Orion's Point of View
Two years.
Two entire years since I'd stepped off that jet and into a castle, blinking like a confused Pichu as a queen-sized woman scooped me up and declared me the cutest thing since sliced bread.
Honestly? It had been an interesting couple of years.
I shifted against the trunk of the old oak tree, the bark rough against my back through my thin white shirt. The garden stretched out before me—a sea of flowers and hedges and stone paths that I'd memorized months ago. Above me, the leaves rustled in a warm breeze, dappling the grass with shifting spots of gold.
I closed my eyes and let out a long, slow breath.
It had taken me about a month to get used to being called a prince. The first week, every "Prince Orion" or "Young Master" had made me flinch like someone had flicked my ear. Takeda would bow, and I'd bow back, and then we'd both stand there frozen in this weird bow-off until someone coughed.
But then...
Then I started noticing the perks.
And I'm not ashamed to admit it—I loved being a prince way more than I ever expected.
I mean, by Arceus's golden hooves, the food. I had never considered myself a foodie in either of my lives. On Earth, I'd been a "whatever's in the fridge" kind of guy. Instant noodles. Microwave burritos. The sad salad I'd eat once a week to pretend I had my life together.
But here?
Here, the royal chefs worked magic.
I opened my eyes and stared up at the canopy of leaves, a small, satisfied smile curling my lips. You have not lived until you have eaten a well-cooked Slowpoke tail prepared by someone who had dedicated their entire existence to the art of making food taste like heaven. The way the meat fell apart on my tongue. The way the seasoning seeped into every fiber, not just sitting on the surface like some amateur hour nonsense. The way the fat rendered down into something that could make grown men weep.
I would kill all the nonbelievers who said that eating Pokémon was a sin.
I would hunt them down myself.
In this world—and in many others, if the rumors about ultra wormholes and alternate dimensions were true—you got food from what was around you. It would be weird if Pokémon weren't on the menu. They were literally everywhere. They outnumbered humans in most regions. You think farmers were just going to let all that meat, all that protein, all that sustenance walk past because someone got squeamish?
Absolutely not.
The Tauros steak alone was proof that Arceus wanted us to eat well.
Anyway.
Leaving my personal stance on how delicious Pokémon tasted aside for the moment, because thinking about food on an empty stomach was a special kind of torture.
I shifted against the tree trunk, crossing one ankle over the other.
See, last year—when I'd noticed my cheeks getting a little too round and my belt feeling a little too tight—I'd made a decision. A life-altering, waistline-saving decision.
I started doing parkour.
Not because I wanted to be some kind of ninja or anything dramatic like that. I just didn't want to get fat. Simple as that. The food was too good, the portions too generous, and the maids too eager to shove another pastry in my direction every time I so much as looked hungry.
So I started moving.
Running from place to place. Vaulting over things I probably shouldn't vault over. Jumping between things that definitely weren't designed to be jumped between. The estate became my playground—every wall a challenge, every railing an opportunity, every stupidly placed decorative fountain a test of my growing abilities.
And then Mom caught me.
I'll never forget that day.
I'd been practicing my flips—badly, I might add—launching myself from one garden fence to another. The first fence was standard height, maybe three feet. The second fence was further than it looked, and when I landed, I stumbled forward, caught myself on my hands, and rolled onto the grass in a heap.
That's when I heard the gasp.
I looked up.
Mom was standing at the edge of the garden path, her arms full of flowers she'd apparently been cutting, her purple eyes wide as dinner plates. The bouquet slipped from her fingers and hit the ground with a soft thump.
"Orion Silver," she said.
Not "Orion." Not "baby." Not "my cub."
Orion Silver.
My Government name!!!!
I knew, in that moment, that I fucked up big time.
"What," she continued, her voice dangerously calm, "were you thinking?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"...Practicing?"
She crossed the distance between us in three quick strides, dropped to her knees in the grass, and grabbed my face with both hands. She turned my head left, then right, checking for injuries. She patted down my arms, my shoulders, my ribs, her fingers pressing gently but firmly against every inch of me.
"Are you hurt?" she demanded. "Did you hit your head? Can you see clearly? How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Mom, I'm fine—"
"ORION. HOW MANY?"
"Three," I said quickly. "You're holding up three fingers, and also you're crushing my cheeks."
She didn't let go.
Instead, she pulled me into a hug so tight I felt my spine crack. Her face pressed against my hair, and I heard her take a shaky breath—the kind of breath that meant she'd been scared. Really scared.
