Page 12 of The First Child
The bed still adjusts to my body temperature and weight distribution. The lighting still shifts automatically based on circadian rhythms. The walls still emit harmonic frequencies designed to promote deep sleep.
This time, they actually work.
CHAPTER 4
SYLAS
Logic has governedmy existence for over a century. Spiritual discipline, emotional control, the careful balance between duty and desire that allows Zephyrian priests to serve their communities without becoming consumed by personal attachments. These principles have shaped every decision, every relationship, every moment of contemplation in my carefully ordered life.
Which makes it particularly unsettling that I’m currently standing in my own kitchen at dawn, staring at a container of human infant formula like it holds the secrets of the universe.
The instructions appear straightforward enough—combine powder with water at precise temperature, shake vigorously, test on wrist to ensure optimal warmth. Simple chemistry applied to nutritional science. Yet somehow, every attempt I make results in either scalding liquid that would burn Aniska’s tongue or a tepid mixture that resembles nothing so much as recycled shipboard gruel.
“Having trouble?”
Captain Blaxton—Hada—emerges from the residential wing wearing yesterday’s clothes and an expression of barely controlled amusement. Her hair is mussed from sleep, and there are pillow creases on one cheek that make her look younger than her thirty-five years.
“The temperature regulation appears more complex than anticipated,” I admit, gesturing toward my third failed attempt. “Zephyrian infants require only bio-synthesized nutrients that adapt automatically to physiological needs.”
“But Aniska’s half-human, so she needs the messy, imprecise version.” Hada moves past me to examine my setup, and I catch the scent of sleep-warmed skin and something indefinably human that makes my markings flicker with unwanted awareness. “Here’s your problem—you’re overthinking it.”
She takes the container from my hands with casual efficiency, her fingers brushing mine in a contact that sends unexpected warmth up my arm. The empathic bond she formed with Aniska last night seems to have heightened her natural telepathic sensitivity, creating ripples of sensation every time we touch.
“Body temperature, not scientific precision,” she explains, testing the formula against her wrist with movements that speak of practiced competence. “Babies are surprisingly adaptable, as long as you don’t poison them or set them on fire.”
“Reassuring.”
“I thought so.” She hands me the corrected bottle, and this time I’m careful to avoid direct contact. “Where did you learn infant care techniques anyway? I thought Zephyrian priests focused on spiritual guidance.”
“We do. But all adult members of the community share responsibility for child-rearing. I’ve simply never had occasion to apply theoretical knowledge to practical situations.”
What I don’t mention is how completely unprepared I feel for every aspect of this experience. Not just the technical challenges of caring for a hybrid infant, but the emotional chaos that seems to follow Hada like an atmospheric disturbance. She moves through my ordered space with unconscious grace, disrupting carefully maintained equilibrium in ways I can’t predict or control.
It shouldn’t be possible for one human woman to affect my mental state so dramatically. I’ve spent decades learning to maintain inner stillness regardless of external circumstances. Yet every interaction with her leaves me slightly off-balance, as if she operates according to laws of physics that don’t apply to anyone else.
“Good morning, beautiful girl,” Hada murmurs as Aniska stirs in her carrier, silver-flecked eyes focusing with remarkable alertness for someone so young. “Ready for breakfast?”
The empathic field that radiates from the child has transformed completely since last night’s healing session. Where before there was chaos and distress, now I sense contentment layered with curiosity and an unmistakable feeling of safety. The traumatic memories are still there—grief that profound doesn’t simply disappear—but they no longer dominate her consciousness.
“She’s stronger,” I observe, moving closer to study Aniska’s remarkably alert expression. “The empathic integration appears stable.”
“Is that good?”
“It’s unprecedented. Hybrid children typically require months of careful development before their telepathic abilities stabilize. Aniska has achieved in one night what should take half a year.”
Hada lifts the baby from her carrier with movements that have gained confidence overnight, settling her against one shoulder while testing the formula temperature once more. “Maybe she just needed the right motivation.”
“Or the right empathic partner.”
The words emerge without conscious thought, and I immediately regret their implications. Hada looks up sharply, her blue eyes searching my face for meaning I’m not prepared to explain.
“Partner?”
“Empathic development requires connection,” I clarify, though the explanation feels inadequate. “Zephyrian children bond initially with their parents, then gradually expand their telepathic awareness to include the broader community. Aniska lost her primary connections before she was ready, but your bond provides the stability she needs to continue growing.”
“So, this is permanent? This thing between us?”
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with implications neither of us is ready to examine. Because it’s not just about Aniska anymore—the empathic connection Hada formed with the child seems to extend to me as well, creating a three-way link that defies every principle of Zephyrian telepathic theory.
