The moonlight filtered in, soft and silver, but it did nothing to silence the voice that echoed in my head. Not mine. Iserra’s.
“Your Majesty... someone said it. Out loud. In front of the King. That you should be killed.”
Yeah. That little bedtime story had haunted me more than anything else. And I used to live in a world with tax season and online dating.
The idea that someone, some noble in silk pajamas and powdered wigs, had suggested murdering a literal baby—me—in front of my dad… It wasn’t just terrifying. It was insulting.
“Who even does that?” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Like—what happened to regular noble behavior? Scheming slowly? Poisoning teacups? At least hire a bard to make it dramatic.”
My breath fogged in the moonlight. I looked around the lavish royal nursery—gold trim, plush cushions, guards somewhere outside pretending this room was impenetrable—and felt no safer.
If someone could say it in front of the King… how far were they willing to go in secret?
I sat up, cheeks puffed out in toddler fury.
Enough. I thought. Let’s see them try.
I tossed off my blanket and crawled over to my stash of “toys”—a glorious pile of random shiny things, scrap metal from the castle workshop, and at least one gear I may or may not have “borrowed” from a decorative suit of armor.
“Alright,” I whispered, dragging everything into a circle. “Let’s build something that says: ‘I may be small, but I will ruin your week.’”
“Kill bots,” I declared.
Narrator: Ah yes. Most children learn to crawl. Some learn to say “Mama.” Our boy here builds autonomous defense drones at 3 a.m. Honestly? Iconic.
I pressed my tiny palms together. The glow of magic shimmered between them.
Parallel Knowledge (∞): Online Item Creation (∞): Imagination Enabled
I closed my eyes and visualized them—sleek, round, and horrifying. Metallic orbs the size of apples, with blade-like legs and glowing red eyes. Fast. Silent. Deadly. Judgmental.
The energy pulsed through my fingertips and into the junk pile.
They clicked into existence.
STEALTH SPIDERS – KILL BOT SERIES
Appearance: Polished obsidian orbs with retractable legs. Crimson central eye. Judgy aura.
Movement: Wall-crawling. Ceiling-hugging. Sock-drawer-hiding.
Abilities: Camouflage. Needle darts. Hive mind. British accents optional.
Personality: Disapproving. Passive-aggressive. Probably listens to classical music while hunting.
Five bots assembled themselves and gave a collective blink.
I smirked. “Deploy and hide.”
They scattered into the corners of the room, vanishing like a good excuse during an interrogation. My heart thumped, finally a bit calmer.
“If anyone tries anything tonight,” I muttered, curling back into the crib, “they’re going to meet my emotionally unavailable robot children.”
Narrator: He’s ready for them. Too bad fate heard that as a challenge.
Creeeeak...
A sound. From the hallway. Slow. Deliberate. Not a guard.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
My spine turned to ice.
No one should be awake right now…
I dove behind the crib, whispering, “Stealth Spiders. Passive mode. Await command.”
The door creaked open.
A cloaked figure entered—silent, masked, and holding a dagger.
Nope. Not a drill.
He stepped toward the crib, unaware that the baby inside it was actually a very sophisticated glamour illusion I had created five seconds ago.
He raised the blade.
“NOW!”
The room exploded into crimson light.
Kill Bots: ENGAGE
They struck from the walls like vengeance incarnate. One latched onto his leg with a hiss of compressed gas. Another hit his shoulder with a dart. Sparks flew as the third bot got slashed mid-pounce.
He stumbled back, wild-eyed, bleeding, still fighting—until a spider blinded him with a laser flash.
With a desperate roar, the assassin hurled himself through the window, glass shattering, cloak billowing like a disgraced Batman.
And then—
- Horns blared from the towers.
- Fire-signals ignited across the walls.
- Boots thundered down the corridors.
- Seals lit up on every royal door.
- And Queen Elenwynn’s personal guard surrounded the nursery like a very annoyed bouquet of knives.
Narrator: That escalated quickly. Ten outta ten for chaos. Eleven for dramatic flair.
Then came the storm.
The door slammed open.
The King.
He was a vision of rage and bed-hair. Robe half-on, sword already drawn, murder in his eyes.
He saw the cracked window. The sparking bots. The clone in the crib. Then me—tucked in the corner, unharmed.
He scooped me up, clutching me close, then roared—
“WHO BREACHED THE ROYAL WARD?!”
The guards flinched. The floor cracked beneath his boot.
“Sire, we—we don’t know—”
“YOU DON’T KNOW?! MY SON—MY BLOOD—WAS TARGETED IN HIS SLEEP, AND YOU HAVE NOTHING?!”
He paced the room like a lion set on fire. Then his voice dropped:
“…And that merchant…”
Narrator: Uh-oh. Someone remembered a plot point.
“…The one who said we should kill him.”
He turned. “GUARDS! WAKE THE COUNCIL. DRAG THAT FAT MERCHANT HERE. NOW.”
They came in robes and bed-slippers, blinking at the torches.
The King stood at the throne—no crown, no script, just fury.
“Someone tried to assassinate the heir to the throne.”
Gasps.
“They knew his room. His guards’ schedule. And they dared act.”
He unsheathed his blade with a hiss that made a few nobles wet themselves on the spot.
“One of you… suggested exile. Fine. I listened.”
He pointed the blade at a trembling Bolgwin, now visibly regretting every meal he ever ate.
“But you whispered something darker.”
The merchant collapsed to his knees. “Please, Your Majesty—”
“I REMEMBER YOUR WORDS. You planted the seed. Tonight, it grew fangs.”
He faced the nobles.
“Let me make it clear: any whisper, any plot, any breath against my son…”
Flames danced in his eyes.
“…will be your last.”
The merchant fainted.
Nobody objected. Nobody breathed.
Back in the nursery, I lay in bed, wide awake.
One of the Stealth Spiders perched by my pillow, blinking calmly.
“…You saved me,” I whispered.
It blinked once. Then again.
Narrator: More loyal than nobles. Less sweaty than the King.
“Not murder spiders,” I corrected with a yawn.
“…Kill bots.”
It raised one leg in salute.
I smiled.
“Good job, boys.”
And in the shadowy corners of the palace, war had been declared.
By a baby.
With robots.