"Don't ever do that again without telling me," she whispered.
"I'm sorry, Mama."
"I mean it, Orion. You're four years old. You could have broken something."
"I'm fine, though—"
"Four. Years. Old."
I sighed against her shoulder. "Yes, Mama."
She held me for another minute—maybe longer—before finally pulling back. Her eyes were still wide, still worried, but some of the panic had faded. She cupped my face again, her thumb brushing a smudge of dirt from my cheek.
"If you want to do... that," she said, gesturing vaguely at the fences I'd been jumping, "then I need to be there. Watching you. At all times. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
"No more secret parkour. No more jumping off things when I'm not around to catch you if you fall."
"Yes, Mama."
"And you will tell me every time you want to practice. Not after. Before."
"Yes, Mama."
She stared at me for a long moment, searching my face for any sign of insincerity. Apparently satisfied—or at least as satisfied as a worried mother could be—she let out a long breath and stood up, pulling me with her.
"Good," she said. "Now let's go find your grandmother."
I blinked. "Grandma? Why?"
Mom didn't answer. She just took my hand and started walking toward the castle, her grip firm, her strides quick. I had to half-jog to keep up.
That was the day I promised myself to never—and I mean never—piss off my mom.
Anyway.
We found Grandma in her study, because of course we did. She was always in her study, surrounded by stacks of papers and reports and things that looked official and boring. The moment we walked in, her red eyes lifted from whatever she was reading, and her expression shifted from "monarch reviewing documents" to "grandmother who smells entertainment."
"Yua," she said, setting down her quill. "You look frazzled. What happened?"
Mom crossed her arms. "Your grandson was jumping between fences like a wild Mankey."
Grandma's eyebrows rose. She looked at me. "Were you?"
"...Maybe."
"And did you get hurt?"
"No, Grandma."
"Did you land on your feet?"
"I mean, technically I landed on my hands and then rolled, but—"
"He was fine," Mom interrupted, her voice sharp. "That's not the point. The point is he could have not been fine. He's 3 years old, Mother. He shouldn't be jumping off things."
Grandma leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers, and I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips.
"So," she said slowly, "you're worried about his safety."
"Yes!"
"You want him to have proper training so he doesn't hurt himself."
"Obviously!"
"And you'd feel better if he had supervision."
"Yes."
Grandma's smile widened. She reached for something on her desk—a piece of paper, cream-colored, with elegant handwriting—and held it out toward Mom.
"Then you'll be pleased to know I've already arranged for an instructor."
Mom froze.
Her hand hovered in the air, halfway to taking the paper. Her mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes narrowed.
"You... what?"
Grandma's smile widened. "I said I've already arranged for an instructor." She set the paper down on her desk and folded her hands. "Last week, I was taking my morning walk through the gardens when I spotted your son practicing his... shall we call it 'agility training'?"
Mom's eye twitched.
"I was surprised," Grandma continued. "Impressed, even. His coordination for a child his age is remarkable. So I had my Gardevoir keep an eye on him while I searched for someone suitable." She tapped the paper. "They'll be arriving tomorrow."
I remember staring at Grandma with a mix of relief and dread. Relief because I wouldn't have to sneak around anymore. Dread because "instructor" usually meant "someone who will make me sweat."
And he did.
For about a month, a wiry man named Master Kellan put me through paces I didn't know my three-year-old body could handle. Stretches that made my muscles scream. Balance drills on one foot atop wobbling platforms. Coordination exercises that left me collapsed on the grass, staring up at the sky, wondering why I'd ever thought parkour was a good idea.
Then, one morning, he stood over my sweaty, gasping form and said, "You've got a great foundation, kid. Best I've seen in a decade. The only thing holding you back now is real-life experience, and that's something I can't teach you. You'll have to get that on your own."
And just like that, he was gone.
I never even saw him leave. One day he was there, barking orders about foot placement and momentum. The next, Grandma mentioned offhandedly that my "temporary instructor" had returned to whatever mountain he'd crawled out from. I half-expected a dramatic farewell, maybe a cryptic riddle about my future. Instead, I got silence and a note that said "Don't get slow, kid."
I kept his words tucked away in the back of my mind.
Real-life experience.
I'd get it eventually. Hopefully sooner rather than later.
After the parkour incident—and after I'd proven to Mom that I wasn't going to spontaneously combust the moment she looked away—I decided to push my luck further.
"Mama," I said one evening, climbing onto the couch beside her. She was reading something on her Pokegear, her red hair spilling over her shoulders. "I want to start studying."
