Two days.
Just two days until the grand event. The ceremony, the day I'd finally be given a name. A real name, not just giggles and nicknames. My name. My birthday. My moment.
I'd never felt more alive.
I galloped down the hall barefoot, wearing a self-fashioned crown made from carrot tops and twine. It was crooked, it itched terribly, and it smelled like damp earth... but that was the price of authority.
"Mum!" I called out, sliding across the wooden floor with the grace of a drunken squirrel. "Where's Dad?"
Lisa glanced up from the kitchen hearth, her sleeves rolled, her hands coated in flour and honey. She was flipping flatbreads with the kind of love only mothers and saints possessed.
"He's in the shed, sweetie," she said with a knowing smile. "Why? Did you make another list?"
"Not just a list," I said, holding up a scroll I'd made from some unused parchment and a bit of hay glue. "A declaration."
I marched outside with royal determination, wind blowing my oversized tunic like a cloak, and stormed into the shed where Dad was hunched over a wooden stool, fixing a wheel spoke.
He barely had time to look up before I slammed the scroll down in front of him.
"My birthday list," I announced. "Signed, sealed, and entirely reasonable."
He squinted, unrolling it. "...Five types of pie, three different swords, a cart, and... wait—is this a pet squirrel?"
"Optional," I said quickly. "But preferred."
He raised a brow. "And you'll accept turnips as down payment?"
I nodded solemnly. "I'm nothing if not fair."
Dad let out a soft laugh, wiping his hands. "Alright then, Manager."
That's right. Not princess today.
Today, I was Manager Aria—Master of Birthdays, Ruler of Lists, Commander of Decorations.
My next stop? The field, where my loyal minions were tangled in some primitive game involving a rock and two sticks. Tomlin was chewing on a leaf. Freya had somehow tied her braid to a branch.
I cleared my throat.
"Attention! Gifts. I require them."
Freya blinked. "Why?"
"Because I'm turning six, I'm becoming a real human, and also because I said so."
Tomlin scratched his nose. "What if we forget?"
"Then I'll share your secret loud even the mountain goats will tremble."
That got them. Freya saluted. "Yes, ma'am!"
Satisfied, I returned to the house to inspect the hall.
"Decorate!" I ordered the empty room, then personally taped two lopsided ribbons to the back of a chair and collapsed dramatically onto the sofa.
Mum entered, drying her hands on her apron. "Two ribbons and a nap already?"
I groaned. "I worked hard. Managing is exhausting."
She laughed and pushed a pillow under my head. "You'll make a fearsome queen one day."
"No, no. Queen is next month. Right now I'm a manager."
From the doorway, Dad called out with a mischievous grin. "Manager Aria! I've got a challenge for you."
I sat up. "Speak."
"If you clear all the boxes from the guest room—all of them—I'll get you the gift at the very top of your scroll."
I gasped. "The cart with a tiny seat and an even tinier bell?"
He nodded.
I clapped once. "I accept."
The guest room was chaos. Wooden crates of varying sizes stacked in corners and across the floor. Most were small, light, full of old cloths or bits of parchment.
I dove in like a soldier going over the trenches. I kicked. I hauled. I shoved.
Box after box, I cleared them like a miniature storm.
Then… I met The Box.
Twice my size. Dusty. Old. Silent and smug like a sleeping bear.
I narrowed my eyes.
"You think you're better than me?"
I squared my tiny shoulders and gave it a mighty push.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
One more, and I practically threw my whole soul into it.
My arms trembled. My breath grew shallow. This was the first time—the very first time—I was doing hard labor in this little body.
It was like lifting a mountain with toothpicks.
I flopped on the floor, panting. My arms burned. My knees ached. I wasn't used to this kind of effort anymore—back when I was Aria Clarke, I hadn't lifted anything heavier than a wine bottle.
But this was personal now.
I stood again, teeth clenched, sweat on my brow.
One last push.
I screamed a mighty war cry that probably sounded like a hiccup.
Then it happened.
A sudden chill on my wrist.
Something moved.
I looked down.
Purple smoke—thin and swirling—curled from under my skin. Like mist wrapped in a dream.
I blinked.
"What the...?"
Before I could even flinch—
BOOM.
An explosion burst out like thunder cracking through wood. I was thrown backward, tossed like a ragdoll, and slammed against the far wall with a thud.
My ears rang. My lungs wheezed.
I coughed, opened one eye, then both.
The box?
Gone.
No. Worse.
Ashes.
My heart stopped. It wasn't even on fire anymore. It was... obliterated. The floor smoked like it had just given birth to a dragon.
I stared at my wrist. I wiggled my fingers. Everything was still there, but something was... humming.
And then the footsteps.
Mum burst in first, her face pale. "ARIA?!"
She scooped me up instantly, her hands all over, checking for bruises, cuts, missing limbs. Her voice was frantic.
"What happened? What did you do?"
Dad rushed in behind her. "What in the world was that sound?"
I blinked, sitting in her lap, dazed and covered in soot.
"I... I jumped really hard. And... uh... the box flickered. Then the box opened and I hit the floor."
Mum hugged me tighter. "You scared me half to death! Don't ever do that again, do you hear me?"
I nodded, heart still hammering.
Dad crouched beside us, eyeing the ash. He wasn't smiling now. His expression was quiet. Thoughtful.
But then he looked at me—and gave a small grin.
"You really wanted that gift, huh?"
"I did..." I murmured.
He chuckled softly and ruffled my hair. "Alright, you win. My strong, stubborn, unstoppable little princess. I'll bring you all the gifts on your list."
All of them.
That night, after a long bath and an even longer scolding-while-hugging from Mum, I lay in bed with a little cloth poultice tied around my forehead.
She dabbed it gently with something that smelled like crushed mint and lavender.
I kept my eyes closed.
But my wrist still tingled.
Hours passed.
Sometime in the night, my eyes opened.
Not to my cozy ceiling.
Not to my bed.
To darkness.
Black. Empty. Cold.
No sound. No scent. No breath.
Just me.
A little girl standing barefoot on nothing.
And then, slowly—far ahead—two eyes opened.
Sapphire blue.
Glowing like moonlight trapped in glass.
A deep voice cracked the silence like ice breaking on a lake:
"Greetings, Aria Clarke."
My throat tightened.
I wasn't breathing.
I wasn't moving.
I wasn't dreaming.
I was here.
And someone... knew my name.