Over the next year, I told the girls my story. Or at least, the story that had needed telling.

  How I had been reborn in mortal flesh, chosen by the gods to fight Entropy, the all-consuming evil. How they had been found, trapped and shattered, in the trunk. How I had restored them, piece by piece, through divine guidance.

  Catherine and Juliet absorbed every word as gospel. They repeated it to themselves, sometimes softly at night as we sat by the fire, sometimes aloud when they practiced their survival lessons during the day. Each retelling was more elaborate and a reinforcement of the stories that came before. Almost a ritual of obedience, of trust, of narrative that made my own story feel more real.

  I felt bad. But they were strong, and they didn't need much attention, nor did they need much to eat, or anything else a child usually needed.

  In the meantime, our little clearing transformed. What had started as a haphazard winter camp evolved into something more permanent. The girls had expanded it. Small wooden structures, lean-tos reinforced with branches and stolen nails, a crude but functional hearth, and storage spaces for food and supplies. I couldn’t help but marvel at their speed, skill, and uncanny efficiency as they worked.

  I told them more lies. Tales of Entropy’s reach, of shadowy villains that required constant vigilance, of the way our actions might tip the scales of fate for the entire world. I wove the past and present into a web of lies. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I wondered if I had created something too crazy, but they seemed to believe my every word.

  Life at the manor hadn’t changed much.

  There was a new teacher, Odie Marie, which I thought was a very cute name, hired to refine my vocabulary and teach me proper manners and the natural sciences.

  She was an older dame.

  The lovely nanny with the green hair and glasses had been given a change of jobs. I just didn’t need a nanny anymore, and she became just another maid.

  Nobility required good tutors and better servants.

  Soon, I was slotted into lessons beside my brother Jakob. Master Orrin, his instructor, accepted me as a secondary pupil.

  Usually, if one became a mage, men here were expected to.

  Women? Warriors.

  Not a rule of law but as a rule of thumb.

  “Magic,” Orrin lectured, staff tapping the marble floor, “is the opening of internal conduits. Pressure must be managed. Every person has enough power to destroy themselves. Control is survival.”

  Jakob nodded with reverence. A dutiful heir.

  I nodded because I had already experienced it firsthand.

  I trained hard.

  Days: Magic theory, with Jakob.

  Nights: Slipping away to the forest to meet Catherine and Juliet.

  And I never mixed lives.

  My noble life was polished tables, tutors, and family dinners.

  My prophet life was lies, blood, and power.

  No one knew about the cult I’d accidentally created.

  No one suspected a prophet-child.

  And the more I learned about magic, the more terrified I became of my own story. Because more power came with more expectations. Pressure.

  Everyone could cast magic - technically.

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  But most people chose not to learn more than a simple word or two.

  The human body was a bomb you could accidentally detonate from the inside.

  That meant, in my mind, that to become a great mage, you had to have a great body.

  And if I was going to play the role I’d written for myself, if I was truly going to fight Entropy, I needed a body that wouldn’t fold at the first punch.

  So I turned to Maren.

  My sister - only six years old - but already a prodigy.

  Not a prodigy in the ‘wow, she’s promising’ way.

  Prodigy in the ‘she could beat grown men bloody if she felt like it’ way.

  She was stronger than Father already.

  Jakob was better at magic than him too.

  The instructors once said they had “blood of the old kings” in them. I wasn’t sure who the old kings were.

  But I was sure that it wasn’t just talent.

  They trained like demons.

  Focused. Relentless. Perfect form even when their arms trembled.

  One morning, while she wiped sweat from her forehead after dismantling the instructor, rotating through instructors, none able to match her, for the seventh time. I approached, tiny but determined.

  “Maren,” I said, trying to keep authority in my toddler voice, “can you teach me to fight?”

  She grinned. A grin with teeth - sharp ones, almost too sharp for a child.

  “You sure, Cal?” she asked. “Training hurts.”

  “I am!”

