My new parents are highly protective of me. Despite enduring my fourth winter of this land, I have yet to leave the estate grounds, physical activity is restricted indoors and there is always a servant or two dedicated to watching over me. This includes the times when my mother carries me around, or has me sit by her as she works on maintaining the household.

I suppose this is not unwarranted though.

I am a very poorly child. In contrast to the weathered tan skin I was used to seeing, my colour pallet is a lot more pale and sickly looking, though at least I was still (slightly) brown. My hair is the same black, but take the form of limp tufts, rather than half-curls.

The rest of my features had yet to form, concealed by baby fat. Still, I can say without a hint of narcissism, I am a cute kid. The frailty I seem to naturally exude has roused many a maternal instinct, combined with my young age, family wealth and “ruffleable” hair, I am rather spoiled with attention.

My lack of pulse is easily overlooked in light of this.

A budding reputation as a genius also helps. I think people have just come to expect geniuses to come with their own quirks. Having no heartbeat is a harmless and minor one in the big picture.

“Little lord.” My monologue finished to a conveniently timed, softly spoken voice. “It is time for dinner, the lady has ordered you eat with her tonight.”

I finished a final line with flick of my brush, completing the last chinese character of the word “resurrection”. Looking up, I saw the soft voice belonged to a house servant. She, like everyone it seemed, was quite pretty.

Nodding once in acknowledgement, I began packing away my mini calligraphy set. “And where will mother be dining tonight?” The even softer, quieter, voice was my own. The frailty of it matched my appearance. I could not raise my voice above a certain volume, but I’m proud to say it no longer wavers involuntarily.

“By the east garden little lord.” Came the response as the pretty servant bowed her head.

“Understood.” Nodding once more I waddled over to the woman, unminding of the ink that stained my face and hands. It would not do to deny my mother the joy of cleaning me up after all.

“Let us go.” I faux-commanded. We set off down the corridor, the footsteps of my assigned guard echoed us. Sandwiched between two strangers, people I did not know the names of yet were magic and duty bound to serve my second name, I viciously suppressed a sigh.

It would really not do, to be ungrateful.

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“How goes your magic son?” A deep, baritone voice rumbled. It was the type of voice that surrounds you in raw power, a voice that belonged to one of influence. It was the voice of my father.

I raise an eyebrow. “Well enough.” At five winters old, my voice was just a tad stronger. There was the slightest tilt to my words, adding a smidgen of culture to my squeaks.

My father smiled, directing teeth reflected lasers at my eyes. His teeth, like the rest of him, were all perfectly proportioned and aligned. Looking up from my small height, they seemed like sets of mini tombstones primed to chomp.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

I could easily imagine them stained red with the blood of his enemies.

He chuckled. You could hear panties drop in the distance. “I mean to ask, have there been any bouts of accidental magic of late? The servants have not reported on such events, but you know how we worry.” He affected a look of concern, dark brown mediterranean eyes softened as his brow furrowed.

The emotion was touching.

“Hmph,” I mock huffed in response, “my magic is perfectly under control, thank you very much.” Raising and open hand, my palm faced the bookshelf on the other side of the study. With a practised tense of phantom muscles, I impose my will upon the world.

In my mind, I felt a string attach itself to a book, I could feel the leather in my hand. I visualised it flying towards me at a controlled pace, as if lured in by a line.

The random book fell into my grasp and I brandished it with pride…

This did not happen.

Instead the book teleported.

I blinked at the thing that broke physics to get to my hand. I would run with it.

I turned to father triumphantly. The words ‘I meant to do that’ shining on my face. “See~” I boasted smugly.

He snorted in amusement.

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At six winters old I was gifted a wand.

It was a handsome thing.

One of the many stored within the family armory, according to the case it was sleeping in, the wand once belonged to a most loyal servant of my distant ancestors. The servant laid down his life for his young charges, and for meritorious deed of protecting our lineage, his wand, name and deed were carved into our history.

The wand itself was of beech wood, said to be best suited for the young, wise beyond his or her years according to the Wand-Wood Index. The Index further details the wood perform very weakly for the narrow-minded and intolerant, but when properly matched, a beech wand is capable of subtlety and artistry rarely seen in any other wood, hence its lustrous reputation.

The core was Unicorn hair. A core that generally produces the most consistent magic, and is least subject to fluctuations and blockages. A minor disadvantage the Wand-Core Index mentions is that they do not make the most powerful wands (although the wand wood may compensate) and are heavily affected by the users mentality, meaning that the hair may ‘die’ and need replacing.

Though in the eyes of my mother, a lack of raw power was hardly something to worry over, in fact it was probably a good thing to her. It meant less of a chance to harm myself.

The gentle core paired with the benign wood provided a perfect training wand for me. That the lingering magic of the servant still serves the family even after death was just the cherry on top.

“Thank you mother! Thank you father!” I think it was the most excited I had ever shown myself to be in this life. I beamed up at my parents with honest glee as I held the tool with wonder.

The picturesque pair beamed back with equal intensity, parental pride threatening to overflow.

My fantasy training began in earnest.

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At seven winters old, I had almost fully acclimated to this second life; with all it’s magic, oddities, family and floating screens.

Yet there are still times I am left dumbfounded.

“Son, I think it’s high time you chose your personal servant.” My father casually broached the subject over breakfast.

Quest given: Minion A

… Seriously dad?

...