At three weeks, Lytavis lifted her head for the space of a breath, blue eyes wide and impossibly steady. Zoya had been humming at the window when it happened, a lullaby older than her own memory. She turned just in time to see her daughter push against the blanket and fix those bright eyes on her, as if she already knew her name. Zoya laughed through sudden tears. "Too soon, Little Star," she whispered. "The world will wait."
At two months, she found her laugh. It started as a squeak, then a gurgle, then a full bubbling giggle that rolled out of her until the whole house seemed lighter. Lucien dropped his quill at the sound, ink blotting the margin. Servants paused in their work, exchanging glances. Joy spread like ink across parchment—impossible not to mark. Zoya kissed the tiny dimples at her daughter's cheeks, stunned by the force of such a small, bright sound.
At four months, she reached for her father's quill. Lucien had thought himself safe at his desk, the baby lying warm against his knee while he annotated a passage on ley resonance. A small hand shot out, quicker than he believed possible. Fingers curled around the feather, tugged, and dragged it through wet ink before he could react. The smear across her palm looked like a rune half-formed. Lucien froze, then chuckled under his breath. "Well then. Her first mark in my library." Zoya gasped, ready to scold, but stopped when she saw the inky mark on her daughter's palm. Lucien left the page untouched, blot and all.
At six months, she learned to sit. It happened one morning in the garden, the spring air fragrant with night-blooming flowers. Zoya propped her among the soft grass, expecting her to topple, but Lytavis sat swaying, back straight, blue eyes following the flight of a firefly. Her small hands reached for it, caught only air, and she gave a squeal of delight. Zoya laughed, scooping her close, but whispered to the firefly as it vanished: "Thank you for showing her the sky."
At seven months, she crawled. One heartbeat she rocked on all fours, the next she was off, determined, her small body carrying her across the rug with surprising speed. She ignored toys and baubles, crawling instead toward the low shelf where Lucien kept a stack of carefully ordered scrolls. By the time Zoya caught her, she had unrolled one halfway, babbling cheerfully at the patterns of ink as though she understood them. Lucien only sighed, fighting a smile. "Ariakan legs," Zoya said wryly, but her voice was proud. "Too soon, Little Star," she added softly.
At nine months, she stood. She hauled herself upright by the edge of the carved cedar table, legs wobbling but will unshaken. She turned, blue eyes gleaming, and grinned at her mother as if she had conquered the world. Zoya clapped a hand to her mouth, torn between pride and terror. "Too soon, Little Star," she whispered again, though this time the words trembled with laughter.
At ten months, she spoke. The first word was not mother, nor father, but star. She said it softly, gazing up at the lantern light where flecks of crystal shimmered like a night sky. Lucien's quill stilled in his hand. He wrote the word twice in the margin beside her ink blot. Star. Zoya kissed the crown of her daughter's head, wondering if the name had been waiting inside her all along.
At twelve months, she walked. Two steps, then three, blue eyes bright with fierce delight before she toppled into her mother's arms. Zoya caught her, laughing a laugh edged with tears. Lucien stood behind them, unable to speak, his hands braced against the desk as though holding back the weight of his joy. In the hallway, servants lingered unseen, grinning at the sound.
That night, as the house grew quiet, a breeze stirred the shutters. The leylines beneath Suramar thrummed faintly, as if acknowledging her first steps into the world of walking things.
Notes in the Margin—Lucien Ariakan
She grows faster than the ink can dry beneath my hand. Today she reached for my quill, and I thought of all the words I have copied, measured, preserved—and how her small fingers undid them without fear. She says "star" before she says my name, and perhaps that is fitting. The heavens claim her before I can. Too soon, always too soon, yet I am grateful for every moment she runs ahead of me.