The Eyes That Froze Humans

I've always taken my body for granted.

Until now.

Until every movement feels sluggish, uncoordinated, and clumsy.

Until I'm trapped in a body that can't even sit up properly.

At first, it wasn't so bad.

Newborns aren't supposed to move much anyway, so I just… waited.

But as weeks turn into months, my patience wears thin.

I want to move.

I want to talk.

I want control.

And yet—

My body refuses to cooperate.

It's infuriating.

For the first few months of my life, my world has been small.

A crib. A warm embrace. Quiet whispers.

Every day is the same.

Wake up. Get fed. Try to move. Fail. Get tired. Sleep. Repeat.

I try to make it easier by breaking things down logically.

But there's no logic in having an adult mind trapped in a body that can't even roll over properly.

Everything is too big.

Too bright.

Too loud.

Even when I try to control my emotions, my body reacts without my permission.

A yawn? I can't stop it.

A sneeze? Completely unavoidable.

Crying? Worse than both of them.

I hate crying.

And yet, I still do it.

Not because I want to.

Because my body forces me to.

I can't move much, but I observe everything.

And I've learned this—

People are watching me.

More than they should be.

It's not just mom and father.

It's the servants.

The caretakers.

The ones who tend to the house, who handle the daily routines.

They look at me with curiosity.

With hesitation.

"She doesn't cry much, does she?"

"No. Not like the other babies."

"She doesn't fuss either."

"It's strange."

They think I don't understand.

That I can't comprehend their words.

They're wrong.

I hear everything.

And I file it all away.

I may be trapped in this body, but I observe everything.

And now, I'm beginning to see what my parents really do.

Lelyah Tomaszewski is not just a mother.

She is a healer. A high ranking one at that. 

The first time I see her work, I don't fully understand what's happening.

I'm nestled in a bassinet, placed near an open door, the cool breeze carrying the scent of herbs and something faintly metallic.

I hear soft murmurs, pained groans.

And then—light.

A soft, golden glow radiates from mom's hands as she hovers them over an injured man's arm.

The wound is deep—a gash along his forearm, skin torn, muscle exposed.

I expect her to reach for bandages.

She doesn't.

Instead, her magic pours into him, weaving through the wound like threads of light.

The skin stitches itself together, sealing shut before my eyes.

A surge of warmth spreads through the air.

The injured man exhales, his pain fading into relief.

Mom simply smiles and moves on to the next patient.

To her, this is normal.

To me—

It is fascinating.

Watching her work makes me aware of something.

Mana.

It isn't just inside people.

It flows through everything.

I can't see it, not the way she can, but I can feel it.

The way the air shifts when she heals.

The way her patients' bodies respond to the magic.

I don't know what it means yet.

But I will.

Eventually.

Satoshi Tomaszewski is not just a father.

He is a warrior.

I witness it in brief moments, glimpses of movement, sound, and lethal precision.

The first time, I am in mom's arms as she watches him from a distance.

He stands in a training field, surrounded by warriors twice his size.

Yet he moves with fluid ease, a blade in one hand, wind circling around him like a whispering storm.

A sparring match begins.

One of the men lunges.

I expect a clash of metal.

Instead—

Dad disappears.

No—he doesn't vanish.

He moves too fast to follow.

A rush of air, a flicker of silver—and his opponent is disarmed before he even realizes what happened.

A clean, calculated strike.

Not a wasted movement.

Not a moment of hesitation.

Dad doesn't smile in victory.

He simply lowers his blade.

The match is over.

And he has already moved on.

The defeated warrior groans, rubbing his sore wrist.

Then, in frustration, he mutters—

"Damn it, Hoshino…"

Silence.

A slow, heavy silence.

Satoshi doesn't move.

Doesn't speak.

But the shift in the air is immediate.

The wind that had been swirling around him still—like the eye of a storm just before the worst of it.

Then, his gaze lifts.

A glare.

Cold. Sharp.

