"The secret of getting ahead is getting started," - Mark Twain

  The next few months of the boy's life were both easy and excruciating. Never had he imagined having to go through infancy again. Never had he thought he would have to learn to walk and talk again. He constantly berated himself for his clumsiness, both in speech and in motor control.

  It was frustrating being a baby. He found that he was unable to do anything for a long time. Equally strange was being breastfed with the mind of an adult. At least now he knew what it tasted like, an idle curiosity of men everywhere. It wasn’t like he had much of a choice, not unless he learned to speak and said “Hey mother, father, so actually I have the memories of a twenty-five-year-old from a whole different world!” Which he was sure would get him expelled from his home if not locked up in a looney bin.

  So, he bided his time. He put in every effort to learn to speak first. By four months old, he was saying Mama and Papa pretty easily, much to his parents' chagrin. They brought him along to playdates occasionally with some of the other village kids. They were mostly older than him, by a year or two on average. There were a few hundred within a couple of years of him, but they tended to be kept together. Those around his age were still brought together to play, but the age differences were only months.

  It was odd to play with them. Everything about reliving his childhood was odd. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but he often found himself playing alone during playdates. Most of the time, instead of playing with toys like the others, he worked on developing his motor control skills. His body didn’t act the way he wanted it to. The muscle structure of an adult, the way the body moves, was different compared to the body he was in now.

  Today, for instance, he was using a stick to write in the dirt. He may not have understood the language of this country yet, but he could still write in English. And so, with the other babies being loosely watched over by a dozen or so mothers who were washing their laundry in the river, he sat about fifteen feet away from the rest of the kids and scrawled words that nobody would understand into the dirt.

  He could tell he was making a mess of himself; soil was coating his clothes. Speaking of clothes, he had been worried that the towels set the standard for cloth in this world. While that wasn’t necessarily untrue, the clothes he wore now were significantly softer and more comfortable. They breathed pretty well too, which was important considering it had just turned from spring to summer. At least, that's what he thought based on the state of the trees.

  When he had first seen them, they were covered in blooming flowers. The forest that he could see from his home was radiant. Flowers of different shades grew in patches of trees. It was shocking to see pink flowers growing beside blue ones, orange beside purple. Especially since, at least from the distance of his parents' outdoor garden, they seemed to be the same species of trees.

  Well, now the flowers had finished blooming and had been replaced with vibrant green leaves. Large leaves for large trees. Summer was in full bore, the sun’s - for there were two - beating down on the world. It wasn’t overly hot just yet, being mid-morning still, but the boy knew it would be sweltering in a few hours.

  He grumbled to himself as the sun pounded on his clothed back, the sound of the other babies rolling around the grass and the chatting of the mothers only a dozen feet away. The river burbled and splashed around them. Birds chirped around them even this deep into the town. The sounds were comforting despite his frustrations.

  His tongue was sticking out as he focused on his task. He wasn’t writing anything in particular; he was just trying to get better at moving at this point. He just wrote whatever came to mind. Sometimes it was complaints about his new body, curses sent upward to the god who called himself Janus, the Roman god of change. Other times it was commentary on the beauty and simplicity of life in this world, what he had seen of it in these short four months.

  As it stood, he still had to hold the stick less like a pencil and more like, well, more like a stick. He held it in a reverse grip and jabbed it into the decently hard dirt as he scraped out letters. Eyes were on him from some of the other children, and a couple of the moms had their eyes turned toward him. They tended to take turns with their washings, using a washboard, homemade soap, and some intense physical labor. There was always someone watching over the kids.

  The boy understood why they needed to be supervised. It wasn’t like the parents would leave their infants or toddlers at home alone all day. Instead, he got to go with his mother pretty much everywhere she went. His father seemed to work long shifts, probably as a guard. The boy wasn’t sure. His mother mostly spent time in her garden, with the other ladies by the river to do some cleaning and socializing, and in a musty building full of fabric. Two other women worked there too, both a bit older than his mom. It seemed they were all tailors, and it was interesting to watch them speed through new clothes.

  It was evident there was some sort of human enhancement because people should not be able to use a loom that fast, nor should they be able to stitch together a new garment in less than a few hours. The damned sorcerers moved so quickly that the boy couldn’t keep up with his eyes. Their hands were a constant blur even as they chatted and conversed. It made the boy all the more excited to grow up, seeing how magic could help in such mundane ways.

