Getting Used to life.

"What is this blasphemy?!"

James flailed his tiny limbs, his little fists striking the air in a futile rebellion. He kicked, squirmed, and let out a frustrated wail, his newborn body refusing to comply with the hands attempting to dress him.

"I don't understand any of this—let me go!" he screamed in his mind, but the only sound that left his lips was an indignant cry.

The maid struggling to clothe him sighed, rubbing her aching forehead.

"Why is this child so unruly?" she muttered to her colleague. "He fights like a wild animal."

For seven days, James had been nothing short of a nightmare. He was too active—kicking, wriggling, making strange noises as if trying to speak. His strength was unsettling, his gaze far too intelligent for a newborn. And then there was the tattoo on his shoulder—an intricate, unknown sigil that no baby should have. The maids whispered in hushed voices, unsure whether to be in awe or fear.

"Just stay still, little one," the maid pleaded as she finally fastened the ceremonial cloth around his small form. The fabric was embroidered with the symbol of the white lion—his clan's crest, woven into the finest silk.

At last, she sighed in relief.

Soft footsteps echoed through the chamber. A presence entered, commanding without a word.

His mother.

She approached with grace, her long, flowing robes trailing behind her like liquid light.

"My little warrior," she murmured, lifting him from the maid's arms. The tension in his tiny body eased—her warmth was familiar, soothing, though his mind remained clouded with confusion. She adjusted his white swaddling cloth, loosening it slightly so he wouldn't feel constrained.

Her lips brushed his forehead in a gentle kiss.

"Let's go," she whispered.

She turned toward the entrance, where the ceremony awaited.

The hall was grand, its walls adorned with banners of the Barpoi Clan. The gathered crowd stood in hushed reverence as James' mother stepped forward, the infant cradled in her arms. Family, friends, and well-wishers filled the space, their faces lit by the warm glow of ceremonial lanterns.

At the center of it all stood the family elder, Tridnya.

She was a vision of ethereal beauty, her presence both serene and commanding. Her skin was a flawless alabaster, smooth as polished ivory, with a faint luminescence that set her apart from mere mortals. High cheekbones framed her delicate yet resolute face, and her full lips, naturally darkened like the petals of a midnight bloom, carried a perpetual trace of solemnity. Her violet eyes, deep and enigmatic, seemed to pierce through the veil of reality itself, holding secrets far beyond the comprehension of those around her.

Her hair, a cascade of obsidian silk, reached past her waist, its length woven with silver filaments that shimmered in the torchlight. Even bound in a regal knot for the ceremony, strands of it drifted like wisps of shadow, defying stillness. She was adorned in a flowing white gown, its fabric impossibly soft, shifting between liquid silk and whispering mist with every movement. The dress clung to her slender form before billowing into celestial waves, embroidered with constellations in silver thread. A circlet of argent adorned her brow, anointing her as something greater than royalty—an entity woven into the very fabric of destiny itself.

As she stepped forward, the gathered crowd fell silent.

Lifting the child high above her head, she spoke in a solemn voice, her words woven with ancient power:

"May the mirrors of destiny reflect only light upon you, little one.

May shadows break before your innocent gaze,

And may the winds of change whisper wisdom into your dreams.

The stars have bent low to witness your arrival,

Their glow woven into your spirit.

The Guardian shall stand watch over you,

Guiding your steps with truth and strength.

May your heart always find wonder in what others fear,

And your path be mirrored not by fate, but by the choices you carve.

Welcome, child of hope, into a world waiting for your brilliance."

A chorus of voices echoed in unison.

"So be it."

A podium stood at the center, where gifts and offerings had been placed. The child's parents accepted each token with warm, sincere smiles. Then came the final part of the ceremony.

Tridnya stepped toward another podium, where three small vials of liquid were displayed. She dipped her finger into the first vial, containing clear water, and brought it to the baby's tongue.

"This reflects the fairness of this world—nothing too hard, nothing too easy. There is balance in all things."

Next, she offered a bitter liquid. James immediately grimaced and spat it out, his tiny face contorting with indignation. What is all this? Is she trying to poison me?!

The crowd chuckled at his reaction, but Tridnya's tone remained solemn.

"This bitter taste grants you your first lesson in life. Nothing is ever truly fair—life will always find a way to bring you low, no matter how high you soar. Learn to conquer your fears, rise from your struggles, and transform your mistakes into beauty."

Finally, she presented a sweet liquid.

"This is the light at the end of every tunnel. You will succeed, for you are a child of the Barpoi Clan. We were all born to succeed. You will rise above everything... you will—"

A deafening explosion shattered the moment.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Screams erupted. The ground trembled.

In an instant, Tridnya concealed the baby in a barrier of light.

"What's happening?" someone cried out as panic swept the hall.

"We are under attack!" a voice bellowed. "If you can fight, reinforce the defenses! If not, seek immediate shelter!"

James' mother rushed toward the elder. His father was already moving to join the warriors forming defensive lines.

"Who dares attack us in our own home?" his mother demanded.

"I don't know," an elder replied grimly, "but they must be formidable to strike here. We must reach the safety chamber—its defenses will hold."

"But we haven't even finished naming him!" she protested, eyes welling with tears. This was supposed to be his day—how could fate be so cruel?

The elder led her through winding corridors until they reached a fortified chamber. The heavy doors sealed shut behind them, reinforced with protective enchantments.

"Safe," Tridnya exhaled. 

The room was silent, save for the distant echoes of battle outside.

Then—

"Tu. Tu. Tu. Tu."

A rhythmic sound, slow and deliberate, resonated through the chamber.

James' mother stiffened. She and the elder exchanged wary glances.

From the shadows at the far end of the room, figures began to emerge—figures that should not have been there.

The last exit was sealed.

The door behind them was locked tight.

They were trapped.

James, despite his protective barrier, felt something stir deep within his newborn soul.

Something cold. Something dark.

"We are screwed big time."