The world expanded considerably for Fin in his second year.
No longer confined to his cradle or the immediate vicinity of the nursery, he was now free to roam (or rather, toddle), wherever his unsteady legs would carry him.
It began tentatively, of course. A few wobbly steps, a sudden loss of balance, and an inevitable tumble onto the floor. But, Fin, driven by an insatiable curiosity and a growing desire for independence, persisted.
He practiced in secret, often rising before dawn when the household was still asleep, using the furniture as support as he navigated the quiet corridors. He’d push a small wooden chair across the room, his tiny hands gripping the back for balance, his blue eyes focused with intense concentration.
His determination paid off, gradually, his steps became surer, his balance more stable. He learned to anticipate obstacles, to adjust his gait, to recover from near falls.
Soon, he was no longer just walking; he was exploring.
The Aodh estate became his personal playground, each room, each corridor, each garden path a new territory to be mapped and investigated.
He ventured into the kitchens, watching the cooks prepare meals, his eyes wide with fascination as they chopped vegetables, stirred pots, and tended to the roaring fire in the hearth. He’d observe the scullery maids as they scrubbed dishes and cleaned surfaces, noting their efficiency and the way they worked together.
He explored the library, running his hands along the spines of the leather-bound books, marveling at the sheer volume of knowledge contained within those silent pages. He couldn't read the titles yet, but he could sense the power they held, the potential for learning and understanding.
But, what fascinated him the most was watching his father, Donovan.
Fin sat cross-legged on the damp earth, his breath barely stirring in the cool morning air. Before him, his father moved like a phantom, his sword gliding through the mist. Each step was precise, each motion honed by years of discipline. The steel whispered as it carved invisible paths through the air, the only sound accompanying the morning’s quiet.
Fin watched mesmerized. In his previous life, he had never seen anyone as graceful as Donovan. He had seen plenty of cheap Hollywood movies. But this was a different kind of power. His movements were not meant to impress, nor to defeat an opponent. They were controlled, methodical, the silent language of a man who had spent a lifetime mastering the sword.
A slow breath. A pivot. The blade swept in a downward arc, so fluid it seemed effortless. Fin knew better. He would try to mimic these movements with a wooden stick, but his toddler coordination failed him tremendously. His footwork uneven, grip unsteady, and swings clumsy. He had felt foolish for even attempting.
His father paused. The morning sun, still low, kissed the blade's edge, and it flared with light. He turned his head, a crooked smile quirking his lips as Fin felt a tingle in the air.
A miniature phoenix, born of pure fire, burst from his father’s hands. It danced around Fin's head in fiery loops, and Fin could only watch, spellbound. Twenty-one years old or not, the sheer reality of magic was breathtaking.
The little bird popped into a shower of glowing feathers than harmlessly fell onto Fin. Then powerful hands scooped Fin up from the ground.
“That’s all the show that you’re going to get from me today. Let’s get you back inside before your mother decides to show us who really rules our lands.”
Donovan’s POV
Donovan watched as Alaric fussed over Fin, his weathered hands adjusting the boy's collar with surprising gentleness. It was a sight to behold, the battle-hardened veteran melting like spring snow before the solemn child. The man who had faced down armies without flinching now completely disarmed by a two-year-old's unblinking gaze. Alaric maintained his legendary composure in all things, except when it came to the boy.
Though Fin sat patiently through Alaric's ministrations, his blue eyes never ceased their methodical scan of the chamber. They moved from the ornate tapestries to the glinting armor on the wall, cataloging every detail with unnerving precision. Such focus was rare in one so young. Where other children his age were whirlwinds of chaotic energy, Fin was a still pool reflecting everything around him.
"He's not like the others, is he?"
Cahira's voice cut through the morning quiet like a silver blade, soft but edged with worry. She stood beside him at the threshold, arms folded across her chest, her ruby gown catching the sunlight that streamed through the high windows. Her gaze never left their son.
"He's... focused," Donovan replied, the word feeling inadequate even as he spoke it. "Alert."
"Quiet," Cahira countered, her fingers tensing against the fabric of her sleeves. "Too quiet. He rarely babbles like the other children. Lady Elowen's daughter sings nonsense songs from dawn till dusk, but Fin... sometimes I wonder if he even hears us."Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Donovan chuckled, though the sound held a note of uncertainty. "He hears us. Make no mistake about that. He just doesn't care to respond unless he deems it necessary." He recalled the time Fin had located a hidden sweetcake after overhearing a single mention of its whereabouts days earlier.
Cahira's dark eyebrows arched high, the scar above her right brow, a reminder of battles long past, more pronounced with her skepticism. "And what, pray tell, does our two-year-old deem necessary? What great matters occupy that tiny mind?"
He shrugged, watching as Fin gently pushed Alaric's fussing hands away and straightened his own collar. "Who knows what wheels turn behind those eyes? But he's always analyzing, always... calculating."
She gave him a look, the one that usually preceded a lecture on his parenting methods. Her lips pressed into a thin line, jaw set in the stubborn angle that had first attracted him to her on the battlefield all those years ago.