  With a grunt of effort, he stabbed his stick into the ground and left it there. Once it was secure, he leaned forward and used his palms to wipe the words out of the dirt, giving him a fresh canvas. The words ‘I want a juicy steak’ that he had spent several minutes writing vanished, the dirt that formed them partially clinging to his hands.

  “Oh nooo! Lios! You’re so -” The boy's mother exclaimed and stood up by the river, turning to face her son. He didn’t understand the other words yet, but figured ‘dirty’ was ?the next word in the sentence. She did say something else, but he stopped listening to sound out the word? ‘dirty’ in his head.

  He looked sheepishly over at her as she strode in his direction. Letting out a soft giggle to appease her, he started to crawl in her direction. Without hesitation, with no concern over him dirtying her long green dress, she scooped him up and continued to talk to him. He picked up some words, particularly his name, Lios. Well, Lios was the short version. His full name was Alexilios, and he was fairly certain already that he had no surname. Despite her lack of concern for her clothes, he avoided touching her with dirt-caked hands as she brought him to the riverbank.

  A few of the other mothers giggled with him as he was gently placed in the frigid water. It wasn’t completely icy, and in fact it felt nice, but it felt cold after having spent so much time in the sun. His mother placed him at the edge, so only his hands would enter the water. She wrapped her own hands over his and helped him to remove the dirt. She rubbed his palms with a sliver of soap before dunking them back in and making him rinse the dirt away.

  Once they were clean, aside from some soil beneath his nails, she picked him up in one arm and gathered their laundry in a basket that she lifted with her other hand. “Fanks, Mama.” He said just loud enough for the other moms to hear. He had already been speaking a little the past few days, but hadn’t done it in front of others yet.

  As expected, the other moms seemed to gush a bit. The boy's mother lifted her chin, and her cheeks turned a little pink from pride. She was practically beaming as she made her goodbyes and started walking us back home. She seemed to work only every other day; the other days were spent at home tending the garden or cleaning. She, of course, found time to relax as well, even while watching Lios.

  The boy grew quickly, if not in size, in ability. He learned more words every day from both context clues and his parents, feeding his growing curiosity. When their eyes weren’t trained on him, and sometimes when they were, he practiced his motor skills. He wanted more than anything at this time to be able to walk and run, to be able to explore, but his body wasn’t made for that yet. With clumsy limbs that were constantly growing faster than he could get used to, he practiced taking steps whenever he got the chance.

  Summer was just transitioning to fall, the leaves not yet changing color, and the air was beginning to chill. It was a celebration of thanks to Ferune, the goddess of nature, for giving the people of Arborton a summer free of strife or hardship.

  Lios and his parents, whose names he learned were Ezekiel and Elaine, were standing before a stage where a traveling storyteller spun a tale with words and miming. Lios was sitting on his father's shoulders listening intently as the grizzled man told his story.

  The story had been going on for a little while already, and his mother had stepped away to get them more snacks as it was wrapping up. So far as Lios could understand, the story was of the founding of Jorial, the country he lived in. He didn’t really know much about his new world, but at one point his mother had taken him to the library and showed him a map, told him the names of all the countries bordering theirs.

  From the sound of it, the early days of this country were not easy. The first king, whom the story was about, had to fight corrupt nobles in order to unite the various warring sections of what was now Jorial.

  Lios wasn’t quite to the point of understanding everything, but he picked up more words than not at this point. Mentally, he started to make a list of words he didn’t recognize to ask his parents about later. In one of his hands was a stick of candied fruit that had already had a couple of bites taken out of it. It was a fruit similar to a banana with some sort of sugary crust coating it. Of course, despite his best attempts, that meant there were bits of sticky sugar stuck to his face at the sides of his mouth.

  “Arazol the Brave, he stood in a field with fallen soldiers. He didn’t give up, though; he didn't retreat. No, he couldn’t. For there were yet things the king must do. With a hammer raised high, he jumped into the field of his fallen allies, the grave of his people. His hammer flew, crushing skulls and shattering chests, viscera and blood splattered everywhere. His sadness and anger clear in each strike, the king fought for his people. He fought a losing fight, hoping against hope that his allies would bring reinforcements. His own army had all at this point perished, but the king knew he was the last bastion for Port Airos against the clans of Terraan.” The bard mimicked a battle, acting as though he were this king wielding an illusory hammer of golden light. He was also adorned with illusory armor, a full set of plate armor that would not move the way he was moving if it were real.

