Time moved faster than I could imagine.
Now, at seven years old, I wandered freely through the forest near our estate, a place where the air hummed with magic and sunlight danced like liquid gold through the leaves. My feet barely disturbed the mossy ground, but my mind stretched far beyond the body I still had. Here, away from the eyes of the adults, I could experiment, learn, and push the limits of the magic flowing within me.
They called me a genius when they discovered my abilities last year, though I knew the truth: I had only learned because I remembered the theory. I didn't need to chant incantations like others. I grasped the principles, whispered the name of a spell, and it obeyed. It was thrilling—and dangerous.
My teacher had taught me several enchantments, carefully guiding me, explaining flow, intent, and resonance. I respected her instructions, but often I found shortcuts. Understanding the essence of magic allowed me to bend it without formal words, without careful gestures. I could see how the mana responded and redirect it with subtle intent.
Over the past years of exploration, I had come to love magic not just for its power, but for its beauty. Colors danced before my eyes as I cast spells: streaks of sapphire wind, emerald sparks that lingered like fireflies, golden threads that wove through the air and left shimmering trails.
By now, I could cast three different types of magic reliably, though the cost was heavy. Using all three in succession—or even too intensely—left me dizzy, my body weak, and often I would collapse afterward, gasping for breath, the forest around me tilting like a spinning prism. Still, I pushed myself, because the world was vast, and I wanted to explore it fully.
Sometimes my big sister returned from her school and helped me. She was patient, explaining things differently than the teachers—guiding my focus, helping me manage the mana without overexerting myself. I was lucky. Not just for the magic in me, but for her quiet care, for the way she made me feel like I could survive in a story that had once promised death.
I knew the coming years would change everything. In ten years, I would join the academy. A place where magic was studied, refined, and tested against others. Where my abilities would be measured, compared, and challenged. But I was ready.
For now, I let the forest be my classroom, the streams my mirrors, and the sunlight my guide. I learned, I fell, I rose again.
And with every spell, every swirl of color, every pulse of mana, I reminded myself:
This time, I would live on my terms.
***********************
Every year, my birthday became louder, grander, and more unbearable.
The royals of our land never missed the celebration, and neither did the guests from neighboring kingdoms. Each arrival was announced with trumpets, laughter, and endless chatter. I, Zhyn, preferred quiet—the gentle rustle of leaves in the garden, the soft hum of magic around me, the warm comfort of my sister's presence. But such peaceful moments were rare during these gatherings.
There was one princess in particular who made it almost impossible to enjoy any of it. She had a cold, unreadable face, but her mouth—oh, her mouth never stopped moving. Commands, questions, unsolicited advice, and criticism spilled from her endlessly, and her mind always seemed a step ahead, plotting or correcting. Even at her age, she carried herself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance.
I had no words for her, no clever retorts, no polite smiles to shield myself. She made me stumble over sentences, my cheeks warming in frustration. She bossed me around as if I were her servant, dictating what I could touch, where I could sit, and even when I could laugh.
So I did what any self-preserving baby genius would do: I hid.
And I hid near Princess Scarlet Winter.
Scarlet was nothing like the other princess. Her hair, the color of autumn fire, framed a sharp yet friendly face, and her eyes—like frozen sapphires—were calm and observant. Unlike the cold princess, she didn't boss me or correct me at every turn. She simply watched, sometimes leaning down to whisper advice or encouragement, her presence steady and comforting.
At first, hiding near her was purely strategic—an escape from the incessant commands and judgment. But over time, I found her company… pleasant. Fun. Safe. For the first time during a royal gathering, I didn't feel trapped. I laughed more, explored quietly, and experimented with little bits of magic without fear.
It didn't take long for us to grow closer. She understood boundaries, but she also understood curiosity. She didn't laugh at my mistakes or boast over her own superiority. She listened. She smiled. And in those fleeting moments, I realized that friendship—real friendship—could exist even in the midst of grand halls, glittering chandeliers, and political expectations.
So while the annoying princess continued to bark orders and make my life miserable, I found solace in Scarlet. She became my ally, my confidante, the one presence in these extravagant celebrations that made me feel… normal.
For a child who had once been the cursed villain of her own story, that was no small thing.
Prince Yulex Avez Jorge Mexus was almost always at Princess Xelhyn's side. Wherever she went, he followed, attentive and unquestioning, like a shadow bound by duty rather than choice. He listened when she spoke, moved when she moved, and rarely strayed far from her presence. The adults found it reassuring. The courtiers found it amusing. I found it… telling.
Whispers traveled faster than magic in noble halls. Their families had already begun discussing a future union, despite their young age. An arrangement born of alliances, borders, and power rather than affection. The expectation weighed heavily on Yulex, tightening his steps and dulling the spark he once carried. The more the plans solidified, the more he seemed to disappear behind Xelhyn's presence, as though his identity was being slowly folded into hers.
I watched all of this from a distance, uninterested in becoming entangled.
Instead, I stayed close to Princess Scarlet Winter.
People noticed. Of course they did.
Scarlet and I were often seen together—standing side by side during ceremonies, slipping away from crowded halls, quietly observing rather than participating. Our bond was calm and uncomplicated, built on shared silence and mutual respect rather than expectations. She never tried to control me. I never tried to impress her. In a world obsessed with future outcomes, that alone felt rare.
Before long, rumors followed.
Some nobles smiled knowingly. Others spoke in hushed tones, speculating about what the future might hold. Many believed that Scarlet and I could one day stand together—not as a romantic certainty, but as a possibility. Especially because everyone in the land already knew what set me apart.
I was intersex.
To some, that made me a curiosity. To others, a political variable. To a few, a symbol of balance—someone who did not fit neatly into the rigid expectations of noble roles. I heard the whispers, saw the glances, felt the unspoken calculations behind polite smiles.
I didn't resent it.I simply didn't let it define me.
While others planned marriages and futures as though they were chess moves, I focused on survival, on magic, on choosing my own path. Scarlet remained a steady presence beside me—not a promise, not a prophecy, but a friend who accepted me without question.
And for now, that was enough.
In a story that once demanded my death, I refused to let anyone else decide what my future should look like—whether written in fate, politics, or expectations.
This might good for me but someone out there might think this is ridiculous for a seven years old kid to be entangled in these scenario.
Paired with a little girl at young age body is not acceptable with my mind as adults. I feel like puking ,I only see this kid as little sister not more than that.