She didn't look up. "You're three, baby."
"I know. That's why I want to start early."
Now she looked up. Her purple eyes narrowed slightly, the way they always did when she was trying to figure out if I was being serious or just saying things.
"Studying what, exactly?"
"Everything." I spread my hands wide. "Math. History. Pokémon. Strategy. Etiquette. Whatever you think I need to know."
Mom set down her Pokegear. She turned to face me fully, one leg folding beneath her, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and genuine curiosity.
"Orion," she said slowly, "most children your age are still learning not to eat dirt."
"I don't eat dirt. I have standards."
She snorted. "You ate a bug when you were one."
"That was an accident," I said quickly, my cheeks heating up. "It flew into my mouth. There's a difference."
Mom's lips twitched. She reached out and tucked a strand of my black-and-purple hair behind my ear—a gesture so familiar, so gentle, that it almost made me forget I was supposed to be arguing my case.
"You really want this?" she asked.
"Yes, Mama."
She studied my face for a long moment. Then she sighed—the sigh of a woman who had long since accepted that her son was never going to be normal—and nodded.
"I'll talk to your grandmother."
The studying began two weeks later.
Tutors came and went—some patient, some stern, all of them startlingly competent. Math was easy. Numbers had always made sense to me, even in my past life. History was... well, history was history. Names and dates and wars I'd never heard of, kingdoms that rose and fell before I was born. I absorbed it all, filing everything away in the back of my mind.
But it was the etiquette lessons that nearly broke me.
Not because they were hard. Because they were tedious. Every meal became a performance. Every greeting became a calculation. I learned which fork to use for which course, how to address nobles of varying ranks, the correct way to bow without seeming subservient or arrogant. Rin drilled me until my posture was flawless, until I could greet a duke and a duchess without missing a beat.
"You're doing wonderfully, Young Master," she said after one particularly grueling session. "Truly. I've never seen a child absorb etiquette so quickly."
I smiled and thanked her.
What I didn't say was that I'd been pretending to struggle.
At first, anyway.
See, I'd learned early on that being too perfect raised questions. Questions I didn't want to answer. So I'd hold back—just a little—stumble over a concept here, ask for clarification there. Nothing too obvious. Just enough to seem like a bright child rather than a full-blown anomaly.
Then, after a reasonable amount of time, I'd have my "aha" moment.
"Oh," I'd say, tilting my head like a confused Growlithe. "I get it now."
And then I'd speed through the rest of the lesson.
Every tutor fell for it. Every single one. They'd sit there, blinking at me, their jaws slightly slack, as I rattled off answers to questions they hadn't even finished asking yet.
"Remarkable," they'd murmur. "Absolutely remarkable."
Mom and Grandma started getting reports.
At first, the reports were standard. "Prince Orion shows above-average aptitude." "Prince Orion is progressing nicely." "Prince Orion has a good grasp of basic concepts."
Then the reports got weird.
"Prince Orion appears to have... accelerated comprehension."
"Prince Orion completed the week's curriculum in two days."
"I have never seen a child this young grasp quadratic equations."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, is your grandson human?"
Grandma read that last one aloud during breakfast, her red eyes gleaming with amusement. Mom choked on her orange juice. I kept my face carefully neutral, chewing my toast like I hadn't just been indirectly called a potential alien.
"Generational genius," Grandma said, setting down the report. "That's what they're calling you, my cub."
"That seems excessive," I said.
"They also used 'unprecedented,' 'once-in-a-century,' and—my personal favorite—'terrifyingly bright.'"
I took a sip of my own juice. "Terrifyingly?"
Grandma grinned. "Some of the tutors are intimidated by you."
"They're adults. I'm three."
"Yes, well." Grandma leaned back in her chair, swirling her coffee. "That seems to be the problem."
I let myself feel a small, private surge of pride.
But there was one subject where I didn't have to pretend at all.
Pokémon general knowledge.
The tutor was a woman named Elara—gray-haired, sharp-eyed, with the kind of weathered face that spoke of decades spent in the field rather than behind a desk. She didn't bow when she entered the study. She just looked at me, nodded once, and said, "So you're the one they're all talking about."
"I don't know what they're talking about," I said. "I'm just a kid."
She snorted. "Kid. Right."
The lessons began.
And Arceus, I loved every second of them.
