Magic Forbidden, Yet a Protector Rises.
As he was throwing fireballs, I was in absolute shock.
But my mother didn't seem shocked at all.
She simply stood there, watching him with calm acceptance, as if her husband casually throwing balls of flame into the sky was the most natural thing in the world. Like he had done this a thousand times before—which, given her reaction, he probably had.
Her posture was relaxed. Her breathing steady. The only thing that betrayed her concern was the tightness around her eyes and the way her free hand (the one not holding me) was clenched into a small fist at her side.
Then, raising her voice loud enough to carry across the courtyard, she called out: "Dear! What are you doing there?"
I stared at her in disbelief. He was literally incinerating the morning air, and she was asking him about it like he'd stepped outside to water the plants.
I was shocked internally because he was just throwing fireballs at the sky and she is asking as if nothing had happened! Maybe I'll really go insane, I thought.
He stopped mid-throw, the half-formed flame in his palm dissipating into smoke. Turning to face us, his expression shifted from intense concentration to something warm and domestic in the span of a heartbeat.
"Oh Kamla, it's you and our cutie too. Wait, I'm coming," he called out with a loud voice, immediately abandoning his fireball practice and starting to run toward us.
The shift was so complete, so practiced, that I almost believed I'd imagined the fire. Almost.
"Sorry Kamla, for worrying you," Raghav said as he reached us, his breathing heavy but controlled. He reached out to gently touch my forehead with one finger, as if checking that I was unharmed by the heat radiating from his body.
My mother's expression remained calm, but I could see her doing a quick mental inventory—checking me over, assessing whether any harm had come.
"Yeah but what were you doing there?" she asked, her voice carrying an edge now. The worry had crystallized into something sharper. "You know, right? That Albionians have prohibited us people from using magic. If anyone sees—"
Wait, wait, wait, what!? Magic!? Just what the hell are you talking about!? And who are Albionians!? I thought while my infant mind threatened to short-circuit completely.
"Please forgive me, Kamla. Actually, some bandits were coming to attack us," Raghav said, his tone becoming more serious, more protective. "I sensed them approaching from the north. They had weapons, bad intentions. So I had no choice but to protect you both. I needed to scare them away before they got close."
Bandits. Of course. Because apparently, on day two of my new life, armed criminals were already on my doorstep. Excellent. Just excellent.
My mother's eyes narrowed as she studied his face, searching for the truth in his expression. "Hmm… then I'll forgive you," she said after a long moment, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "But you didn't show your face, did you? You didn't let them see you clearly?"
"Yeah, of course, darling. I'm not an idiot," he said while laughing and feeling proud of himself. "I stayed far enough away. They only saw the fire and heard the roar. And I also hide my face with this cloth. Nothing more. By the time they realized what was happening, they were already running. Fear is a better weapon than any blade, you know?"
He said it with a casual confidence that made me realize he'd done this before. Many times.
"Thank you for saving us, my handsome. I love you," she said, and before I could process what was happening, she leaned forward and hugged him, her free arm wrapping around his neck while keeping me secure with the other.
And here I am feeling shocked and annoyed at the same time when they suddenly get all lovey-dovey. So I start crying—not from fear or pain, but out of sheer frustration at the situation and these two acting like nothing unusual had just happened.
Both of them immediately shifted their attention to me, their faces flooding with concern.
"Oh no, little Shaurya, don't cry, don't cry," my father cooed, reaching out to gently stroke my head. "Papa is here. Everything is safe now."
"Hush, baby, hush," my mother whispered, adjusting her hold and beginning to rock me gently side to side. "Mama's here too. You're safe. You're home."
Their combined reassurance actually did calm me somewhat. There was something genuine in their voices—a love that transcended the chaos, the danger, the impossible magic that seemed to be just another Tuesday for them.
After a few minutes of gentle rocking and soothing words, I managed to quiet my wails into occasional sniffles and whimpers.
That's when my mother's eyes suddenly widened, and I felt her entire body go tense.
"I forgot to ask but what happened to our main entrance?" she asked, her gaze drifting toward the gate we'd passed through this morning.
Raghav's expression went blank for a moment. Then he turned slowly, following her line of sight toward the courtyard.
"What?... Oh! About that," he said, confusion flickering across his face before realization hit him like a physical blow. He saw the main entrance—or rather, what was left of it—and his shoulders slumped. "Oh..Um, sorry honey but one of my fireballs came here mistakenly while I was fighting those guys. I was trying to keep the bandits at a distance, and one blast went a bit wider than I intended."
The gate was scorched black, with deep gouges where the wood had been burned away. It looked like it had survived an explosion—which, technically, it had. But also it hadn't.
"Oh I see, so that's what happened here," my mother said simply, and then, without another word, she turned and started walking back inside the house, her movements deliberately calm and measured.
Raghav tilted his head in confusion, genuinely puzzled by her sudden departure. "You aren't mad, are you Kamla?" he called after her, his voice taking on the tone of a man who suddenly realized he might have made a serious tactical error.
She didn't reply. She simply kept walking.
Raghav stood there, frozen in the courtyard, his eyes following her retreating figure with the expression of a man who had just watched his peaceful morning explode in more ways than one.
When we came into the bedroom, Kamla lay me down on the bed with exaggerated gentleness—the kind of careful placement that usually preceded something terrible. And as she lowered me onto the soft cotton, she did something that made my blood run cold.
