A summer day in Eden.
The breeze wandered slow and golden over the rooftops of Arial Village, dragging with it the scent of sun-dried hay, distant river mud, and the soft promise of trouble not yet brewed.
It was the kind of breeze that made chickens lazier and laundry flap like it had opinions.
The kind of day where nothing happened—until everything did.
The honey roll was still warm.
Cradled in flour-dusted hands like it carried destiny between the crumbs.
It looked innocent enough.
Sweet. Soft. Possibly enchanted.
Possibly a bribe.
And Lyra Swift, age five, was absolutely treating it like a sacred offering.
Depending on your angle.
"…Excuse me?" he said, peering down at her like she might explode into bees.
Levin hovered behind him, sweating bullets—like someone had been asked to babysit a volcano while juggling raw eggs.
"I know you used to be a mage," Lyra said, voice small but dead serious. "I want you to teach me magic."
A beat passed.
Then another.
Then a sigh.
"Kiddo," he said, rubbing his temple with one floury knuckle. "Everyone knows I used to be a mage. That doesn't mean I teach every kid who shows up with baked goods."
"I'm not every kid," Lyra replied.
"And that's not just bread."
He raised an eyebrow. "Then what is it?"
She hesitated.
Glanced down.
Then looked up with the unwavering stare of someone declaring a holy war.
"Honey. And bread."
Levin's dad blinked like he'd just been slapped across the face with a wet scroll.
I swear—somewhere, a pigeon gasped.
"You're too young," he said gently. "Too small.
Magic's not something you play with when you're five and feeling brave.
It's dangerous. Unforgiving.
You mess up a spell, you don't get a second try.
You get ashes. Or worse."
"I'm not playing," she said.
He folded his arms. His gaze sharpened. "Then why?"
Lyra's eyes shimmered. Her lip trembled—until she bit it hard, holding the quake back.
"Because…" she whispered, voice cracking,
"I want to protect my family."
There it was.
A sentence.
Simple. Small.
But it hit like thunder in the quiet morning air.
Levin's dad stared at her.
The tension in his shoulders loosened—just a little.
A flicker of doubt crossed his face, as if he couldn't decide whether this was something a five-year-old should be able to say.
Even the firewood creaked in the corner.
Like the house was listening, too.
"They must really love her," he murmured. "For her to love them back like that."muttered the man to himself..
Taking another sigh...the man continue
"…You always this stubborn?" he muttered.
Levin groaned. "You have no idea."
The man looked again.
At the tiny fists.
At the eyes trying so hard to be brave.
At the silence that only comes from seeing too much, too soon.
A long, world-weary sigh escaped him.
"…Alright," he said. "We start tomorrow. First light. Backyard. I'll… talk to your parents later."
Lyra's head snapped up. Her eyes lit like someone had just handed her the sun.
Then she ran forward—hugged his legs like he'd just been knighted by the queen herself—
and bolted out the door without another word.
She didn't go straight home.
Her steps didn't take her there.
Instead, she wandered—aimless again.
Like she was searching for an excuse.
Or maybe… a reason.
Something in her just didn't want to go back yet.
And honestly? I got the feeling she had another objective still waiting to be fulfilled.
Her feet drifted along the winding edge of the village, where fences grew wild and half-forgotten.
The breeze nudged at her hair.
A few chickens blinked up at her as she passed.
The honey roll was gone now—sacrificed to destiny—and her hands felt strangely light.
She looked happy.
Or at least… lighter.
I could feel it.
Even if she didn't say a word.
Near the edge of a muddy turn, she slowed. Voices drifted from up ahead—quiet at first, then clearer.
And that's when she heard it.
"—they say he used to be a noble."
A kid's voice. Curious.
Lyra slowed.
"Dad, can I give him an apple? He looks really hungry…"
"No, son," the father replied, curt and low. "Don't get involved.You listen to mommy and daddy and study hard or else you'll end up just like him."
Curiosity perked.Lyra peeked through a small break in the fence, curiosity tugging harder than her caution.
There, under a half-collapsed awning, was a man.
Or… something close.
His cloak was draped like it still believed in fashion. His posture was theatrical, chest puffed, one hand pressed to his heart. The other hand?
Giving a slow thumbs-up.
To a cabbage.
A single, slightly bruised cabbage sitting on a crate.
"Rise, brave one," he whispered solemnly. "The peasants mocked you. The merchants betrayed you. But I see your potential…"
Lyra stared. Studied him like she was ready to join his performance.
Silent, of course the cabbage didn't respond.
"I named you Sir Crispington the Third," he added, eyes shimmering with delusion. "You're my last loyal knight."
He wobbled slightly.
Looked over his shoulder.
Then leaned in and shushed the turnips.
Lyra blinked. Hard.
She tilted her head.
"He looks familiar but I cant remember who he is?"
"…Weird uncle trying to hipnotize vegetables…" she mumbled.
But her brain didn't want to remember.
So she didn't.