Dangerous.

The defeated warrior swallows thickly.

"I—"

"Maid." Satoshi's voice cuts through the air, calm and level.

A young maid nearby freezes mid-step, startled to be addressed.

"Take him to a healer," Satoshi says smoothly.

The maid hesitates, then bows quickly. "Right away, Master Tomaszewski."

The warrior is hurried away, confusion and lingering tension clinging to the space he left behind.

Satoshi does not look away until the man is gone.

Then, without a word, he turns and picks up his sword again.

The match continues.

As if nothing had happened.

Magic is structured.

I've learned this from listening—from the quiet conversations, the lessons spoken to others, the way people discuss mana like a science.

Every person has two inherent magical traits:

A Form of Magic – The way their magic manifests, categorized into four classes.An Elemental Affinity – The single element they are attuned to.

The Four Forms of Magic are:

Summoning – The ability to call forth monsters, spirits, or constructs using mana.Melee – The ability to create bladed weapons, claws, or whips through magic.Magic – Standard Area of Effect (AoE) spells, barriers, and elemental casting.Ranged – High-damage, single-target magic, specializing in precision and long-range attacks.

Each person is born with only one form.

And—most importantly—magic doesn't manifest until the age of five.

At least, that's how it's supposed to be.

But my parents?

They've already shown me what magic can truly become.

Mom is a healer.

Her magic is calm, warm, and absolute.

Her Form of Magic is Magic, allowing her to cast AoE healing spells that restore multiple people at once.

Her Elemental Affinity is Light, which makes her mana feel pure, weightless, and radiant.

When she heals, it is not a single burst of energy.

It is woven into the air itself.

I see it in the way her hands glow when she touches a wounded patient.

I feel it in the way the light hums against my skin when she's near.

Her magic doesn't just heal bodies.

It calms souls.

Even those who do not believe in magic—**even the skeptics, the hardened warriors, the nonbelievers—**fall silent in her presence.

Because she makes them feel safe.

That is her power.

And I admire it.

Dad is a warrior.

His magic is sharp, swift, and precise.

His Form of Magic is Melee, allowing him to create bladed weapons from pure mana.

His Elemental Affinity is Wind, enhancing his speed, agility, and cutting power.

Where mom's magic is gentle and continuous, dad's magic is unforgiving.

I have seen him summon a sword from thin air, its edges honed to a sharpness that could split stone.

I have seen him move faster than the eye can follow, his steps light, his presence a whisper on the wind.

Wherever he goes, the air moves with him—

A silent partner in every strike.

He does not waste energy.

He does not hesitate.

His magic does not protect.

It eliminates threats before they can become one.

That is his power.

And I fear it.

Mom mends what is broken.

Dad can break it all.

She is light.

He is wind.

Two forces that could not be more different—

And yet, together, they are unshakable.

I watch them both.

And I wonder—

Where do I fit?

At three months, I can move my arms, kick my legs, but that's not enough.

At four months, I start grabbing things—mostly hair.

At five months, I roll over for the first time.

At six months, I finally start crawling.

It's slow.

Uncoordinated.

Frustrating.

But I keep pushing forward.

Because I need to.

I refuse to be trapped.

But movement isn't the only problem.

There's something worse.

Something infuriating.

Speaking.

I understand words.

I've understood them for months now.

But understanding isn't the same as saying them.

I try.

Again.

And again.

But my tongue is clumsy, my lips don't form the right shapes, my breath cuts words off before they start.

I want to speak.

But my body refuses to listen.

So, instead—

I babble.

It's closer to talking than crying, but it's still not enough.

At first, it's just random sounds.

But then, I start mimicking.

The rise and fall of mom's soothing voice.

The clipped, measured words of my father's commands.

The excited chatter of the servants.

I study their speech the way a swordsman studies their stance.

I listen. I repeat. I fail. I try again.

I will figure this out.

One evening, I try again.

Mom is holding me, her warmth familiar, comforting.

