The days blurred into a mix of sleep and brief moments of awareness. When I was awake, the sights and sounds around me seemed surreal. Faces leaned over me, speaking in a soft, soothing language. They were strangers, yet there was a warmth to them that calmed my fears.
As weeks passed, I began to understand my new surroundings better. I was in a small, cosy house with wooden beams and stone walls. The air smelled fresh, a mix of herbs and earth. The woman who held me most often had kind eyes and a gentle touch. She would sing to me in the evenings, her voice a lullaby that soothed my troubled heart.
As I grew more aware of my surroundings, I noticed the simplicity of the world around me. There were no humming machines or glowing screens, no buzzing of electronics. Instead, there was a peaceful quiet, punctuated by the sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, and the occasional lowing of cows in the distance. This world was slower, more deliberate, and it felt like a balm to my soul.
The house was modest but full of charm. The wooden beams overhead gave it a rustic feel, and the stone walls held a refreshing coolness. The furnishings were simple—handmade wooden chairs and tables, shelves lined with clay pots and woven baskets. Everything had a purpose, everything had a place. There was a sense of order and tranquillity that I found comforting.
This little family had enough to get by and a little more to spare. The woman, whom I now thought of as my new mother, would often cook hearty stews over the fireplace, the aroma of herbs and spices filling the air. The man, my new father, worked with his hands, crafting tools and carving utensils in front of the fire at night and tending to the small plot of land outside in the early mornings before leaving for his workshop. They worked hard, and their lives were simple, but there was contentment in their every action that spoke of deep-seated happiness.
I watched them go about their daily routines, marvelling at their resilience and resourcefulness. My new mother would gather herbs from the garden, carefully selecting each plant with practised hands. She would recite their names to me, her voice full of patience and warmth. My new father would spend hours in his workshop, the rhythmic sound of his hammer striking metal becoming a familiar and soothing backdrop to my days.
Despite the lack of modern conveniences, there was a richness to life here that I hadn't experienced before. The simplicity of it all made each moment feel more meaningful, each interaction more genuine.
In this medieval setting, I found a new kind of beauty. It was a world where people lived in harmony with nature, where the sun and moon dictated the rhythm of life. It was a world that moved at a slower pace, giving me the time to reflect, to heal, and to grow.
As I lay on my mother's lap one night, listening to the gentle crackling of the fire and the whispers of the wind outside, I felt a sense of peace that I hadn't known in my previous life. This world, despite its simplicity, held a magic of its own—a magic that I was beginning to understand and appreciate.
Then I noticed something peculiar. When my mother started to sing to me, there was something that flowed with her voice, like an ethereal afterimage of pastel colours that would draw me in, calm my mind, and put me to sleep almost instantly. At first, I thought this was the way all babies perceived the world. But that assumption was proven false one evening when my sorrow and melancholy overtook my emotions, and I could not stop crying. I was in my father's arms, and he tried singing to me. There was no flow of lights, and his voice had the opposite of a calming effect. I saw my mother walking in, smiling at him, and she picked me up. She started humming, and instantly the effects were there. She then waved her hand over me, and a soft glow emanated from her fingers. My father was by her side, looking worried, but she smiled at him reassuringly and sat down with me while she sang me to oblivion. This was real magic. I had been reborn into a world where magic was real. The realization filled me with a mix of awe and trepidation.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
As the months rolled by, my strength grew, and I could finally move my limbs with more control. The language, too, began to make more sense. Words that once seemed like gibberish now had some meaning. I learned that the kind woman and the sturdy man who often carried me in his arms called me Aerorae. It was the one word both of them used most often and with love.
The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. I watched the seasons slowly shift, from the cold, biting winds of winter to the gentle warmth of spring, and then to the vibrant heat of summer. As the world around me changed, so did my understanding of this new life. My new mother and father showered me with love and care, and I felt a sense of belonging. The pain of my past life still lingered, but it was softened by the warmth of my new family.
I discovered that magic was an integral part of daily life here. People used it for everything from healing wounds to lighting fires. These acts were always accompanied by those ethereal lights, sometimes emanating from the words spoken or items used. My new mother, with her gentle touch, was particularly skilled in healing magic. She would often take me with her to tend to the sick and injured in our village, and I watched in awe as she worked her miracles, destroying the notions of medicine with nothing but a few words, a soft smile, and a gentle touch. I couldn't stop myself from imagining how different my previous life would have been if my illness could have been removed with a mere word and touch.
My new father, on the other hand, was a blacksmith, or so I thought. I would often hear metal striking metal from nearby, and he would return home drenched in sweat and dusted with soot. He would often lay his strong hands on the table before lunch, and my mother would lightly caress his fingers with a healing touch. I would watch the small scrapes and wounds disappear.
As I grew older, I began to see signs of magic in everything around me. Small wisps of light drifted aimlessly through the air, almost imperceptible and invisible. I only noticed them because I had nothing to do in my crib and instead tried to commit every detail of the room to memory. It was there that I saw the first wisp.
"Skill obtained: [Sense Mana]"
There weren’t any words that flashed in front of me like a notification on a phone or game, but rather a realization in my mind that relayed a message my soul knew was the absolute truth. I could also see the wisps more clearly now, floating all around me. One day I tried to reach out to touch one, but it was just out of my reach. I looked at it longingly, wishing it would ever so slightly drift down so that I could touch it.
Move closer, please. I thought in desperation. Move!
And then it suddenly moved. First just a jerking motion and then it flew like an arrow to the center of my chest, where it lodged itself firmly.
"Skill obtained: [Mana Manipulation]"
Okay, that was weird. What just happened? I immediately started looking for other wisps of colour, and this time they moved a lot easier to my chest. I could feel them slowly accumulating there in a messy bundle.
I’m not sure what is happening, but this feels right, and so I continued pulling the multicoloured wisps towards myself until I finally succumbed to sleep.