I never imagined that I would someday begin to enjoy life—truly enjoy it. For so long, I had only clung to existence for the sake of the family who had loved me, but here I was, living as a monster in a world so foreign yet strangely captivating.
Life in this new form was an experience, a blend of discovery and adaptation that reshaped my understanding of what life meant to live. My parents—if that was the right word—played a significant role in this adjustment. My stoic and reserved father often acted as if my existence was of little consequence. Yet, in the quiet moments, I saw a flicker of something else in his gaze—a kind of pride or fascination, as though he marveled at the life he had helped bring into this world.
My mother, by contrast, wore her affection openly. Her warmth was boundless, and she rarely let me stray far from her watchful eyes—or her embrace, for that matter. Her love was an anchor, steady and reassuring in a world where everything else felt so uncertain.
Months passed in this new world, one whose name I had yet to learn. During that time, I began to adapt. The strange guttural sounds and growls that made up the language of these creatures became less alien to me, as though my body—this monstrous new form—had an innate ability to decipher them. Slowly but surely, I could piece together conversations, catching fragments of meaning in my parents' exchanges.
I learned that we lived in a village of monsters, isolated on an island far from whatever else this world held. It wasn't just a home; it was a sanctuary, hidden from the unknown dangers of the wider world.
My father, I discovered, was a formidable hunter. He often returned from his expeditions with the bodies of massive creatures clamped in his powerful jaws—beasts that would dwarf a human, though to him they seemed little more than prey. His strength was unmatched, his presence commanding, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe whenever he brought home his spoils.
My mother, on the other hand, was a master of magic. Her abilities were nothing short of extraordinary: she could conjure fire with a single breath, summon streams of water with a wave of her claws, and even shape the earth beneath her feet. Magic, something that defied every scientific principle I had once held dear, was a force as natural as breathing in this world.
I was captivated by it. Every spell, every display of her power, filled me with a sense of wonder I hadn't felt in years. It wasn't long before she noticed my excitement.
She began performing her magic more often when I was near, her actions deliberate yet unspoken, as though testing my reaction. My fascination never wavered, and soon she dragged my father into one of our conversations—or, rather, growling debates. I could only catch pieces of their argument, but it was clear she was trying to convince him to allow me to pursue magic, to nurture the spark of curiosity she had seen in me.
At first, he refused outright, his voice sharp with disapproval. He was adamant that I should follow his path, to hone the raw physical power that came so naturally to me in this form. Magic, in his eyes, seemed unnecessary, even frivolous. But my mother was relentless, and as time went on, my persistent interest in her craft began to wear him down.
Eventually, he relented, though not without compromise. I would learn magic, yes, but only if I also trained in the physical abilities he deemed essential for survival.
That was fine by me. It was more than fine—it was exhilarating. For the first time in this new life, I felt like I had a purpose. The idea of mastering both the strength of my father and the magic of my mother filled me with a determination I hadn't known I was capable of.
This new world, with its mysteries and challenges, was no longer something to fear.
It was an opportunity.