She just blinked, losing interest, turned, and walked away.
And somewhere behind her, the man whispered:
"Justice… never rots."
Then she walked on.
Into the trees.
Toward the stream.
Toward the grass and sky and silence.
Checked both ways.
Made sure no one was watching.
And there, she took me out of her pocket.
Placed me on the ground.
Like a real interrogation was about to begin.
She placed me gently on the ground in front of her.
Not tossed. Not swung. Not launched.
Gently.
And just stared.
Like I owed her answers.
That alone should've set off alarms.
She sat there in silence, knees tucked to her chest, chin resting on top.
No blinking.
No muttering.
No poking or spinning.
Just her, and me, and a weirdly emotional kind of quiet.
…What's with that look?
Like I'm supposed to say something dramatic?
Wait—hold on—does she actually want to "talk" to me?
Uh oh what should I do? I think I will pretend to be mute.…
but her looks and her puppy eyes were so cute…
My pride fluttered.
But I stayed still.
I wasn't falling for it.
Not yet. Let her stew.
Her lips parted.
"Umm… hello?" she said.
Her fingers fidgeted. Eyes flicked left, then back to me. One deep breath.
Her voice was soft. Hesitant. Like someone knocking on a door that used to be locked.
I said nothing.
A perfect, stoic dice.
Silent. Mysterious. Majestic.
Hmph.
Backsound: Victory Trumpet.
"…I think you can hear me," she said again, scooting just a little closer.
Still nothing.
(Oh, I was smirking inside.)
Taste the silence, child. Taste it deep.
She frowned.
Then sighed.
Folded her arms.
Tilted her head like she was considering something dangerous.
And mumbled—
"…Alright then. Time to find some chicken poop. Or dog poop. Or both."
WHAT—
Did I hear that right??
Did this tiny five-year-old menace just casually THREATEN ME with a brown bomb?!
She vanished for a moment.
Then returned.
With two hands carefully holding a big leaf—
and on that leaf, the legendary Sacred Offering of Doom.
No. No no no—
She raised it like a priestess about to yeet a cursed artifact at the altar of spite.
"OKAY OKAY HELLO HI YES SWEETIE PRINCESS I AM HERE I CAN TALK I HAVE A VOICE AND FEELINGS AND DIGNITY PLEASE PUT THE BROWNIES DOWN—!"
She grinned.
The sweetest, most evil little grin.
Then she gently picked me up. Smiled.
And YEETED ME INTO A ROCK.
"I KNEW IT! HA! SHINY ROCK FLYYYYYY!!"
RIP me. May my corners remain unchipped in heaven.
This is my life now.
I'm being emotionally blackmailed by a five-year-old.
But some part of me felt… lighter.
Glad, even.
Because now, I was sure—
she's back.
Back to her usual, unhinged little chaos.
The dice tumbled a few more times before Lyra finally stopped chasing it.
"Okay okay okay," she laughed, breathless and covered in grass stains. "That's enough flying for one day."
I wobbled upright with what little dignity I had left.
"Glad you're having fun," I grumbled. "I've suffered trauma."
"Aw, don't be a drama dice."
She flopped back onto the grass beside me. The sunlight spilled through the trees, warm and calm again. Birds chirped like the earlier poop-wielding incident had never happened. For a moment, we just existed in peace.
Then Lyra turned, hugging her knees.
"Should I… tell anyone about you?"
The question floated in the air, light but laced with weight.
I blinked.
Tell? About me?
The idea of being shown off like some magical pet made my imaginary eyebrows twitch.
"…Nah," I said finally. "Let's keep this our secret. For now."
Lyra nodded slowly. "Yeah. Feels special this way."
Silence again.
Then—softly—
"Thank you."
I blinked again. "For what?"
"For… yelling back at that man," she said. "Back in the market. You got so mad. I could feel it. Like you wanted to protect me and Dad."
Oh.
I froze.
Inside, something melted and exploded all at once. Like someone microwaved pride and joy together.
"…Yeah, well," I said, trying very hard to sound cool. "Someone had to."
She smiled.
I could feel the corners of her heart relaxing.
I tilted slightly, watching her.
"So only you can hear my voice?" I asked. "How do you even hear me?"
Lyra blinked. "I don't know. I just… do. Like your voice pops right into my head."
"Alright, let's try something. Reply to me using your mind—don't speak out loud. Someone might think you're crazy. Y'know, talking to a dice."
She giggled and nodded. "Um um, okay! Let me try!"
[Far away—not too far—]
Justice Wears Pink, known to himself (and only himself) as Lord Thumbs-up, adjusted his shimmering rose-colored battle cape. His armor gleamed like bubblegum-coated justice. The wind dramatically tousled his unnecessarily long bangs—bangs no mortal had asked for.
He had just finished his sacred Cabbage Knight Summoning Ritual™ (which mostly involved dramatic poses and aggressively inhaling the scent of coleslaw), when he spotted her—Lyra, sitting alone in the grass.