She smiled.
It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes. A smile full of promises and threats wrapped into one terrifying expression. A smile that said: Your father is about to experience something he will not enjoy.
I understood that something interesting is going to happen, I thought with a mixture of dread and dark amusement.
After laying me down on the bed, she moved through the house with quiet purpose, searching for something specific. Her movements were swift, efficient, the movements of a woman on a mission.
And then she found it—a broom.
Broom!? Why? I thought in confusion, genuinely puzzled about what she could possibly do with that. But then understanding dawned, and I almost laughed at the realization. Raghav ke lag gaye—Raghav is absolutely, completely in trouble.
I had seen enough of their dynamics over the past few days to understand that despite her calm exterior, my mother was deeply connected to this house, to its history, to its meaning. Her parents had given her this home, and the idea that Raghav could have destroyed it—even accidentally—was not something she could overlook.
Magic or no magic, certain laws still applied in this household.
And the law was: Don't destroy the house my parents gave me.
My mother crept through the corridors with the broom held behind her back, a smile plastered on her face that was somehow more menacing than any frown could have been. She was a hunter stalking her prey, and her prey had no idea what was coming.
When she found Raghav in the main room, still muttering to himself about the gate and wondering if he could fix it with magic without getting caught, she began her approach.
It was almost artistic, the way she moved. Like a dancer performing a choreographed piece.
And then, without warning, she began to run.
Raghav looked up, confused at first by her sudden movement. His eyes were still processing what he was seeing when they landed on the broom in her raised hand.
His face went pale.
"Oh no," he whispered. "Oh no, no, no."
"OH YES," she shouted, her voice filling the small house with the fury of a woman defending her honor and her home.
And then Raghav also started running.
"Honeyy! Whyy?! I'm sorry for that, I'll fix it somehow, I promise!" he called out desperately as he bolted through the rooms, trying to put furniture and doorways between himself and the advancing broom. "I can rebuild it! I can make it better than before! I can—"
"Damn you! Do you even know with how much love my parents gave you this house?! And you were about to destroy it!! You are dead today once I catch you!" she shouted, her voice mixing fury with something that might have been laughter. This wasn't truly angry—it was the kind of indignation that came from a place of deep affection and exasperation.
"Sorryy, darling!" Raghav yelled back, ducking under a low-hanging rope and sliding across the floor to avoid her first swing of the broom.
The broom whooshed through the air where he'd been standing just moments before, missing him by inches.
And just like that, their drama unfolded across the household. He ran, she pursued. He dodged, she swung. All the while, they kept up a running commentary of apologies and threats and accusations, their voices carrying through whole house.
"Ouch! Please forgive me, honey!" came his pained cry from the other room as she finally connected with a glancing blow.
I lay there on the bed, listening to the chaos unfold, and despite everything—despite the magic, despite the mysterious collector, despite the impossible situation I found myself in—I couldn't help but smile slightly.
This was insane. Completely, utterly insane.
But it was also real in a way that nothing in my previous life had ever been.
After a while, I ignored the sounds of their ongoing "conflict" (which I was increasingly convinced was more theater than genuine anger) and turned my attention inward.
There were so many things going on inside my head that it felt like my skull might burst from the sheer volume of questions and confusion.
Where did I get born and why in this unusual world? I thought, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams. I wanted to ask the goddess, 'why did you send me here? If you wanted to do so, you could have made me born in the same world but in the past'.
But the goddess wasn't here to answer. She was gone, having placed this fragment inside me and then disappeared back into whatever realm she inhabited.
Damn, I don't know what's going to happen to me now.
I had been a politician in my previous life—someone who dealt in strategy, in understanding people, in making sense of complex systems. But none of that knowledge prepared me for this.
The Albionians prohibited magic. My father could throw fireballs. My mother was unnaturally strong and calm. This world is unusually different from my previous world. I apparently had some kind of power bound to my soul by a goddess. And somewhere out there, a supernatural being who could erase memories was watching me with mysterious interest.
The pieces didn't fit together. Or rather, they fit together in a way that suggested a much larger puzzle that I couldn't yet see.
One step at a time, I told myself, borrowing wisdom from my previous life. You survived assassination in your last life. You can survive confusion in this one.
The sounds of my parents' theatrical conflict continued in the background, punctuated by mock cries of pain and exaggerated apologies.
At least, I thought, they love each other.
And somehow, in the midst of all this chaos and mystery, that felt like enough to hold onto.
For now.
It's as though I've stepped directly into a fantasy world. Maybe many interesting things are going to happen in this new world. Let's see what happens.
In my previous life, I had chased power through politics, through speeches and promises and backroom deals. I had wanted to change my country, to make it great again. And it had cost me everything—my ideals crushed, my trust shattered, my body bleeding out in a forest.
But here? Here, there was actual magic. Not the metaphorical kind. The real, tangible, fire-throwing kind. And who knows what wonders this new world unfolds.
The goddess had said I carried a fragment of something. A power I didn't yet understand. The Collector had looked at me like I was important. But I understood one thing.
Whatever was happening, whatever this world was, I was at the center of it.
And for the first time since waking up in this infant's body, that didn't feel like a curse.
It felt like an opportunity. And even if it isn't, I'll make it one.
To be continued...