  She laughed, delighted by the fire in me, and tossed me a wooden practice blade that weighed more than my entire arm.

  From that day on, I trained to be a mage with Jakob and a warrior with Maren.

  My father appreciated that all three of his children sought such great heights.

  I wasn’t reckless in training. Not like you might expect a three-year-old, or even a six-year-old, prodigy to be. I held back.

  In combat, I had power. Enough speed and strength to overwhelm most opponents even without using a three-word spell. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted technique. I wanted control.

  Throwing myself at Maren with full force wouldn’t teach me anything except that I was strong, and I already knew that. My experiments had left me with permanent enhancements, speed, reflexes, stamina, and mental scarring too, but none of that mattered if I couldn’t wield it correctly.

  So I practiced slowly. I studied her stance, her footwork, and the subtle shifts in her grip. I mirrored her movements again and again, pushing past exhaustion but never my limits.

  Magic was similar. Jakob and Orrin drilled me on incantations, theory, and the more delicate applications of spells. I had more power than most, more than I should have had for my size, thanks to all the reckless self-experiments I’d survived. But raw power wasn’t enough.

  I learned lore, memorized sequences, and practiced fine control. I was better than most in force, yes, but they had the advantage in understanding. Technique, knowledge, timing.

  Holding back in both fields wasn’t a weakness. It was a lesson. One I intended to master before any real fight demanded more than I could offer.

  Plus, existential dread and fear over death may be the best motivators that are out there to learn or do anything.

  My hair finally really came in too. I looked into a mirror and looked myself over.

  Mh. I looked something like a cross between my mother and father, while my brother and sister inherited more distinct features from either one. Testament to that being hair color. Jakob had red hair, Maren had blue hair, and mine was a sort of purple.

  I wasn’t too bad looking for a four-year-old. I wondered what it would be like when I was an adult.

  I hoped, just a little bit, that my hair would be more vibrant.

  Then, one chilly morning, in the stronghold, Catherine and Juliet approached me cautiously.

  I was tending to my book, blindfolded, getting my noggin joggin.

  “Father?” Catherine’s voice was hesitant, almost shy.

  I looked up, letting the blindfold remain but tilting my head as if listening to the cadence of the wind. “Yes?” I replied, voice calm and commanding.

  “We… we went somewhere,” Juliet said, fidgeting slightly. “We… we found another place. Another camp. Another trunk.”

  My heart skipped a beat behind the cloth. Another trunk? My mind whirred, but I had my best poker face on.

  Catherine leaned in. “It wasn’t far. And… we opened it, and there were… pieces.”

  Pieces.

  I swallowed, trying to keep my calm, keeping the tone of a prophet rather than a four-year-old in mortal form. “Pieces?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Juliet said softly. “We… we think someone tried the same thing that happened to us. But we… we made sure we were careful.”

  I nodded slowly, stirring the pot in a deliberate circle, masking the storm of thoughts inside my head. Another trunk meant another tragedy, another opportunity. Another problem. Another puzzle to solve.

  “Did you… handle it?” I asked carefully, watching their small forms, still unsure if I should be proud or horrified.

  Catherine and Juliet glanced at each other, then back at me. “Yes. We… handled it. We moved quickly. We… secured it.” Catherine said, voice trembling just enough to remind me they were children still.

  I breathed out slowly, letting the words sink. “Good,” I said, voice steady. “Very good. That… is exactly what I would have expected. You acted wisely and swiftly. Like… like true believers, you saved someone else.”

  Inside, though, my mind was racing.

  Calmly, I set the quill down carefully and rose and declared to them. “Tomorrow, we will prepare. I will pray and, by grace, if the gods allow… learn what must be done and what the most righteous course of action will be.”

  They nodded, small smiles brushing their lips. They were my witnesses, my companions, my Leo and Lepus, and now, unwittingly, partners in uncovering a second mystery.

  I could almost hear Geshich’s approval. Or maybe that was just my own imagination.