It was my birthday. It was also Lightbane's birthday. Technically, it was his birthday, and I was just a few months old, but that's an existential abyss that I won't look into.
I wonder what he was up to. What's the birthday of a noble boy like?
I don't think it was the kind of birthday where many people would come.
I couldn't imagine that Alarick was the kind of man who wanted everyone to be in attendance when his son got older.
None of the birthday parties that Jakob and Maren had were bustling with people. The parties, if they could be called that, were usually quite small with just the family.
Maybe it had something to do with how sick Mom was, or that was the way the Lightbanes liked it.
Who knows.
Anyway, it was a fact that should've meant a celebration for me, or at least a moment of satisfaction.
Instead of gifts and a cake, I had worries.
But progress was happening - real, actual progress.
The adoption papers were nearly finalized.
The forged story of my tragic orphan origins had passed inspection from every official who mattered - not because it was clever, but because it was simple and believable.
I'd crafted it carefully:
A nameless street boy. Parents died of sickness. No extended family.
Easy.
Caught stealing bread and put into an orphanage.
And then Woodborn - the wealthy, eccentric, famously compassionate man that he is - had supposedly taken pity on me, having a random confrontation with me on the street where I tried to hustle some money out of him.
It was a classic prodigy orphan rescued by a wealthy intellectual type of story.
Creating the story and the documents wasn't very hard; it just took a while.
The hardest thing was the printing press.
Trying to reconstruct it from memory was exhausting.
Memory was a tricky thing; the details blur. The fragments of knowledge that I had didn't mean that I could build it myself, but I could give a lot of feedback to the people who actually could.
It was frustrating. Knowing how something works conceptually but not mechanically and then trying to work it out.
But I had to maintain a facade of knowing exactly what I was doing.
So I tried my hardest to recall everything I knew.
I spent nights sketching, redrawing, breaking, and reimagining until I had something that could pass for something that looked legit and let Woodborn and the actual engineers do the rest.
Woodborn was impressed by my ideas and concepts, and he told me that the people who he showed them to were too.
It was a good feeling.
The smuggling business, by comparison, was easy.
And the small network I started, or I forced Woodborn to start, had already brought in some money. Not an insane amount, but it was something, and no matter how trivial, it was honest in its dishonesty.
I brought in plenty: foreign spices, cheap dyes, knock-offs from all kinds of things, like paintings and jewels, and other expensive things, especially alchemical reagents, that were legal in one city but taxed into extinction in another.
For a while, I felt almost embarrassed by how profitable it was.
Maybe I was just the first one that really put my mind to it? Or I was just lucky.
Many rich people just lucked into wealth, usually after already being wealthy.
I planned the next expansion.
If simple goods made this much money, then contraband could make far more.
In simple terms: drugs.
Dangerous? Absolutely.
Morally questionable? Completely.
But money was money, and it seemed to be easy, so morality could wait.
I was supposed to be the bad guy, so why did I care?
I slid deeper into the warm water, letting it rise to my chin.
A thing that kind of eased my mind was after I asked Woodborn if he also killed the old king of Asolar, Deimos' father.
He gave me a clear "no." Which sounded very honest. I also kind of tried to imply that I needed Deimos in the future so that Woodborn would leave him alive.
…But if he didn't do it, then who? And did it really matter? It didn't have anything to do with me.
The most recent thing that really bothered me, actually, it is the oldest problem I've faced in this world that doesn't have anything to do with Geshich, was the goo.
Through Woodborn's teachings, I could manipulate it to some degree, but nothing that was really useful as of now.
I mean, it was an almost impenetrable and magic-resistant substance that could be worn or even swallowed and then brought out, but you know what I mean.
If I could just figure out how to shape it properly, then I'd be real happy.
I did try to, but with less-than-stellar results. I could make it flat and stay together like a sheet, but not much more.
It was like… the magic it was made from wasn't the type I knew, but what could it be?
It wasn't like I was a genius, but I had a lot of knowledge and an outsider's perspective, but that was something I couldn't figure out.
So, after all that, I thought I needed a moment to breathe.
