By the time I was two years old, most of my old memories had already faded.
They didn't disappear all at once. They thinned out slowly, like fog lifting from a field. First, the faces went, then the places, even the feelings lost their shape. What stayed behind were only faint impressions — a sense of cold, a sense of loneliness, and a strange fear of being left behind. But I didn't miss what I could no longer remember. My new life filled that space before I noticed it was there.
My parents named me Eira Lumi.
My mother, Lumi, has silver hair that caught the light like frost and eyes so dark blue they almost looked like the night sky. My father, Peris, had deep black hair and steady brown eyes, the kind that made you feel safe just by looking at them. They were both in their thirties, still young enough to laugh easily and old enough to be patient.
We lived on the outskirts of the kingdom, far from stone towers, banners, and noble estates. Our home was small but warm, built mostly from wood my father had shaped with his own hands. The floor creaked in places, and the door never quite shut straight, but it was ours. There was always food on the table, always clean water, always a fire burning in winter. So different from the life I had lived.
My father worked as a carpenter. He made furniture, doors, carts, and toys for children whose parents couldn't afford to buy them from the city. He worked slowly and carefully, treating wood like something alive that needed to be understood rather than forced. My mother kept our home, cooked simple meals, and cared for anyone who needed help. She had no magic, being from another land, but she had a quiet strength that didn't need it.
I had no siblings, but we were never lonely.
The outskirts were peaceful in a way the city could never be. Fields stretched wide and open. Small huts stood scattered among them, each with a garden, a fence, and a few animals. People knew one another's names. They helped without being asked. Children ran between homes freely, chased small animals, and played by the river until their clothes were soaked and their hands wrinkled.
The river was slow and wide, cutting through the land like a silver ribbon. People washed clothes there, fished there, and swam there in summer. It was where news was shared, arguments were settled, and laughter echoed longest.
Trade was simple. We traded eggs for bread, cloth for tools, milk for grain. Coins existed, but few of us needed them. We had had enough. That was all we wanted.
I went to a small learning hut with other children. It was a round building made from wood and clay, with benches along the walls and a board scratched with chalk. We learned numbers, letters, how to grow food, and how not to poison ourselves with the wrong plants. No one taught us about war. No one taught us about monsters. No one taught us about danger. Those things belonged to the city or deep in the forest, or so we believed.
I was seven when I met Neo.
She climbed a tree she wasn't meant to climb, got stuck on a high branch, and started crying. I climbed up after her, scraped my knee on the bark, and helped her down. She stared at me like I had done something impossible.
From that day on, she followed me everywhere.
Neo had black hair and bright green eyes that always looked curious, always searching for something new. She talked too much, laughed too easily, and trusted too quickly. I didn't talk much. I didn't laugh much. I didn't trust easily at all.
She didn't seem to care.
If I walked away, she followed. If I sat alone, she sat beside me. If I was quiet, she filled the silence. She didn't ask permission or wait for an invitation; she simply became part of my life.
By the time I was ten, Neo felt as natural as breathing.
And then everything changed.
It happened on a clear day. The sky was blue. The fields were bright. Children were running and shouting, and adults were working as they always did. Then the clouds came. Not gray, but red — thick and heavy, blocking out the light.
The air changed. The ground trembled. A deep roar rolled across the land, loud enough to make people drop what they were holding and cover their ears.
Something massive passed overhead.
A dragon, red-scaled with dark edges, flying high and far away but close enough to terrify us. Smaller shapes followed — sharp-winged creatures that moved too fast to track, screaming through the air like living blades.
Soldiers and mages rose into the sky from the distant city, fighting them, trying to pull the battle away from the villages. But one small creature slipped through.
It was black, bat-like, thin, and fast.
It bit Neo. Then it was gone in an instant.
Neo fell.
I ran to her, lifted her into my arms, and carried her home as fast as I could. She was breathing. Her eyes were open but unfocused. She didn't respond when I called her name.
She never did again. They called it eternal slumber. A condition with no cure and no treatment. Her body lived. Her mind never returned.
Our world went quiet after that. Not peaceful — just hollow.
Neo lay in a bed near the window, sunlight touching her face every morning. I visited her every day. I talked. I told her stories. I told her what the animals did, what the children said, and what the river looked like. She never answered.
Two years passed that way.
Guilt lived inside me, heavy and silent. I told myself I should have been faster. Smarter. Stronger. I told myself I should have done more.
The day before my twelfth birthday arrived.
That meant magic.
Every child received magic after turning twelve, a blessing from a god or goddess. Most people received a low level, tied to simple gods. My father was devoted to the Tree Goddess, level E, able to help plants grow and wood stay strong. My mother had none.
I didn't know what I would receive. But I knew what I wanted to find the cure and see her cheerful self again.
As my birthday grew closer, old memories stirred inside me — shadows of another life, another pain, another promise made in snow to a goddess no one in this world had ever heard of.
I didn't know if those memories were real.
But I intended to find out.