Elara didn't teach from books—not at first. She spread maps across the table, pointed at regions, and asked me what I knew. I told her. Not everything—I had to hold back, just like with the other tutors—but enough. Enough to make her eyebrows rise. Enough to make her lean forward in her chair.
"You've got a natural instinct for this," she said after our third session. "Where did you learn about habitat patterns?"
"Books," I said. "And watching."
She didn't push further.
The curriculum focused on Kalos first—native species, their behaviors, their evolution requirements. I learned about the Litleo that roamed the coastal cliffs, the Honedge that haunted old battlefields, the Flabébé that sought out specific flowers depending on their color. I learned which Berries healed which conditions, which moves were super effective against which types, which Pokémon were safe to approach and which would sooner tear your face off than look at you.
Elara also covered common Pokémon found in other regions—the ones any traveling trainer might encounter. Pidgey. Rattata. Zubat. The usual suspects. Nothing groundbreaking, but useful information for someone who hadn't yet set foot outside his own backyard.
"What's your favorite Pokémon?" Elara asked one day, halfway through a lesson on dragon-types.
I didn't even have to think about it.
"Gyarados."
She blinked. "That's... an unusual choice for a child your age."
"They're misunderstood," I said. "Everyone sees the rage and the destruction, but no one asks why they're so angry. You evolve a Magikarp—a fish that's spent its whole life being weak, being ignored, being stepped on—and suddenly it has power. Real power. Of course it's angry. Wouldn't you be?"
Elara stared at me for a long, silent moment.
Then she laughed—a real laugh, not the polite chuckle most adults gave me.
"You're a strange child, Prince Orion."
"I've been told."
She shook her head, still smiling, and returned to the lesson.
Those were good days.
The best days.
I learned until my head felt full, until the names and types and evolution requirements blurred together into something that felt like instinct. I aced every test Elara threw at me—real aced, not pretend aced—and watched her expression shift from impressed to something closer to wonder.
"You could be a researcher," she said near the end of our time together. "Or a professor. You've got the mind for it."
I shook my head. "Trainer."
"Trainer," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "Well. You'll be a good one. I have no doubt about that."
She left the same way she'd arrived—no bow, no ceremony. Just a nod and a "Don't forget what I taught you, kid."
I never did.
The only thing that made the studying bearable—the only thing that kept me going through the endless etiquette drills and math problems and history memorization—was the promise of what came next.
A Pokémon.
My own Pokémon.
Grandma had been vague about the details. "When you turn five," she said, every time I asked. "There's a ceremony. A trial. All the children of the royal family and the clan go through it."
"What kind of trial?"
"A secret."
"Mama—"
"Your grandmother's right, baby. You'll find out when you're old enough."
I hated that answer.
I hated it with every fiber of my being.
The words echoed in my head as I sat there, staring at the leaves above me, the morning sunlight filtering through in golden patches. Five years old. I had to wait until I was five. That was still a year away—a whole year of studying and etiquette lessons and watching other people's Pokémon while I sat on the sidelines with empty hands.
I sighed, letting my head thunk back against the tree trunk.
"Young Master!"
I jerked upright at the sound of Mira's voice. She was standing at the edge of the garden, her navy dress swaying in the breeze, her chestnut hair tucked behind her ears.
"Your mother and grandmother are waiting for you in the dining hall," she called, smiling. "Breakfast is ready."
Breakfast.
My stomach growled immediately, loudly, and I felt my cheeks heat up. Mira's smile widened into a grin, but she didn't say anything—just turned and started walking back toward the castle, expecting me to follow.
I scrambled to my feet, brushing grass and dirt from my white shirt. The fabric was probably stained now. Oh well. The maids had gotten very good at removing grass stains. I'd given them plenty of practice over the past two years.
Speed walking through the garden paths, past the fountain with the Dratini statue, past the hedges shaped like Pyroar manes, I made my way toward the dining hall. My stomach growled again—louder this time, more insistent—and I picked up my pace.
Today, I decided, I was going to ask Mom about the forest.
The forest surrounding the castle had been calling to me ever since I'd arrived. I'd seen glimpses of it from the windows—dark trees, winding paths, shadows that moved in ways that suggested Pokémon living their lives without any humans around. Every time I asked about it, Mom changed the subject. Every time I brought it up to Grandma, she just smiled that mysterious smile and said "When you're older."
But today was different.
Today, I had a plan.
I reached the dining hall doors and paused, straightening my shirt one last time. The two guards stationed on either side nodded at me—a gesture of respect that I still wasn't used to—and pushed the doors open.
