Chapter 2: Return of the Light
Rain pounded against the windows of the van Ambrose manor. The storm had been raging all evening, much like the storm on the night Grim was born three months ago.
"Waaaaah!" Grim cried, not because he was hungry or needed changing, but out of sheer frustration.
"Fucking hell, why can't I just talk?" he thought, his adult mind trapped in this useless infant body.
[Your vocal cords are undeveloped. Speech will come in time,] the voice in his head replied.
"Great, just fucking great. I'm stuck as a useless potato for how long exactly?" Grim thought back.
[Typically, human infants begin forming basic words around 12 months. Complete sentences usually develop between 18 and 24 months.]
"Kill me now. Again."
Sera, the elderly servant, lifted Grim from his cradle. "There, there, young master. The storm frightens you, doesn't it?"
"The storm doesn't frighten me, you old bat. I just want to be able to wipe my own ass," Grim thought, though all that came out was a string of unintelligible baby noises.
Sera carried him downstairs where two men sat by the fire. One was his father, Rowan van Ambrose, his face gaunt with grief and worry. The other was Brother Tomas, a cleric from the Capital who had been hired to check Grim's health and magical potential—a standard practice for noble families, even disgraced ones.
"Is he still fussing?" Rowan asked, not looking up from his drink.