In the grand scheme of things, my accelerated growth was an anomaly that many, including myself could not ignore.

  Yet, without a calendar to mark the passing days, I could only rely on my observations and the reactions of those around me to measure my growth. And it was anything but normal.

  My nanny, Ma’khanda, a woman of sharp intuition, had seen many children grow, yet my progress left her in stunned silence. The whispers of others followed, murmures of astonishment creeping into every corner of the palace and beyond.

  By my rough estimation, four or five months had passed before I began crawling. My height and weight increased. Yet, nothing compared to the torment of teething. The relentless pain gnawed at me, forcing me to adapt. I always had a bone within reach, it became my only salvation.

  When another month passed, and I started walking the rumours spread. The faster I grew, the greater the rumours spread I could use that to cultivate my legend.

  But for now, despite my ability to move freely, I remained limited in my pursuits. The world was still too vast, my reach too small. Yet, I had found something that set my mind ablaze.

  The first time my fingers brushed against a lock while being carried, a strange sensation flooded through me. A tingling, like an electric current, coursed through my skin.

  Instantly, I understood it. Not just its function but its essence. Its very composition laid bare before me, down to the minerals within the metal.

  It was as if I had uncovered a sense I had never known I possessed. A secret language spoken only in the dance of electrons. The world of metal whispered to me, and I was desperate to listen.

  Yet, I restrained myself. Even as the hunger for understanding clawed at me, I knew that exposing my abilities too soon would be reckless.

  So, I masked my knowledge, biding my time. My mind however never rested. Ideas took shape growing sharper, and more refined.

  One such idea led me to create a language—a cypher to help with my unfortunate compulsion to share knowledge. I spoke it aloud, weaving meaning into syllables foreign to all who heard them. But the consequences were unforeseen.

  The people called it a curse.

  Elder Na’kumbi, confronted me one evening. Her voice was steady, but I saw the wariness in her eyes. “What is this tongue you speak? Where did you learn it?”

  I met her gaze, the seriousness of my expression comically at odds with my toddler’s form. “The spirits speak to me,” I answered. “It would be rude to address them in any other tongue.”

  Curiosity spread like wildfire. The elders gathered, some eager, some sceptical. They sought to learn and unravel my mystery. But I would not make it easy. The pronunciations twisted, the syntax warped—I wove layers of confusion into the very fabric of the language.

  Some elders grew frustrated, abandoning their pursuit. Yet, a few persevered, determined to decipher my speech. To them, I fed nonsense, watching with amusement as they strained to grasp meaning where none existed.

  I was already an enigma in their eyes. There was no need to pretend to be a child when I was so clearly something else. A child who does not act like a child is an unsettling thing. And I had no intention of making them comfortable.

  The palace attendants avoided my gaze. Their hands trembled as they dressed me, their voices wavered when they spoke. I saw the way they whispered among themselves, always glancing at me as if I were a spirit wearing the skin of a child.

  None dared to speak their fears aloud.

  I gave them no reason to doubt their suspicions. I did not reach for affection, did not seek comfort, and did not cry out for attention as other children did. Instead, I watched listened and learned.

  When I spoke, my words were few but absolute. I gave simple commands and they obeyed unquestionably. Some believed it was respect others simply feared me.

  The elders who had spent their lives advising the chief were the first to sense the unnatural weight of my presence. Some whispered that I was a spirit reborn, an ancestor returned to guide the people.

  Others feared I was a curse, an aberration that disrupted the natural order.

  They studied me with guarded expressions, unwilling to voice their concerns when I was present, yet too wary to speak to me. I met their stares with silence.

  They were an obstacle one I would either subvert or remove. The tribe’s council was an established power, a relic of tradition that would resist any change. And I would bring change.

  The warriors were different. To them, strength dictated worth. A child, even one who spoke like a man, was still just a child. They did not fear me, nor did some respect me.

  I knew they saw their advantage towering over me, laughing at the absurdity of my presence. But they were the true power of the tribe. If I were to shape my people’s future, I would need them under my command.

  Most of them would be sent north to the Kingdom of Luth’kanda as tribute, swelling the ranks of their raiding parties. Slavery remained an economy of blood and bone, and our warriors were the currency. They were expendable.

  That would need to change.

  Still, the greatest threat did not lie within my people but beyond them. Word of me had spread past the village borders.

  Merchants, traders, and emissaries came not only to conduct business but to see the spirit child the one who spoke in strange tongues and did not act as children should.

  Some arrived with curiosity. Others with schemes. They saw potential, an anomaly to be studied, manipulated, or sold.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  I entertained their presence, and listened to their words, but gave nothing in return.