  Around him, illusory humans approached and met their end as arrows fell from the sky, all missing the hero by a hair's breadth. The bard was good at what he did; the illusions moved seamlessly during his act. Lios spent a little while trying to figure out if he had a helper while still listening to the story of the king.

  “But of course King Arazol Jorial was a very smart man! And well loved by the people. In the midst of his conflict, arrows began to rain upon the Terraanean soldiers. Their cries of surprise shifted to the sound of terror. From within the walls of Port Airos, screams could be heard. The elves had arrived in force. All the way from Arwin to the south. As music began to ring in the king's ears, he drew in the last of his energy and willpower, and he continued to fight.

  “Together with the elves of the south, the King pushed back the Terraanean clans folk. They set to retreat to the north where they had left their warships, but another friend to the king made their appearance. The dwarves of the north had come from Marthis and blew their horns, creating a symphony of screams and hope. The Terraaneans had nowhere left to run. Quickly their lights were dimmed, and the people of Jorial were left safe. The king welcomed his friends from the north and the south to a banquet ?celebrating his kingdom's survival with them. To this day, the friendships forged by our first king remain, even now they are our friends. They say that the king held the foreign army back by himself for ten hours; some say that it was longer still.”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  The illusions faded from a battle to the image of a long table with short mortals in plate and chain armor, humans, and tall folk with pointed ears adorned in armor reminiscent of a forest. Some of the words started to click into place for Lios. Excitement warmed his chest as he gazed upon what were clearly dwarves and elves for the very first time. Arborton, he knew, was a largely human settlement. In fact, ?until now, as he had only seen humans, he had assumed the world was made up entirely of his kind. It was a pleasant surprise to see that this wasn’t the case.

  The story had been interesting, but the magic was what seemed to excite Lios more than anything. It was amazing. Watching the bard weave a tale with not just words but illusions helped to cement Lios’s dreams into reality. He still wasn’t sure if all the things he wanted to learn would work together, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try it.

  Even as he sat upon his father's shoulders, he attempted to feel the mana. He closed his eyes and mentally reached out, hoping to feel something. Perhaps it was due to his age, or perhaps he wasn’t qualified, but he felt nothing. He tried to remember what the illusionist had done, if he had done anything to activate the magic. He couldn’t recall anything in particular.

  “Papa, how did that man make those... Um..” Lios stumbled for the right words; he hadn’t learned the word for magic nor illusions in the local language just yet.

  “Those illusions?” His father replied slowly. The two of them rejoined Lios’s mother, who had left to purchase some treats for the family. “He used magic aided by the Overseer.”

  “What's the... What's the Overseer?” Lios played with the word on his tongue. “Is it a... a god?” It was difficult to find the correct words, more difficult still to pronounce them properly. After all, the boy had only been speaking this language for a few months, but he picked up the language quickly. His understanding of languages from his past life certainly helped.

  “Oh, oh no, it isn’t a god.” Ezekiel set his son down on a bench off to the side so they could enjoy the sweet and savory food Elaine had brought over. It was candied meat, reminding Lios of candied bacon or burnt ends. It was at this point he realized he had finished off his other treat during the show.

  The boy took a bite of it while continuing to pay attention to his father. The festival food was rich and hearty, and absolutely delicious. It also had the benefit of being soft enough for his small mouth, with the pieces of meat being small enough that he had no issues eating it. If I’m not careful, I could eat dozens of these... It tasted like burnt ends made with a honey barbecue glaze that had been perfectly caramelized over a fire.

  “The Overseer is not quite a god. It’s the... being that allows us to grow so strong. How to explain... When you turn ten, the Overseer will begin helping you by guiding you and allowing you to better absorb essence.”

  “Zeke, what are you teaching our son?” Elaine asked from beside Lios. He was sandwiched between his parents. “Lios, there will be plenty of time to learn about the Overseer and its benefits; for now, let’s enjoy the festival.”

  “Mama, I want to do magic too!” Lios used the word his father used only moments before for the first time, sounding it out.

  “You’ll have plenty of time for that!” She said sternly before getting up and starting to walk away. “Come on, boys, there's more to see!”

  “I’ll teach you all about magic later, but for now your mother is right!” Ezekiel grinned and lifted his son up into his arms, knowing the boy couldn’t just make his own way.

  It was still daytime, though the second sun was sinking slowly. Here in Jorial, they typically got around eighteen hours of sunlight from dawn till dusk each day. At least, that was Lios’s estimate after living through a spring and now a summer. It had taken the boy some time to get used to seeing two balls of fire in the sky, but now it was commonplace, he was used to it.