The dining hall was grand, like everything else in this castle. A long table stretched across the center, polished wood gleaming under the light of crystal chandeliers. Fresh flowers sat in vases along the center, pink and white petals arranged with the kind of precision that spoke of someone who took their job very seriously.
Mom was already seated at one end, her red hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a cup of tea steaming beside her elbow. She was scrolling through her Pokegear, her brow furrowed in that way that meant she was reading something work-related.
Grandma sat at the head of the table, the Queen's seat, looking as regal as ever in a deep purple gown that matched her eyes—no, wait, Grandma's eyes were red. Blood red. Like mine. The dress was purple. I always got that mixed up in the morning before my brain fully woke up.
I walked over to Mom first, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
"Good morning, Mama."
She looked up from her Pokegear, her expression softening immediately. "Good morning, my little Litleo." She reached up and ruffled my hair, and I let her, because I was in a good mood and because breakfast was waiting.
I crossed to Grandma next and kissed her cheek as well. Her skin was warm, smelling faintly of roses and something floral I couldn't name.
"Good morning, Grandmother."
She caught my chin with her fingers before I could pull away, turning my face left and right like she was inspecting a prized Ponyta at auction. Her red eyes narrowed.
"You've been outside already," she said. It wasn't a question.
"...Maybe."
"Your shirt has grass stains."
Grandmother released my chin and sat back, exchanging a look with Mom that I couldn't quite decipher. Then she waved toward the empty seat between them—my seat, the one they'd designated as mine from the very first morning.
"Sit," she said. "Eat. You're too skinny for my liking."
I glanced down at myself. I wasn't skinny. I was perfectly proportioned for a four-year-old who did parkour every morning and ate like a Snorlax. But arguing with my Grandmother about food was like arguing with the ocean about tides—technically possible, but stupid.
Before I could even open my mouth to steer the conversation toward the forest, the dining hall doors swung open.
And then they came.
A procession of chefs, each carrying a plate that looked less like food and more like a personal gift from Arceus himself. White uniforms. Tall hats. Expressions of intense, almost religious focus. They moved in perfect synchronization, weaving between chairs and flower arrangements like they'd rehearsed this a thousand times.
The head chef led the charge—a round, cheerful man named Chef Henri, whose mustache alone had more personality than most nobles I'd met. He stopped at Grandma's seat first, presenting her plate with a flourish. Then Mom's. Then—
He reached me.
His face transformed.
The professional smile cracked wide open into something genuine, something almost giddy. His eyes sparkled. His mustache seemed to perk up.
"Young Master," he said, and his voice trembled with barely contained excitement. "You are following the righteous path of a foodie."
I felt my cheeks heat up immediately.
The first time he'd said that—maybe a year ago, during my third week at the castle—I'd nearly choked on my rice. Mom had laughed so hard she'd cried. Grandma had used the phrase "righteous path of a foodie" in official correspondence, just to embarrass me further. I was pretty sure she'd sent it to at least three foreign dignitaries.
"I'm just hungry," I mumbled.
Chef Henri set the plate in front of me.
And my stomach made a noise that was honestly humiliating.
A deep, guttural growl that echoed off the crystal chandeliers. The sound a territorial Mightyena might make if someone threatened its cubs. Absolutely feral. Completely involuntary.
I felt my mouth drop open.
I didn't even bother to hide it.
"By Arceus," I whispered.
Because this wasn't breakfast.
This was a masterpiece.
The Magikarp filet sat at the center of the plate like a crown jewel—grilled so perfectly the skin gleamed like lacquer, crackled gold and orange and deep umber. The smell hit me next, a heavenly blend of char and citrus and some secret spice Chef Henri had refused to name no matter how many times I'd asked. "Family recipe, young master," he'd say, tapping his nose. "It dies with me."
Beside the filet, an avalanche of snowy white rice, each grain gleaming, distinct, catching the light like tiny pearls. I could already imagine how it would feel on my tongue—soft, separate, perfect for soaking up every drop of whatever sauce was pooling beneath the Magikarp.
But the sides.
Oh, Arceus.
Steamed buns practically drooling dark, rich soy-braised Tauros brisket. The meat had that look—the one that said it had been cooking for hours, maybe days, until it fell apart at the slightest touch. The buns themselves were pillowy, cloud-like, browned just a little on the bottom from the steamer basket.
Stir-fried greens with that glossy finish only real sesame oil could give, the kind that wasn't just drizzled on top but worked into every leaf, every stem, until the vegetables themselves seemed to shine.