She hums softly, swaying, her magic lingering in the air like sunlight filtering through leaves.

And then—

"Ma."

It slips out.

A small, clumsy, barely-formed word.

She freezes.

Her humming stops.

I can feel her heartbeat quicken.

Then, slowly, she looks down at me.

"Did you just…?"

I blink up at her, silent.

She waits.

Expectant.

Hopeful.

I hesitate.

And then, I do what any reasonable person in my situation would do.

I pretend I have no idea what just happened.

I babble nonsense instead.

Mom deflates slightly, but smiles.

"Oh, my little star, you're trying so hard already."

She doesn't press it.

She just holds me closer.

And I let out a quiet breath.

Because I'm not ready for them to know just yet.

I could learn to talk.

I know I could.

I could start practicing—force my body to catch up with my mind.

But then what?

What happens when my parents realize their six-month-old can already form words?

What happens when the whispers start?

She's not normal.

She's not like the others.

She's different.

If I speak too soon—

What else will they see?

What will they assume?

And worse…

What will they do?

So, I wait.

I hold back.

I let my body catch up to my mind at a pace they expect.

Even if it kills me inside.

Even if I want to scream words I can't yet say.

Even if I long to talk—to tell them I am here, I understand, I am not just some babbling baby.

Because being too different, too soon is dangerous.

And until I know what this world will do to something it doesn't understand—

I will stay silent.

For now.

The Tomaszewski estate was lively that evening.

People had gathered to congratulate my mother, their voices warm, their smiles genuine.

The scent of freshly baked bread and spiced wine drifted through the halls.

Laughter echoed, hands were shaken, and momi was the center of it all.

"Lelyah, congratulations! A daughter, how wonderful!"

"She must be beautiful—may we see her?"

Mom beamed with pride.

"Of course," she said, adjusting me in her arms so they could look.

And then—

The warmth in the room vanished.

The shift was immediate.

Expressions froze.

Voices cut off mid-sentence.

The lightness of the conversation collapsed into silence.

I may have been an infant, but I knew this feeling well.

Hesitation.

Discomfort.

Fear.

Their eyes locked onto mine.

Wide. Unblinking.

Not at my face.

Not at my tiny hands curled against mom's chest.

Just my eyes.

My star-shaped pupils.

"Ah…" Someone forced a nervous chuckle.

"She… she has rather… unique eyes."

A harmless comment.

A harmless comment does not send a ripple of unease through an entire room.

Mom's smile didn't fade, but something in her expression shifted.

"She does," she said smoothly. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

No one agreed.

Instead, a murmur rose in the crowd.

"Wait… could she be a demi-human?"

The question was casual.

Too casual.

But it hit like a sharp edge.

I saw mother's posture shift.

A small movement—barely noticeable to most.

But I noticed.

She was tense.

"She's not," she said. Her voice was even, but something cold had slipped into it.

"Are you sure?" someone else asked.

"It's just… demi-humans have distinct features, and those eyes… well, I've never seen a human with them before."

"Perhaps there's demi-human blood somewhere in your lineage?"

"It wouldn't be a bad thing, of course!" someone quickly added, as if to soften the blow.

That was a lie.

The murmurs weren't casual curiosity.

They were pointed. Probing.

Accusatory.

As if my mother was hiding something.

As if she was lying.

"She is human," mother repeated.

This time, her voice was sharper.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

But firm.

Unyielding.

She wasn't defending herself.

She was stating a fact.

And daring them to challenge it.

"Then why does she have those eyes?"

"Are you certain her father's bloodline is pure?"

"Perhaps—"

The shift in the air was sudden.

A change so subtle that only those with sharp instincts would recognize it.

The ones who did fell silent.

Because mom was angry.

Not in an explosive way.

Not in a way that would turn into a public display.

But in a way that meant danger.

She had spent years healing people. Saving them.

But she could kill just as easily.

And the people in this room knew that.