By now, I had been in this world for two full years. Two years old.

  Well, physically.

  Mentally? I was still the sharp, sassy, caffeine-addicted 25-year-old woman I used to be before fate decided to throw me into this pastel-painted countryside world like a bootleg reincarnation show.

  But hey, at least I landed in a wholesome farming village and not inside a dragon’s digestive system.

  They called the place Asthraith, and my current prison—I mean home—was a little walled village with the most cheerful name imaginable: Valley of Joy.

  Who names these things?

  It sounded less like a place people actually lived in and more like one of those knockoff air fresheners: “Welcome to Valley of Joy—now with more lavender mist!”

  Despite the name, life here had its moments. Especially when you had the vocabulary of a university graduate in the body of a toddler who could barely reach a doorknob.

  It made for very interesting conversations.

  I’d begun speaking early—way too early for comfort, apparently. Lisa, my adoptive mother, nearly dropped a clay pot the first time I strung a proper sentence together at a year and a half.

  “Mother, the sun is out. Can we not dry our clothes on the same line as the neighbor’s goat blankets?”

  She screamed.

  And fainted.

  Twice.

  It became a routine after that. Lisa tried to act normal, brushing my hair like everything was fine. Meanwhile, Harold, my father, would stare at me like he was mentally preparing to send me to the nearest monastery.

  Only old man Brenn, the village elder, seemed to love my freakish intellect.

  “By the gods,” he’d mutter with pride, leaning on his cane while I corrected his grammar mid-sentence. “This child will either rule kingdoms or destroy them!”

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  “Well,” I’d reply, adjusting my little shawl like a dignified scholar. “Can’t I do both?”

  At two years old, I was fluent in the local dialect—at least enough to insult people creatively.

  The other toddlers didn’t know what to do with me.

  Kid: “You’re my princess wife now!”

  Aria: [tilting head] “If I’m a princess, then this is clearly a horror story… and you're the plot twist no one asked for.

  They called me bossy. I preferred “The bossy”

  Most of my day was spent outdoors. The village was surrounded by lush wheat fields that shimmered gold under the sunlight. Farmers toiled under wide straw hats, sweating, laughing, singing, and sometimes arguing about cows like they were family members.

  My favorite part was watching Lisa work. She could harvest an entire row of wheat with one hand while balancing a basket and arguing with Harold about storing grain for winter. The woman was a multi-tasking monster—in the most awe-inspiring way possible.

  Meanwhile, I’d be there with my teeny legs, stomping between stalks and declaring, “This field is mine now.”

  They just chuckled.

  Because apparently, everything toddlers say is adorable.

  The most dramatic part of the village, though? The massive wall that surrounded it.

  I called it the “Big Beige Wall of Overcompensation.”

  It stretched higher than any building in town—solid stone with polished bricks, tall wooden gates, and guards stationed at the watchpoints like they were protecting a royal palace instead of a wheat kingdom.

  Naturally, I messed with them.

  Guard #1: “Miss Aria, again? Please step away from the perimeter.”

  Me: “Can’t. I’m training for my debut as a wall inspector.”

  Guard #2: “It’s dangerous out here alone.”

  Me: “Oh no. A toddler unsupervised? Who’s responsible for that—oh wait, it’s me.”

  They usually groaned, sighed, or just looked to the sky like maybe the gods would smite me if they prayed hard enough.

  I smirked and wiggled my fingers. “I’d love to chat more, but I hear the wind calling my name—and it’s asking me to climb that wall.”

  “NO!”

  They dragged me home. Again.

  Lisa stood at the door with crossed arms. Harold just facepalmed.

  Back home, the manor—yes, I lived in the largest house in the village, don’t be jealous—smelled like herbs and baked turnips.

  Lisa swept me into her arms. “You’ve been harassing the guards again.”

  “Just socially educating them.”

  “Did you throw rocks?”

  “Educationally.”

  Harold muttered something about “cursed children” and went to wash his hands.

  I flopped into the cushioned chair in the corner of the living room and looked out the window at the peaceful village.

  This place was simple, sure. But something told me there was more out there. Beyond the walls. Beyond the fields. Beyond the cows that blinked way too slowly to be normal.

  Asthraith had secrets.

  And I, Aria Clarke, self-declared Detective of Valleys planned to uncover all of them.

  One explore at a time.