  One emissary from a southern tribe offered gold and cattle in exchange for me. The chief refused after all, why sell your only heir?

  Slavers, the lowest of merchants in my opinion, lingered in the market square, speaking in hushed tones. To some, I was a cursed thing. To others, an opportunity.

  I heard their whispers, the way they speculated on my worth. A child of my nature would fetch a price beyond imagination in the distant lands of the coast.

  They did not realize how closely I listened. How carefully I studied their words.

  To the common people, I was something between a blessing and an omen.

  Children feared me, their mothers warning them to stay away from the one who did not play. Some called me divine. Others called me something far worse.

  But one thing was certain no one ignored me.

  The few times I moved through the village, attended by silent servants, I cast a shadow too long for a child. Conversations halted when I passed. Eyes followed my every step.

  I was young, but I was already becoming something they did not understand.

  And fear of the unknown is a powerful thing.

  ———

  There were a few moments when I was alone with my father, Chief Nhlazeko. He was a man of iron and loss, a leader whose scars ran deeper than the eye could see. Unlike the others, he did not flinch at my presence. He did not whisper curses or omens when he looked at me.

  When we spoke, it was as men no matter that I was still a child in body.

  On these rare nights, when the fires burned low and the sky stretched dark above us, he spoke of his youth. Of the brothers, he had to kill the blood he shed because the elders had decreed that only one could rule. His voice, usually measured like a drumbeat, carried an edge of weariness.

  “It was no great victory,” he admitted one night, his eyes lost in the past. “Blood spilled over a throne is never a true triumph. It only feeds the spirits of the dead.”

  I listened, silently. He needed no response, only ears to bear witness.

  He spoke of the wives and children he had before. The laughter that once filled his halls. The way his heart had swelled with pride, only for it to be shattered when the Luth’kanda raiders came.

  They stormed our land with fire and steel, carrying weapons brought by white men from the east and brown men from the west. Their thunder sticks tore through warriors like dry grass, their iron blades cut down even those who begged.

  “They took everything,” he said, his voice now a whisper of barely contained fury. “And I could do nothing.”

  He had fought, but his spears had been useless against their guns. He had led, but his warriors had been crushed beneath foreign power.

  “Defeat,” he spat, “is a taste that never leaves the tongue.”

  I understood then why he seemed indifferent to me. It was not indifference. It was exhaustion. A man who had lost too much had no room left for tenderness.

  One evening, he led me to the tomb where my mother lay, alongside the ancestors of our line. The stone was cold beneath my fingers. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and memories. We stood there in silence for a long time.

  Then, at last, he spoke.

  “Shiyani, your mother was a strong and proud woman. She was loved by all our people.”

  I nodded, my voice quiet. “I know.”

  “And you… you are feared by most.”

  I met his gaze. There was no need to deny it. “I understand why.”

  He exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “Many believe you are an omen of evil. Others say you are an omen of change.”

  I tilted my head slightly. “Which do you believe?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Both,” I answered myself.

  His brow lifted slightly. “Both?”

  “To change things, I must break them first. And those who benefit from the old ways will call me evil for doing so.”

  He studied me for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, he turned his eyes to the tomb.

  “A man alone cannot change the course of a stream,” he said at last. “But enough hands, enough will, can carve a new river.”

  I nodded.

  His voice was quieter now, but it carried weight. “I am old. And bitter. And I have lost too much already. But you… they watch you now. And many wish you dead.”

  I did not need to be told. I could feel their stares even now, even here, in the sacred presence of the dead.

  He reached into his robe and pulled something out.

  A dagger.

  Its hilt was wooden, worn smooth by time, its carvings dyed deep red. The blade was dark iron, heavy enough that I had to hold it with both hands.

  I did not smile, but my fingers tingled as I felt the metal’s composition, my Technomancer instincts whispering to me in ways no one else could understand.

  He turned to me fully, his expression solemn.

  “Before I pass, swear to me—before the tomb of your mother, before the spirits of our ancestors—that you will avenge our blood. That you will bring death to those who shed the blood of the Mahlathi.”

  I looked down at the blade.

  Vengeance.

  Change.

  Blood for blood.

  I wrapped my fingers tighter around the hilt and met his gaze.

  “I swear,” I said, my voice steady. “I will take blood for blood until my last breath.”

  For the first time, I saw a shadow of a smile cross his face. Small. Almost imperceptible.

  Then, we stood together in silence once more.

  As he mourned the past, I prepared for the future.

  And quietly, I focused on my daily ritual—checking my stats.