Six months. Half a year in this new world, and finally—finally—I could crawl.
It might seem like a small victory to most, but after months of being confined to a cradle, dependent on others for the simplest movements, this newfound mobility felt like breaking free from prison. The ornate nursery that had once seemed impossibly vast from my stationary perspective now beckoned with the promise of exploration.
I pushed myself up on wobbly arms, testing my newly coordinated limbs. The thick carpet beneath me was plush and warm, woven with intricate patterns that spoke of wealth and status. Everything in this room screamed luxury—from the crystal-embedded walls that provided soft, ambient lighting to the carved wooden furniture that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime.
My first destination was obvious: the full-length mirror positioned near the eastern wall. I crawled toward it with the determination of a general surveying new territory, my small hands and knees working in tandem across the carpet.
When I finally reached the mirror and settled in front of it, what I saw gave me pause.
The baby staring back at me was... unsettling, in a way. Silver hair had begun to grow in earnest, framing a round, cherubic face that could have belonged to any noble infant. But it was the eyes that truly caught my attention. They were red like mother's, but where hers burned with fierce clarity and controlled power, mine were darker—a deep crimson that reminded me uncomfortably of dried blood.
'Fitting, I suppose,' I thought grimly. 'Considering how much blood I've seen spilled.'
Unlike typical babies who would babble or reach for their reflection, I simply observed, cataloging the changes in my appearance and wondering what they might mean. In my previous life, I'd been unremarkable—brown hair, brown eyes, average height. Now I bore the unmistakable features of high nobility, possibly even royalty.
Behind me, I could sense the maids watching with poorly concealed amusement. They were probably waiting for me to do something appropriately infantile—clap at my reflection, perhaps, or make adorable gurgling sounds. Instead, I continued my silent study, much to their confusion.
The contrast between my behavior and my twin sister's was stark. Celia had embraced her role as a baby with enthusiastic dedication. Even now, she lay in our shared cradle, silver hair catching the light as she waved her tiny fists and made the sort of delighted noises that sent the maids into raptures of "how adorable!"
'She's acting exactly as she should,' I reflected, watching her animated expressions in the mirror's reflection. 'A normal, healthy baby without the burden of a previous life's memories.'
Sometimes I envied her that innocence. The ability to exist purely in the moment, to find joy in simple things like colorful toys or gentle lullabies. But I also recognized the advantage my situation provided. Knowledge was power, and I intended to use every scrap of information I gathered to ensure this life went differently than my last.
'This time will be different,' I promised myself, my small hands clenching into fists. 'This time I won't be too weak to protect the people I care about.'
The memory of Sarah's face flashed through my mind—her smile, her laugh, the way she used to tease me about taking everything too seriously. I'd failed her. Failed to come home, failed to keep my promise, failed to be strong enough when it mattered most.
I wouldn't make that mistake again.
The sound of the nursery door opening interrupted my brooding. Mother entered with her characteristic grace, every movement fluid and controlled. Her silver hair seemed to catch and hold the ambient light, creating an almost ethereal effect as she moved. Those crimson eyes swept the room, taking in both Celia and myself with a mixture of warmth and keen observation.
But what drew my attention most was the sword at her waist.
I'd noticed it before, of course, but seeing it now while contemplating my own weakness made its significance more pronounced. This wasn't a ceremonial blade meant for show—this was a weapon that had seen real combat. The way it hung at her side, the unconscious way her hand occasionally drifted toward its hilt, the perfect balance it created with her movements—everything spoke of a master swordswoman.
'She's not just a duchess,' I realized with growing certainty. 'She's a warrior. Possibly one of the strongest in whatever kingdom this is.'
The thought brought both comfort and frustration. Comfort because it meant we were under the protection of someone truly powerful. Frustration because it highlighted my own current helplessness. In my previous life, I'd spent years building strength, only to fall short when it mattered most. Now I was starting over from zero, trapped in an infant's body while the people I was growing to care about faced unknown dangers.
"How are they today?" Mother asked, her voice carrying that subtle note of authority I'd come to associate with her.
