Chapter 5 - Caelum Morgan 2
The room I'm in — hers, ours, whatever it is — is large. Warmer than a castle, colder than a house. The walls are stone, but covered in fine tapestries: scenes of winged beasts, crowned figures, and forests of silver trees. Not quite medieval, but certainly pre-industrial.
No electricity. Candles and lanterns only.
There's a bookshelf — far too high for me to reach in this lifetime — but I can make out the titles. Not the words, yet. The shapes of the glyphs. Each book spine is painted or embossed with curved symbols unlike any written system I've seen.
Three servants seem to rotate regularly.
The oldest is called Mira. Gray-haired, quiet, careful. Her hands are always slightly stained with herbal residue, and she often checks Sylvia's pulse or mixes drinks in glass vials. A healer, perhaps.
The second is a girl — no older than twenty — named Elira. She's clumsy but cheerful. I've heard her hum while folding blankets, though she falls silent the moment Sylvia enters the room.
The third is a man. Rarely speaks. Tall. Scar across his chin. Always stands with his back to the door when Sylvia is feeding me. Never turns around.
Bodyguard?
I suspect Sylvia is watched more than she lets on.
And that means I am, too.
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At night, when the hearth dims and Sylvia sleeps — though lightly — I'm left alone with my thoughts. The ceiling above has carved wooden beams shaped like vines. I've memorized their twists and angles. I've learned how long it takes for the moonlight to creep across the tiles.
I've cried less over the days. Not because I've gained control — no, my body still betrays me — but because I've learned what triggers the wailing. Hunger. Cold. Sudden noise. The feeling of helplessness.
I hate that last one most.
In my old life, I was known for control. For never showing fear. For keeping my voice steady even in the face of monsters. Not the kind in stories — the kind that wear human skin.
Now, I am the very image of vulnerability.
It's a cruel irony.
And yet, I am alive.
More than that: I have time.
Time to think. Time to learn. Time to grow.
I will not waste it.
Names mean everything. Or at least, they used to.
In my old life, a name was a key, a weapon, a shield. It was the identity people wielded to shape their world — their reputation, their power, their legacy. And for me, Matthew Kelenski was a name feared and respected. Not just for what I had done but for the mind behind it.
Now, here I lie in the soft folds of linen, barely able to lift my head, my limbs flailing helplessly. But the name I carry — the one I own — is Caelum Morgan.
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It was a gradual process.
At first, the sounds were a flood — disjointed syllables drifting through the thick, scented air of the Morgan household. Sylvia's voice, low and soft but filled with quiet urgency. The sharp footsteps of servants. The murmur of voices beyond the doors. And the strange, ancient language that felt like a riddle wrapped in silk.
I spent hours, days, piecing these sounds into patterns. A consonant here repeated when Sylvia approached. A vowel there drawn out whenever she was angry or anxious. The language felt alive — a living puzzle.
Caelum — that name came first. The healer, the white-robed man who spoke it like a command and a question all at once.
It stuck.
I held it in my mind like a talisman, a link between the world I left behind and the one I now inhabited.
Morgan came next. The name whispered on the servants' lips, carried on the heavy curtains, etched into the delicate silver hawk circling a flame.
I made it my own.
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Learning to speak was another matter.
My body betrayed me every time. My lungs were weak, my mouth uncoordinated. But I practiced. Every day. Every restless moment.
Sylvia sometimes hummed lullabies, her words soft and soothing. I mimicked the shapes of her mouth, trying to match the sounds. My first attempts were nothing more than coos and cries — but in those moments, I was building the foundation.
Names. Words. The tools I'd need to break this silence.
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Slowly, I began to recognize words.
"Caelum" — my name.
"Mor'an" — the respectful title Sylvia earned.
"Mira" — the healer.
"Elira" — the cheerful girl who tried to make me laugh.
Even the sharp commands the guard gave were etched into my mind — warnings I did not yet understand but felt the weight of.
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It was strange — this dual existence.
Physically, I was a helpless infant. Mentally, I was a storm of thoughts, memories, and calculations.
I learned to observe the subtle expressions on Sylvia's face — the flicker of worry when she thought I couldn't see. The tension in her shoulders when visitors came. The rare, fleeting moments of tenderness reserved only for me.
And in this, I found purpose.
I was not just a child.
I was Caelum Morgan. And I would survive.
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