So I retreated to the bathroom - just a simple room with clay tiles, a big wooden tub more than enough for a toddler like me, and a small window cracked open to let out the steam. No fancy fixtures, no servants, no bathhouse luxury. Just a tub, warm water, and silence.
I lowered myself into the water and leaned back, letting the warmth loosen my shoulders.
And I relaxed, but all the worries came back.
Like teaching the girls. It had been its own challenge.
They could handle simple, one-word spells easily.
But anything above that? Basically nope. Even with their superhumanness, if that can be applied to their races, they had to put in an enormous effort.
It was just not worth it.
So I taught them what I could, magic included, sure, but my main focus was their bodies.
They were strong and fast, so fighting would be the main subject.
Other than that: simple math, reading, writing, trade, supply, demand, how money moves, how people move money.
I only had a rudimentary understanding of economics, but whatever I knew, I should teach them early on.
I raised a hand from the water and whispered, "Ra."
Heat rippled outward. Ah, beautiful warmth.
I added some soap, and it smelled wonderfully of flowers, and it foamed up.
And then I meditated.
Finally, a moment of-
The bathroom door BURST open.
Water sloshed.
"Master!" Medea announced at full volume as she launched herself into the tub like a cannonball.
I swallowed a mouthful of soapy bath water. "Medea?!"
She popped up, ears slicked back and grinning. "It's bath time!"
"You can't just run into the bathroom while I'm-"
"I knocked," she said.
I exhaled, tired. I already knew that Medea was a type of ADHD kid, but still…
She respected me, I knew that, and I was her 'master' and 'lord,' but she also saw me as a type of father, which I thought was a bit uncomfortable.
After I turned down the edginess of my 'cult,' I focused mainly on the 'freedom from the gods' aspect, especially the freedom part.
So, instead of calling Edward, they kept calling me Master, which was also uncomfortable sometimes.
Plus, I was a toddler.
Medea, specifically, was a clingy girl. She liked to keep close to the other girls or me at all times. Like when we were eating, sitting, or just walking.
She slept with one of the other girls too, even though she had her own bed.
Usually with Regan, and Morgan a few times when she allowed her to.
Who could have known that raising kids would be this exhausting?
The door opened again.
Regan stepped in, wrapped in a towel and carrying herself casually, but not as active as Medea.
Of course. Medea didn't hesitate when it came to things she wanted to do, but it was different with the orc.
She wanted to play family too but often couldn't muster the courage to, but if Medea did it first, she'd follow if she wanted to do the thing in the first place.
"Excuse me, Master," Regan said. She nodded toward the tub. "May I?"
Before I could say anything, Medea cheerfully scooted over - directly into my ribs.
"It's fine!" Medea declared. "Plenty of room!"
Regan entered, carefully but firmly, sending another wave of water up the sides.
"Regan," I said, "I know what Medea is thinking, or in her case, not thinking. But what's your reason for being here?"
"I have researched orc traditions. Communal bathing is normal. I hoped the environment might stir memories of my past. I have also been studying other aspects of orc culture. Customs. History. Clan rituals. The few things I could find out. As most orc clans only have an oral history, few are written down. I thought… if I learn what I should have known before you found me, perhaps something inside me will respond. A memory. An instinct. Even a feeling. And I believe that knowledge will help Master in the future. If I cannot remember what I once knew, then I must learn anew. I don't want to be useless.
I listened deeply, and her logic was kind of understandable in a way, but I was distracted by a shadow that lingered at the door of the bathroom.
Morgan.
Silent, observing. Not judging; just watching with her unreadable yellow eyes.
I sighed. "Morgan," I said, resigned to my destiny, "do you… want to bathe too?"
Medea gasped like it was the greatest idea ever conceived. "YES. Morgan join!"
Morgan tilted her head. "I suppose… if everyone else is…"
Her voice drifted off, but she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
At this point dignity was a lost cause, and I resigned to my fate.
"Come on," I told Morgan, "I'll wash your hair."
And somehow - despite the cramped space, the splashing, the awkward elbows, Medea singing something loud and wildly off-key, Regan sitting like she was preparing for battle with a small towel on her head, and Morgan sitting like a statue - something unexpected settled in my chest.
Comfort.
The birthday wasn't so bad, after all.