"The same as always, Your Grace," replied our primary nanny, a middle-aged woman named Elena who'd proven both competent and genuinely caring. "Though Master Lancelot remains... unusually quiet."
Mother's gaze shifted to me, and I felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing. Those crimson eyes seemed to see through everything, as if she could peer directly into my soul and catalog every secret hidden there.
"And Celia?" she asked, moving toward my sister, who had begun to fuss with the particular intensity that meant feeding time was approaching.
"Perfectly normal, Your Grace. She's been quite vocal about her needs, as usual."
A soft smile touched Mother's lips at that. "It amazes me how different they are," she murmured, lifting Celia with practiced ease. "Born at the same time, raised in the same environment, yet Lancelot is so contemplative while Celia is..."
"Spirited?" Elena suggested diplomatically.
"That's one way to put it."
I watched as Mother began to feed Celia, marveling at the tenderness in her expression. This was a side of her reserved for family—gentle, nurturing, a stark contrast to the controlled power I sensed lurking beneath the surface. It made me wonder about my father, about what had happened to him. The careful way people avoided mentioning him, the slight tension that crept into Mother's posture whenever conversations touched on family history—it all pointed to loss.
'He's gone,' I concluded, watching a flicker of old pain cross her features. 'And she's carrying this burden alone.'
The realization hit me like a physical blow. This woman—this powerful, capable warrior—was raising us by herself while shouldering whatever responsibilities came with her noble title. The loneliness of it, the weight of constant vigilance and decision-making, must be crushing.
An unfamiliar emotion swelled in my chest. Not just gratitude for her care, but a fierce protectiveness that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than conscious thought. She'd given me life, given me safety, given me love without reservation. The least I could do was find a way to support her in return.
'I may be small now,' I thought, determination crystallizing into resolve, 'but I won't stay that way forever. This time, I'll become strong enough to protect my family. Strong enough to ensure Mother never has to face her burdens alone.'
The word came to me suddenly, unbidden but absolutely right. I'd been thinking it for months without quite realizing it, but now seemed like the perfect moment to give voice to what I felt.
"Mama," I said clearly, the syllables carrying more weight than such a simple word should.
The effect was instantaneous. Mother's movements stilled, her crimson eyes widening as she turned toward me. The tenderness in her expression deepened, becoming something almost fragile in its intensity.
"His first word," Elena breathed, her own eyes misty with emotion. "At only six months... Your Grace, he's remarkable."
Mother handed Celia gently to the nanny before crossing to where I sat by the mirror. She knelt down and lifted me into her arms, bringing my forehead to rest against hers. This close, I could see the subtle lines around her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and heavy burdens.
"My little genius," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for saying that."
Then something unexpected happened—a single tear slipped down her cheek, catching the crystal light before falling away. The sight hit me like a punch to the gut, sending an ache through my chest that had nothing to do with physical pain.
'She's been holding so much in,' I realized. 'Acting strong for everyone else, never allowing herself to show weakness.'
But here, in this moment, some of that careful control had cracked. The simple act of hearing her child call her 'Mama' had touched something deep and vulnerable within her. It made me want to be better, to grow faster, to find some way to shoulder part of her burden.
'I don't know what happened to my father,' I thought, my own eyes growing misty, 'but I know she shouldn't have to carry everything alone. I'll become someone she can rely on. Someone strong enough to protect her and Celia both.'
The promise settled into my bones like an oath carved in stone. This wasn't just about personal strength anymore—it was about family. About ensuring that the people I cared about never had to suffer because I was too weak to help them.
Mother held me close as she fed me, her tears dried but the softness in her expression remaining. Her warmth enveloped me like a cocoon, and I found myself relaxing despite the weight of my internal vows. There would be time for training, for growing stronger, for learning about this world and its dangers.
For now, it was enough to be held by someone who loved me unconditionally.
As drowsiness crept in, I made one final promise to myself: 'This time will be different. This time, I won't lose the people I love.'
The years that followed passed in a blur of growth and learning. Days turned to months, months to years, and before I knew it, Celia and I had reached our sixth birthday—a milestone that would mark the beginning of our formal education and my first real steps toward fulfilling the promises I'd made in that crystal-lit nursery.