He squinted.
"She's… talking to herself again," he whispered gravely, placing a hand over his heart-shaped locket of valor.
"Poor kid. So small… already mental."
He shook his head solemnly, the tragic flute of fate playing in his mind.
A single cabbage leaf fluttered past, as if mourning.
💀💀💀
Back in the grass—
"Yes, I can hear you, Lyra."
This time, we really did talk mind-to-mind. Like… telepathy? Or a psychic hotline with better signal.
Weird, but it worked.
Then a thought hit me.
Wait—can she hear everything? Like… everything-everything?
Because I have two voices now:
One is me speaking directly to her.
The other… is my sacred, inner monologue.
If she can hear that... I'm doomed. Privacy: deleted.
No more judging snack choices or internally screaming without consequences.
Let's test it.
"Lyra, answer me if you can hear me," I spoke through the direct voice.
"Okay, sir!" she chirped back, in perfect mind-speak.
Good. So far so good.
"Lyra, how old are you?" I asked again, still using the direct line.
"I AM FIVE YEARS OLD—hehehe!"
Loud and proud. The echo of joy almost knocked my metaphorical ears off.
Now for the inner test.
What is your favorite vegetable to bully, Lyra? I thought carefully. No direct voice. Pure mind.
...
Silence.
Okay, so not cabbage. Got it.
Alright. Let's confirm the WiFi's still live.
I'll speak with the direct voice again—but this plan stays in my mind.
(Here we go.)
"Do you remember when Dad once used a potato instead of soap to bathe you, you ate it and said 'minty'?"
"Yeah, Dad was really dumb but it's fun hehehe" she giggled.
NOW—switching back to inner thoughts only.
I'm definitely sure Levin Frei likes you.
...
Silence. No response. Just innocent blinking. Unbothered. Untouched.
Oh, thank God. The coast is clear. I could finally unclench my imaginary shoulders.
We're safe. My mind palace remains unbreached.
I sighed in relief.
We should probably go home and call it a—
Suddenly, like a final anime duel cue:
⚔️ CHINGGG—! ⚔️
Eyes glint. Wind cuts. A single leaf spins dramatically in slow motion.
Last test.
Dad once put poop in your milk.
(Total lie. Probably.)
...
Still nothing—
Wait.
Her eye twitched.
Just for a fraction of a micro-pixel-second.
…She didn't respond, but she felt that one.
My imaginary sweat slid down my face—slowly—like a turtle on vacation.
I felt goosebumps.
Abort. Abort. My mental Google history is not ready for public release.
Before I could spiral further into psychic paranoia, she tilted her head, thoughtful.
"Hey… what are you, really?" she asked. "Like, are you a ghost? A spirit? A magical dice-hero?"
I paused.
I wasn't sure if I paused because the question was that deep…
or because I was still processing how a five-year-old just out-poker-faced my entire existence.
"…I wish I knew," I admitted. "I don't know what I am now. Or what I can do. Or why I'm here. But…"
My voice—inside and out—softened.
"I used to be someone. I had a life. Thirty-three years on Earth—that's what my world was called. Then… I died. Stupidly. And now I'm here. I think nobody even knows I'm gone."
A pause stretched between us. Long. Quiet.
The air felt different. Heavier. Not bad. Just... real.
"I think… I was reincarnated into this world," I finished.
She sat with it. No giggles. No silly retorts.
I could see her shoulder tensed when she heard the word died.
Then gently, her voice found its way through:
"So…umm do you have a name? What's your name?"
My name?
It hit me then—how long it had been. Almost five years since anyone had said it. Since I had said it.
The name sat heavy in my chest, like something half-remembered, half-forgotten. Dusty. Echoing from a world that no longer existed.
But she was looking at me—really looking.
Like I mattered.
Like I was me again.
And for the first time in five years… even the air felt different.
"…Cross," I said softly, the word almost catching in my throat.
Then louder, like I needed to believe it myself:
"My name is Dan Cross."
Saying it felt like breathing again.
Lyra stared.
"Dan?" she echoed, like I just told her my name was 'Spoon.'
"…That's it? No legendary suffix? No epic middle name like 'Stormblazer' or 'The Only One'?"
A terrible feeling bloomed in my gut.
"Okay then," she said brightly. "Little D."
"…Huh?"
"You heard me, Mini D!" she giggled, already skipping ahead in her imagination.
"Wait no—hold on—DO YOU EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT ARE YOU SAYING LITTLE GIRL??!!"
"Smol D it is!"
"I WILL NOT ANSWER TO THAT."
"Aww, Baby Dice Cross Crying-ton?"
"STOP—THIS—SLANDER—ARE YOU REALLY JUST 5 YEARS OL—"
But before I could finish my righteous rant, something shifted—
A tug from the inside, like a hook reeling me away from the world.
Light smeared across my vision.
My thoughts scrambled.
And just like that—
I was gone.
The world blurred.
I blanked out.