Teaching an eight-month-old to unconsciously regulate dinsional power output was exactly as impossible as it sounded, and after three days of trying I was ready to admit defeat except Hope was actually getting it which was sohow more terrifying than if she’d failed.
"Feel the power here." I guided her tiny hand to her chest where the hybrid magic pooled. "It’s always there. Always moving. But you can make it quiet. Small. Like this."
I demonstrated by dampening my own power signature—sothing I’d learned in the prison when hiding from The Root’s awareness—and watched Hope’s face scrunch in concentration.
Her power signature flickered. Dimd. Stabilized at about sixty percent of normal output.
"Good!" The praise ca out before I could stop it. "That’s really good, Hope. Now hold it there. Keep it quiet."
Keep it quiet. Right. I was teaching my eight-month-old daughter to suppress her natural magical signature because her existence was accidentally destabilizing reality.
Mother of the year award right here.
"How long can she maintain it?" Silas was taking notes like this was fascinating research instead of my daughter learning to hide herself.
"Unknown." Draven’s clinical answer. "She’s eight months old. Attention span is limited. We’re aiming for sleep regulation first. If she can maintain dampening while unconscious, that reduces nocturnal rift formation by approximately seventy percent."
Sleep regulation. Right. So Hope needed to learn to suppress her power in her sleep.
That sounded—actually that sounded really advanced for a baby but apparently my daughter was already breaking developntal norms so what was one more impossibility?
"Try sleeping with it quiet." I kept my voice gentle even though my brain was screaming that this was too much too fast. "Like a ga. Power goes to sleep when you do."
Power goes to sleep. Right. Anthropomorphizing dinsional energy for an eight-month-old.
Hope yawned—actual yawn, not magical phenonon—and her power signature dimd further as she drifted off in my arms.
Sixty percent. Fifty percent. Forty percent.
She was doing it. Actually regulating unconsciously while sleeping.
"Remarkable." Silas’s voice carried awe. "Eight months old and achieving power regulation that takes most supernaturals years to master."
Years to master and Hope had it in three days. That was—
Our daughter was extraordinary. Unprecedented. Powerful beyond any reasonable expectation.
And I was terrified of what that ant for her future.
"The rift formation is decreasing." Vera appeared with updated readings. "Since she started regulation training, micro-rifts dropped from seven per day to three. Still elevated above baseline but significantly improved."
Significantly improved because our eight-month-old was learning to hide herself. That should have felt like victory. Mostly just felt like more pressure on a baby who shouldn’t have to carry this weight.
"She’s doing great." Riven’s voice was gentle and through the bond I felt him trying to ease my guilt. "This is good for her too. Learning control. Managing her power. These are skills she’ll need regardless."
Skills she’ll need regardless. Right. Except most kids learned these skills over years, not compressed into days because dinsional stability required it.
"We’re pushing too hard." The admission ca out before I could stop it. "She’s eight months old. We’re teaching her advanced power regulation because reality is fragile around her. That’s—that’s too much."
That’s too much. But what was the alternative? Let the rifts keep forming? Risk a major breach?
"We take breaks." Kael’s compromise. "Training sessions stay short. She gets normal baby ti. Play ti. We don’t make this her whole existence."
We don’t make this her whole existence. Right. She got to be a baby too. Not just a supernatural phenonon we were trying to regulate.
The next week was careful balance—power regulation training for an hour each morning, then normal baby activities the rest of the day. Teleporting around the stronghold. Learning new words. Figuring out object permanence.
Normal developntal milestones happening alongside impossible magical achievents.
"Da!" Hope pointed at Kael while simultaneously freezing the toy in front of her because apparently she’d learned to multitask her magic. "Look! Freeze and talk!"
Freeze and talk. Right. Our daughter could now maintain temporal magic while having conversations.
That was—developntally that was insane. Neurologically shouldn’t be possible. Magically was unprecedented.
"Very good." Kael’s pride was obvious through the bond. "You’re getting so strong."
