Eight months old.
I had survived eight whole months in this world.
And in that time, I had accomplished many great things.
For starters, I could now sit up on my own. A major victory! No more awkwardly toppling over like an unbalanced sack of flour.
Second, I could crawl. Slowly, clumsily, and with the grace of a drunken turtle, but still—movement was movement.
And most importantly—I could eat now! Nanny had started feeding me baby food, and let me tell you, it was heaven. Sweet, mushy, glorious food. I had never experienced such luxury in my previous life.
Life was good.
Or at least, it was supposed to be.
But no, peace was a fleeting illusion in my luxurious yet perilous existence.
Why, you ask?
Because my so-called 'loving' Papa had recently introduced a dreadful concept to my royal routine.
Training time.
Yes, you heard me correctly.