  Despite the light of the sun still being present, Lios saw some folks going around and lighting the lanterns on the sides of the streets. As they were passing one person, he saw a flame spark from nothing from the man's fingertips, using it to light the wick of the lantern. His eyes followed every motion of the man's hand, but he realized there was no incantation, no effort. The flame just sprang out of nowhere.

  He was just as enamored by it as he was with the colorful illusions. Once he had seen it, he kept his eyes out for other small magics going on around them, his head whirring with possibilities. He hadn’t changed his desired path yet; he still wanted to take on both the sword and magic, both smithing and enchanting, but at the sight of magic he considered different options. Throwing fireballs and lightning bolts seemed like the coolest thing ever. Who needed a sword when they held infinite power at their fingertips?

  He watched the people around them as his parents steadily took him around the festival. There were booths for games, merchants, and food. There were a few stages where folks performed. He saw a group of dancers wearing flowing clothes who used magic to enhance what would otherwise remind him of a Cirque du Soleil show. As it was, they were better. Tufts of flame and balls of water popped into existence and followed the dancers. They seemed to be fighting each other, but the fire harmed none of them.

  He wasn’t the only child in the crowd, though most of them were older. He also wasn’t the only one following the magic. The dancers moved with a grace that astounded him. Their movements were seamless to the boy's eyes, as though every single one were as natural as breathing for the performers. His father took him to a bench near the front of the stage, where they both and his mother sat. He watched enamored, unhearing of the whispered conversation his parents were having. It was about something mundane — how work was going, how the garden was looking come harvest.

  To the boy, it was just superfluous noise, a steady din behind him as he watched lightning flare from someone’s legs, allowing them to move twice as fast and gracefully as before. Another dancer summoned water, which yet another turned into ice spikes that went flying around the others. They were clearly performing some sort of choreographed battle, and based on their costumes, it was based on either historical figures or characters from stories.

  That part didn’t matter to Lios. What mattered was the spike of ice that wound up landing just a few feet away from him, in the dirt. Mist washed off of it, cooling the surrounding air marginally. He could see droplets of water slowly forming. The air wasn’t overly hot, but it was tepid. He’d guess it was a nice seventy to seventy-five degrees out, and one of the suns was still active in the sky, albeit throwing shadows.

  If I could touch it, maybe I could sense the magic that made it? Is that possible? He wouldn’t know until he tried it. He glanced up and behind him, noticing his parents were still locked in a conversation, smiling and chatting about their day-to-day lives. Slowly he pushed his way off the bench, making sure he didn’t fall but rather lowered himself onto his two clumsy feet. He had been practicing walking lately, but he had so far been unsuccessful.

  This time, however, his body listened to him. Perhaps it was because he had a goal. He really wanted to get closer to the magic ice. He took a shaky step, wobbling unsteadily. Then, with a second step, the ice spike was closer. He watched as it continued to melt gradually. It wasn't all that big; he was afraid it would melt completely before he got to it at this rate. With a deep and heavy breath, he took a third step closer.

  This one unbalanced him. He lurched too far forward and had to fight for a second to regain his footing. Taking an extra step forward and leaning back a bit helped. There was a gasp as he took his fifth step. The whispering of his parents stopped, and he figured they had noticed him moving by now. Oh well, I hope they don’t pick me up before I get it... he thought on his sixth step. He was now one step away from the magical ice.

  One last wobbly step and he was there. He wasn’t confident in his ability to kneel or squat yet, so he just plopped down onto the ground, his butt thudding a little harder than he intended. Now, he was face to face with the ice and pulled it. His hand slipped on the ice, and he nearly careened backwards, but he stabilized himself. Frowning, he went to pull at it a second time, hearing a soft giggle from one of the dancers on the stage.

  There were some other murmurs and chuckles from around him as well; he could practically feel their eyes on him. He ignored it all in favor of trying to yank the ice out. Instead, the tip of it broke, but that was okay. He didn’t need it whole. He brought the icicle to his face and tried to focus. He didn’t know what he was looking for, not yet.

  Still, he tried to sense the water or ice magic. He grunted in consternation as he glared at the slowly melting ice. He sensed and felt nothing but cold in his hands. He sighed just as two strong hands came from behind and grabbed him, pulling him back to the bench. The icicle was still in his hands, but he could glean nothing from it. If only it could be that easy...

