropriately and skulked into the yard, seeking his sole confidante.

Snake-kun…

Not in the gardens.

Not amongst the decorative rocks of his mother’s koi pond, where frogs sometimes made their home.

Not in the vacant mouse hollow...

He had an odd feeling, then.

He did not appreciate odd feelings. They heralded troublesome occurrences, enough to ruin the rest of his morning.

Tyvan closed off his rational senses... allowing himself to wander in the direction he least wanted to travel. It was reckless of him, exposing him to attack from the miscreants of his new world: sharp-horned jackalopes, sasquatches-- or perhaps even a fairy if he was truly unlucky.

Yet the negligent risk earned him the familiar scent of blood.

--so familiar, that he hastened his steps. He latched onto a tree and began climbing its rough bark. It bled his soft, puerile hands.

Nestled high in the branches, he found a hollow.

And within that hollow... he found an owl.

He clenched his teeth, the stinging heat in his eyes producing tears.

“You... dare.”

The mother owl had torn Snake-kun into pieces. That snake-flesh-- the red of his scales and the red of his blood, she fed to her voracious young.

It was only natural. She had done nothing wrong. Her hatchlings needed to feed in order to grow healthful and hale.

She lived according to her base instincts, provided by her bloodline memories.

She was not hateful… nor was she proud.

Yet when she gazed upon him…

She was afraid.

She was so... very afraid.

The stench of it filled his nose and mouth. It stung his eyes worse than his tears.

Tyvan reached in, grabbing her frail, hollow-boned body.

Her talons and beak tore at the flesh of his already bleeding hands. She cried out desperately for her mate, but there was no hope that he would arrive in time. Even if he did, he could do naught to save her.

He smashed her body against the bark.

Her children continued to bemoan their hunger, blind and blissfully unaware of the cruelties of the world. Tyvan powered mana into his fingers, crushing their mother’s ribcage.

He bit into the back of her neck, crunching his teeth through the base of her spine. He pressed her head against the tree trunk... applying more and more force until her skull cracked and burst.

He allowed the body to fall... silent and serene until it whumped upon the dirt far below.

Tyvan half-climbed, half-slid down the tree... marked by innocent blood... blood of a creature he killed not for sustenance, not for territory-- not even for respect.

He murdered her out of selfishness and anger.

When he returned to his childhood home, Mother was awake. She saw the disheveled state of his clothing. She saw the blood... the torn flesh of his hands, the smudges on his sleeves and mouth.

--blood drawn for his weakness and blood drawn for his shame.

And she saw his tears, and… perhaps that, she determined most important.

Tyvan found comfort in his mother’s embrace...

However, he had also learned a valuable lesson.

No owl would ever come for him.

And if they so dared... he would be ready.