Getting so strong. She was. Absurdly strong. Frighteningly strong.
And she was eight months old.
What would she be like at two years? At five? At ten?
The dinsional scar stabilized over the next two weeks—not healed, just managed. Three micro-rifts per day beca the new baseline. Manageable. Sustainable.
We could live with that. Could prepare for small manifestations. Could handle the occasional threat.
It wasn’t peace. But it was—close enough.
"The Covenant wants to extend the trial." Vera’s request ca at week three. "Our research is showing promising correlations between bond-hybrid developnt and dinsional chanics. We’d like to continue observation through her first year at minimum."
Continue observation through her first year. That was—nine more months of researchers watching our daughter.
"Sa terms?" I needed confirmation. "No direct contact. No testing. All research requires our approval."
"Sa terms." She agreed. "With one addition—we’d like to train Hope in dinsional stabilization. Not now. When she’s older. Maybe two years. But if bond-hybrid magic can interact with rifts the way our data suggests, she might be able to actively heal the scar instead of just avoiding making it worse."
Actively heal the scar. Hope could potentially fix the dinsional wound her existence was currently aggravating.
That was—that changed everything.
"We discuss it when she’s older." My compromise. "No commitnts now. But we’re open to training that helps her and helps dinsional stability."
No commitnts now. Right. Because I wasn’t agreeing to anything for a two-year-old Hope when I had no idea what she’d be like then.
The Covenant accepted and settled into permanent monitoring positions, and honestly having five dinsional researchers constantly present was less invasive than I’d feared.
They stayed out of the way. Provided useful data. Didn’t bother Hope beyond passive observation.
We could work with that.
Hope turned nine months old and started forming complete sentences which was wild because most babies were still working on single words, but apparently bond-hybrid developnt continued to accelerate.
"Mama, why the sky blue?" She asked while we were outside watching fighters train.
Why the sky blue. Right. Toddler questions from a nine-month-old.
"Light scattering." I tried to explain physics to soone who could already manipulate spaceti. "Blue light scatters more than other colors so we see blue."
"Oh." She considered this. "Can I make it red?"
Can she make it red. Could she alter light scattering patterns? Probably. Should she? Absolutely not.
"Let’s keep the sky blue." I redirected quickly. "Red sky would scare people."
"Okay." She agreed then teleported to where Thorne was teaching combat forms. "Thor! Why grass green?"
Why grass green. She was in a question phase apparently.
Thorne looked at her then at with an expression that scread ’help’ because he was amazing at combat and terrible at explaining science.
"Chlorophyll." I called across the yard. "It’s a pignt. Makes plants green."
"Oh." Hope processed this. "Can I make it purple?"
Can she make it purple. Our daughter wanted to change fundantal properties of plant biology.
"No purple grass." Thorne’s answer was simple. Firm. "Grass stays green."
"Why?" The inevitable toddler follow-up.
"Because Thor said so." He picked her up and she giggled like that was the funniest thing ever.
Because Thor said so. Right. That was apparently sufficient reasoning when you were nine months old and your father was a giant intimidating wolf.
The dinsional scar stayed stable through week four. Three micro-rifts per day. No major manifestations. The Covenant researchers seed pleased with the data.
We’d achieved—not peace exactly. But manageable stability.
Life with a bond-hybrid daughter who could manipulate reality and asked constant questions about why things were the way they were.
Life with dinsional researchers monitoring our every move.
Life with an alliance of fifteen hundred fighters and democratic governance and actual civilization.
It was chaotic and exhausting and sotis overwhelming.
But it was ours. We’d built it. Protected it. Made it work against impossible odds.
And watching Hope teleport around asking why the sky was blue while Thorne tried to explain photons to a nine-month-old—
This was victory. This mont. This impossible family existing in the civilization we’d built from ruins.
Worth everything. Every sacrifice. Every loss. Every impossible choice.
Worth it for this.
User Comments
0 comments from readers