  After that, his parents gushed over his sudden ability to walk a half-dozen steps, and he flushed with the praise. They enjoyed the festival until late in the night, his folks acquiring some drinks in tankards, him getting some sort of delicious juice. They watched more shows, enjoyed a bard singing wistful songs of yesteryear, even watched as some of the off-duty guards put on a show with a series of spars.

  The clang of swords against shields, spears against chain armor, and the other preferred weapons of the guards made for an entertaining faux battle. Ezekiel even strode up to the dirt circle around which a crowd had gathered and took a training sword from one of the younger guardsmen. Lios’s father wore no armor, but still he walked with the confidence of a lion in a herd of gazelles.

  “Mama, will Papa be okay? He isn’t wearing his...” The boy lost the word for armor and so he gestured down at his torso.

  “Don’t worry, Lios, your papa is very, very strong!” His mother replied sweetly, watching as her husband stood across from one of the vice captains of the city's guard.

  The vice captain had an emblem on his green and brown uniform, painted onto the plate over his heart and another pinned onto the exterior of his cloak. He didn’t have a shield; instead, he held a longsword in both hands, a stable stance. So far, the man hadn’t fought, but Ezekiel had issued a challenge with a grin on his face.

  “Are ye sure you want to do this, Zeke?” The man spoke through a wild beard, the red hairs quivering with the sound of his booming voice. Stark white teeth glimmered beneath the mustache as he grinned, staring down Ezekiel.

  “You know me, Max; I’ve never been one to shrink away from a challenge.” Lios’s father spun a short sword in his hand, eyeing up his opponent.

  Coins exchanged hands among the guards and the citizens as they readied to enjoy the show. Murmurs broke out as folk discussed who was favored to win the spar.

  “Isn’t that the guard who joined what, a year ago? Think he stands a chance?” One man asked the woman next to him in an excited whisper. Action always seemed to get people excited.

  “Without even any armor or a shield? Definitely not.”

  “He cleared the goblin camp a few months ago, right? Maybe he has what it takes to beat a vice captain?” another person nearby said. Lios heard it just over the growing din.

  The boy didn’t care; he just wanted to see his father in action. With that thought in mind, Ezekiel shot him a smile and said, “I know you really liked the magic earlier, Lios, but I’ll show you why a sword is the best!”

  With that, Lios tuned out the rest of the chatter and focused on his dad and Max. Max struck first. Lios’s eyes were barely able to keep up as he lunged forward and made to split his father in two with the sword. Lios was surprised that the slightly potbellied warrior could move so fast. Lios gasped even as his eyes caught up; his father had parried the blow with his smaller sword, moving just as swiftly. Then the sound sprang out as though it had needed to catch up as well. A violent ding from the clash of blades sent Lios’s heart pounding.

  Swords and magic. It was possible. I think I can really do it. I just have to figure out how to do both at once. He thought as he watched them exchange blows that were too fast for him to truly see. He saw only the moments where they clashed, but the way they moved went beyond his comprehension.

  Sparks flew and metal clanged on metal as the duo cackled with mirth. Amusement lit the faces of the guards who were watching, and awe the faces of the citizens. Despite having a smaller sword, having less reach, Ezekiel was handily holding his own against the vice captain.

  The two exchanged another dozen strikes before they each backed up to observe the other. In the stillness, Lios saw that there was no sweat dripping down either’s face, neither of them breathed any harder than normal. They’re hardly trying... What would happen if they went all out? The boys’ eyes were wide. It was his first time seeing such power.

  He watched with wonder and eagerness. He was eager to reach that point where moving too fast for eyes to follow was natural. Eager to acquire this power, this skill. In his mind, his plans for the future started to solidify even further. He already knew what he wanted for himself; now, he just had to learn how to get there.

  His father and the vice-captain fought for a solid ten minutes, neither of them taking any sort of injuries. It almost seemed like a choreographed dance, more so than a battle. In the end, they just decided to put a stop to the spar, both grinning wide grins, still no sign of exertion from either.

  “What say we put an end to our duel, Max? Otherwise, we might be here forever, don’t you think?” Ezekiel was all smiles as he made to return the short sword, now much more dented and chipped, to the guard he had taken it from.

  “Aye, mayhap we would be. Good tussle, Zeke!” Max chuckled and pushed his own dulled sword through a loop on his belt, letting it dangle.

  The two clasped each other's forearms and went in for a single-armed hug, showing their continuous friendship. There were a few halfhearted grumbles as coins found their rightful owners again, the bets cancelled as there was no winner. The brokers sighed, unable to take their cuts.