Goldeen rolls, their skin crisped and glazed in sweet chili, the flesh beneath opaque and flaky and probably so tender I wouldn't even need to chew. The glaze had caramelized in places, dark amber and sticky, and I could see tiny sesame seeds clinging to the edges like jewelry.
A silken egg custard quivering in its little bowl, golden as a sunset, studded with minced Combusken. The surface was smooth, unbroken—a challenge, practically daring me to dig my spoon in and watch it wobble.
And dumplings.
Bamboo baskets of dumplings, so perfectly pleated I wanted to cry. Each fold identical. Each shape symmetrical. The dough translucent enough to hint at the filling inside—pork, shrimp, something green and fragrant I couldn't identify from here.
I became aware that I was leaning forward.
Both hands flat on the table.
My face approximately six inches from the plate.
There was a collective effect.
Mom's fingers flew to her mouth to hide a scandalized giggle. The kind of giggle that said I'm supposed to be teaching him manners but this is too funny.
Grandmother outright howled.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a dignified queen laugh. A full, from-the-belly howl that shook the chandeliers and sent a vase of flowers trembling. She slapped the table with her open palm, once, twice, her red eyes watering.
"He looks ready to attack the tray," Grandmother said between peals of laughter. "Like a wild Mankey who hasn't eaten in weeks."
Mom sighed—the long, suffering sigh of someone who had accepted her fate but wanted the record to show she disapproved. Except she was grinning. She couldn't hide the grin if her life depended on it.
"Orion," Mom said, her voice treacherously sweet. "Where are your manners?"
I didn't look up from the plate.
"Sorry, Mama," I said, finally tearing my gaze away from the food long enough to give her my most innocent smile. "But manners are only for occasions where they're absolutely needed."
Mom's eyebrow rose. "Oh? And when, pray tell, are they absolutely needed?"
I counted on my fingers. "Birthday parties. The banquets Grandma throws. And if we have important visitors." I lowered my hand and shrugged. "Anything other than that is fair game."
Grandmother choked on her tea.
Mom stared at me for a long moment, her mouth opening and closing like a Magikarp on dry land.
Then she started laughing—that warm, musical sound that filled the whole dining hall—and shook her head. "You are too much, you know that?"
I didn't answer. I was already too busy digging in.
Plate after plate disappeared in what could only be described as a slower, more dignified version of Goku and Vegeta's eating contests. The Magikarp filet vanished first, then the rice, then the buns, then the dumplings. I worked my way through everything with focused determination, pausing only to breathe.
When I finally set down my chopsticks, the plates were spotless.
I looked up at Chef Henri, who had been hovering nearby with barely concealed anticipation, and gave him my brightest smile.
"Everything was amazing, Chef. Thank you."
His face crumpled. His eyes went shiny. One hand pressed against his chest like he'd been struck by an arrow.
"Young Master," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You honor me. You honor my ancestors. You honor the very art of cooking itself—"
He was still going when he backed out of the dining hall, one hand over his heart, the other waving dramatically. I heard him sniffle once before the doors swung shut behind him.
I chuckled and shook my head.
Then I turned to Mom, my expression shifting into something carefully innocent.
"Mama?"
She looked up from her tea. "Yes, baby?"
I took a breath.
"I was wondering... could I explore the forest today?"
Her hand paused mid-sip.
I kept my face neutral, my posture relaxed, my eyes wide and hopeful. Let's see how this goes. If I'm lucky, I'll finally get to experience what it's like being in the forest.
Author's Note:
Guys. I'M ALIVE.
I know, I know—you probably thought I got eaten by a wild Gyarados or fell into a wormhole or something. Nope. Just got swallowed whole by the terrifying combo of college deadlines and work shifts. Turns out, adulting is a lot like fighting a Tauros stampede—exhausting, slightly traumatic, and you come out the other side wondering what just hit you.
So yeah. I disappeared. My bad. 😅
Life got chaotic, my brain got fried, and my writing time got reduced to approximately zero. I'd open my docs, stare at the cursor blinking at me like it was judging my life choices, and then close it again because my eyelids weighed fifty pounds each.
But I'M BACK.
The semester's calming down, work's (mostly) under control, and I've got that spark again. Thank you all so much for sticking around—you guys are the real MVPs. I've missed writing Orion's ridiculous adventures and I've got SO much planned for what's coming next.
Updates are back on the menu, folks. Let's get this show on the road!
Much love,
Night_Rider567💜🔥