Winter had snuck in like a sneaky thief, blanketing the village in a fluffy white coat that looked all innocent but bit like a rabid wolf if you stayed out too long. The hut, wait, no, our hut, the one with the creaky door and the hearth that always smelled like pine and stew, was cozy tonight, the fire crackling away like it was telling jokes to itself. Nora had bundled me up in so many furs I felt like a walking pillow, and Oliver was snoring in that deep, rumbling way that shook the rafters. I waited in my crib, staring at the ceiling beams like they held the secrets of the universe ,spoiler: they didn't, counting the minutes until their breathing evened out.

  Finally, I thought as the snores synced up like a bad orchestra. Showtime.

  But before I could sneak out for my nightly ritual, my mind wandered back over the last few months. It had been a whirlwind of baby wins, epic fails, and enough village drama to fill a soap opera. Calista's dazed exit had kicked it all off—her muttering about "headmaster plots" and "human anomalies" fading into the distance like a bad dream.

  The hut had thrown a mini party that day, Finn and Freya doing victory dances, Clara high fiving Silas, even Leo managing a sniffle free smile. Me? I just sat there sucking my thumb, playing the innocent toddler, but inside I was high fiving myself. Operation Dumb Baby: success. Elf lady: zero. Vivian: one.

  The twins' pranks had escalated after that, turning the hut into a battlefield of giggles.

  Finn once rigged a bucket of flour over the door "for snow practice," and poor Pete walked right into it, emerging like a ghost with a flour mustache. Freya countered by hiding worms in Clara's book bag , Clara's shriek could have shattered glass, but she got revenge by swapping the twins' lunches with extra salty root stew. I watched it all from my blanket fort, pretending to be fascinated by my toes, but secretly cheering them on. Kids these days, I thought. If only they knew their "dumb baby" was grading their chaos on a scale of one to isekai villain.

  And oh, the writing practices. Exhausting didn't even cover it. Lily had turned into my reluctant drill sergeant, slate in hand, every day after lessons. "A again, Vivian ,straighter this time!" My hands, those chubby traitors, rebelled like they had minds of their own.

  Lines wiggled, circles flopped, and don't get me started on the loops, looked like I'd drawn them with my feet. But I gritted my teeth ,well, gums mostly, and kept at it.

  Progress was slow, like grinding levels in a pay to win game, but after months of snapped charcoal and smudged slates, I managed a wobbly but readable "V." Lily clapped like I'd invented fire. Me? I was just relieved I could finally jot down rune notes without relying on memory alone.

  Speaking of independence, I'd leveraged my "genius" status for some sweet freedoms.

  Talking more helped, simple words like "up" or "down" got me carried around like a king.

  But the real coup? Potty training. Yeah, laugh all you want, but being able to say "business" , my code for needing to go, and actually convince Nora to let me handle it alone was a game changer. "He's so advanced!" she'd gush to Oliver, who just nodded proudly while rigging a little step stool. No more embarrassing changes, I was a free man.

  Well, freeish. Still needed help with the door latch, but hey, baby steps. Literally.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Then there was the romance subplot, Pete and Lily. Oh man, that had been gold. Pete, the awkward beanpole with his floppy hair and perpetual blush, had finally mustered the courage to ask her out during a quiet moment in the storage shed ,where they'd been "organizing herbs" for weeks. I'd eavesdropped from my blanket, Pete stammering like a broken record, "Lily, I... uh... like you? Like, a lot? Wanna... walk by the river?" Lily's giggle was pure sunshine.

  "Yes, you big dummy. Took you long enough!" The hut exploded in cheers when they announced it. Nora was over the moon, declaring a feast for lunch the next day, extra venison stew, fresh bread, even some rare honey cakes she'd bartered from a trader.

  Everyone stuffed their faces, toasts flying left and right. Me? I got double portions of mashed roots, feeling like the village matchmaker. You're welcome, Pete. Now stop being such a bum.

  Winter prep had been the real grind, though. The village turned into a beehive, chopping firewood, salting meat, pickling roots that tasted like sadness marinated in vinegar.

  Oliver hauled logs until his back creaked, Nora sewed extra blankets from scraps, and even the kids pitched in, gathering nuts and berries before the frost locked them away.

  Me? I "helped" by toddling around and pointing at things, but my real mission was snack raids. Per my deal with Alicia , that sneaky "how many adults" trap—I still kicked myself for falling for it, I could sneak treats into her preservation artifact. An apple here, a bit of cheese there, stashed for emergencies. Alicia winked every time I waddled over with my "loot," whispering, "Our little secret." Winter wouldn't starve me out, I'd be munching like a king while everyone else gnawed jerky.

  And the writing breakthrough? Epic. After what felt like a thousand failed slates, I finally scrawled a full "VIVIAN" that didn't look like abstract art. Lily whooped, the kids clapped, and Alicia... oh, she was smug as hell. "Well done, prodigy," she said, handing over a blank book bound in soft leather, plus a quill and ink vial. But as she turned away, I caught her muttering: "In ten years, Calista, you'll be fetching my tea and scrubbing my floors. Headmaster? Ha,more like my personal errand elf." I pretended not to hear, but inside I chuckled. Alicia's playing 4D chess. I'm just the pawn who's about to queen.

  Now, here I was, winter night wrapping the hut in icy quiet, waiting for the snores to deepen. Every night was the same ritual, slip out of the crib ,bells be damned I'd learned to muffle them with a sock , toddle to Oliver's axe, and grumble my way through another session of Primordial Gloss.

  Why does this have to be so exhausting? I thought, easing myself over the crib rail with all the grace of a penguin on ice. One rune per night? At this rate, I'll decode the whole axe by... Mid summer? And that's if I don't pass out mid gloss.

  The axe gleamed faintly in the dying firelight, runes etched along the blade like ancient tattoos. I grabbed the haft , picked a new rune , a curly swirl I'd skipped last time, and activated Primordial Gloss.

  Mana surged. The window popped:

  Got it. Scribbled it down in my book before the details fuzzied quill wobbling, but legible enough. One more for the collection. But my core was already whining, a dull ache spreading through my chest. No second rune tonight, I'd learned my lesson from the blackout.

  Grumbling under my breath, I stashed the book under my blanket pile. This skill is a tease. A divine dictionary that drains me like a vampire and forgets itself five minutes later? And no grammar? What good is knowing "flow" if I don't know why it's curled instead of straight, or if pairing it with "sharpen" makes the axe explode? Bet there's a dusty tome somewhere with all the rules, 'Runes for Dummies: Grammar Edition.' But no, I'm stuck with this mana guzzling popup.

  Still, progress was progress. One rune a night, and I'd have the axe's secrets unlocked. Then? Custom enchantments. OP weapons. Dragon slaying vibes.

  I climbed back into the crib, muffling the bells, and snuggled under the furs.

  Winter might be long and cold, but my future? Bright as a cheat code.

  Just... one rune at a time.