"He's barely more than a babe, Donovan," she said, her voice dropping to ensure Fin wouldn't hear, though something told Donovan the boy missed nothing. "He should be playing, laughing, causing mischief. Not skulking around the gardens like a little shadow. The maids find him in places that a boy his age shouldn't even know exist. The library with its forbidden tomes. The guard tower with its precipitous heights. The armory with its deadly temptations."
"He's exploring," Donovan said, a touch of defensiveness entering his tone. He shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. "Learning his boundaries. Testing his limits."
"Or plotting something," Cahira muttered, only half in jest. Her fingers twisted the copper ring on her thumb. A nervous habit she'd developed since Fin's birth.
Donovan turned, placing his hands on her shoulders. The fine embroidery of her gown was rough beneath his calloused fingers. "Cahira, he's fine. He's advanced for his age, I'll grant you that. But he's healthy, he's strong..." He glanced at their son, who was now examining a small wooden figurine Alaric had given him, turning it over with methodical precision. "He's just... different."
"He's different," she insisted, her gaze not leaving Fin. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You see it too, don't deny it. The way he watches everything, everyone. The way he seems to understand conversations meant for adult ears. The way the castle dogs follow him like he's their master, not their playmate."
Donovan sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken concerns. "Aye, he's different. But is that so bad?" He brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his touch lingering. "He takes after you, sharp as a whip. Reading before most children can speak properly. And he has my focus, my... discipline."
"He's two," she reminded him, her voice cracking slightly. "He shouldn't need discipline. He should be stealing pastries from the kitchen and smearing mud on the tapestries."
"It's not discipline in the harsh sense," Donovan clarified, watching as Fin carefully placed the wooden figurine in exactly the same spot where Alaric had first set it. "It's... awareness. Control. Like a river that knows its own course."
Cahira softened a bit, her shoulders relaxing under his touch. "Well, I suppose it's better than him running headfirst into walls like Kilian did at that age." A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, crinkling the fine lines around her eyes.
Donovan laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "That boy was a terror. Still is, half the time. Remember when he tried to ride that wild boar that wandered into the lower field?"
"He's just... spirited," Cahira said, a fond smile gracing her lips. She leaned into Donovan's touch, seeking comfort. "He'll make a fine warrior, like his father. Brash and bold and beloved by all."
"And Fin?" Donovan asked, his gaze drifting back to his younger son, who was now engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with Alaric, his small hands gesturing with precise movements. "What will he be?"
Cahira's smile faded, replaced by that familiar worry that had carved permanent lines between her brows. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes, when I look at him, I feel like I'm looking at a... a stranger. Like he's not truly here, but somewhere else entirely, watching us from behind those eyes."
Donovan frowned, his arm tightening around her waist. "He's here, Cahira. He's just... observing. Taking it all in. Like a scout behind enemy lines."
"Or planning his escape," she said lightly, but the concern lingered in her eyes, darkening them like storm clouds. "The nursemaid said she found him on the castle wall last week, staring at the horizon as if he could see beyond it. When she asked what he was looking at, he only said, 'The sky'"
"He's not going anywhere," Donovan said firmly, turning her to face him fully. "He's our son. Our blood. And we'll be here for him, no matter how... different he might be."
Cahira turned, leaning into his embrace, her head finding the familiar spot beneath his chin. "I know," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But sometimes, I just... I miss my baby. The one who used to laugh when I tickled his feet, who would reach for me when he was frightened. Now he just... watches."
Donovan held her close, feeling a pang of sympathy. He understood her concern, even shared it to some extent. Fin's stillness, his unnerving focus, it wasn't typical for a child his age. But Donovan also saw a strength in Fin, a quiet determination that reminded him of himself during those long, lonely nights on sentry duty, when staying alert meant the difference between life and death.
"He'll be fine, Cahira," he whispered, kissing her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of lavender and smoke that always clung to her. "He'll be more than fine. He'll be... extraordinary."
Cahira pulled back, her eyes searching his, sunlight catching the gold flecks in her irises. "You really believe that? You truly think this... strangeness is a blessing and not a curse?"
Donovan met her gaze, his own unwavering. "I do. He has the potential for greatness, I feel it in my bones the way I feel a storm approaching. He sees the world differently, and that might just be what saves him in it."
Cahira's expression softened, a glimmer of hope flickering in her eyes like a candle flame in the darkness. "Then we'll guide him," she said, her voice regaining its usual strength, the voice that had commanded troops and counseled kings. "We'll teach him everything we know, and we'll help him become the best version of himself, whatever that may be."
"Together," Donovan agreed, squeezing her hands, feeling the familiar calluses that marked her as both warrior and woman.
Across the room, Fin looked up suddenly, his gaze locking with Donovan's. For a moment, something passed between father and son, an understanding, a recognition. Then Fin smiled, a rare, genuine smile that transformed his serious face into that of a child again. Donovan smiled back, and for that brief instant, all his worries melted away.