The days had grown quieter in Maerrin.
Not with stillness, but with fulfillment. Emil's mornings were marked by the rhythmic hum of wooden blades clashing and parries called out by Raphael in a steady voice. Afternoons were spent tracing mana through tree roots and whispering to fireflies with Liz, who had long since stopped pretending he was merely gifted.
He was more than gifted.
He was becoming.
And that frightened both his mentors—though neither would say so aloud.
It came to a head on a windless afternoon, after Emil had conjured a containment circle around a stray fox purely from instinct—no words, no sigils, no scrolls. Just intention.
Raphael sheathed his blade. Liz set her book down without a word.
They exchanged glances. The kind shared between soldiers before a battle. Or parents before telling a child that the world isn't always kind.
That night, they knocked gently on Alexander and Sophia's door.
The couple welcomed them in with warm bread and herbal tea, but the tension at the table was undeniable. Emil had gone to bed hours ago. The fire crackled low. Sophia's hands stayed folded, unmoving.
It was Raphael who spoke first.
"Your son has outgrown us."
Alexander frowned, setting down his mug. "He's still just a boy."
"A boy who could disarm a guard captain and split a stone with a wooden blade," Raphael said. "I've trained knights with less instinct. Less understanding."
Liz leaned forward, her voice softer but more urgent. "He doesn't channel mana. He is mana. He listens to it like it sings to him. That kind of gift… it's not natural. It's beyond even me."
"We've taught him all we can," Raphael added. "And he's only just begun."
"Which is why we're here," Liz said. "There are places—institutes in the Capitol—where he could be nurtured. Studied. Protected. He needs access to knowledge we don't have."
Alexander's jaw tightened. Sophia's expression darkened.
"Maerrin is our home," she said softly. "And the Capitol… it's not made for boys like Emil."
"You mean commoners," Raphael said gently.
Sophia nodded. "There are rules there. Expectations. Nobility. Bloodlines. He'll be seen as a curiosity at best, a threat at worst."
Alexander sighed. "We've heard stories. Back alley duels. Children pressed into noble houses. Those who shine too brightly tend to draw blades instead of praise."
Liz shook her head. "I know the risks. But I also know what happens when power goes untrained. The world doesn't get smaller, Alexander. It grows teeth."
"We are not ignorant of that," Sophia replied. "But we're his parents. And we won't throw him into the mouth of wolves because we fear the wind howling beyond the hills."
"I've spent my whole life chasing magic," Liz said. "He'll surpass me before he's ten. Raphael has said the same. We're not offering this out of pride. We're doing this because we're afraid. Not of him. But of what will come for him."
Alexander looked to the fire. The light danced in his eyes.
"And if that danger finds him in the Capitol?" he asked. "Without us? What then?"
Raphael's voice was low. "Then we'll be there. We aren't offering to send him alone. We'd go with you. Help you settle. Watch over him."
Sophia looked away. Her knuckles were white.
"We're not ready," she whispered. "He's six. He still chases butterflies and plays with carved animals. He still sleeps between us when there's thunder. Let him have a few more years beneath the stars."
The room fell silent. Even the fire seemed to retreat.
Liz looked down. Raphael didn't argue further. There was nothing else to say.
Alexander exhaled, the decision final in his tone.
"Not yet," he said. "He's only six. Let him grow a little longer under an open sky."
Sophia smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.
"One day," she said. "But not yet."
---
It began with the screams.
Faint at first—ripped from the wind like something that didn't belong. Then louder. Urgent. Shattering the stillness of Maerrin's quiet night like a hammer to glass.
Alexander woke with a start.
Sophia was already sitting up beside him, breath held, eyes wide.
The second scream was closer.
He was on his feet in seconds, pulling on his coat and reaching for the iron short sword, kept under the bed, he hadn't touched in years. He looked to Sophia, to the fear blooming in her eyes.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't open the door for anyone but me."
"Alexander—"
"I have to find Liz And Raphael. They came to the village at my behest, I need to make sure they are safe. Lock the back. Go now."
Sophia stifled her objections despite her fear and chose to be following of Alexanders logic, she grabbed his wrist. "Be careful."
"Always."
After a quick kiss to reassure her, he was gone.
---
The village burned.
Fires crackled along the outer houses, smoke curling black against the red-tinged moon. Shadows moved like insects through the streets—figures, armed and howling, dragging screaming bodies into the dirt. The air stank of blood, smoke, and something darker: the scent of ruin.
Escaped prisoners—filthy, half-mad, desperate.
They had come with blades and broken chains, and their hunger for violence had found the quietest place it could ruin.
Alexander sprinted through the narrow streets, boots slapping stone slick with ash and blood. He turned the corner into the square—and froze.
Raphael was already fighting.
He stood alone, framed by firelight, a longsword in hand that gleamed silver beneath the moon, even as it dripped red. Three bodies lay at his feet, unmoving. His coat was torn at the sleeve. Blood darkened his ribs. His eyes—cold and clear—never stopped moving.
Another man rushed him from the side.
Raphael stepped into the swing, blade flashing. The attacker's head twisted unnaturally before collapsing, spine severed.
A second followed with a makeshift club. Raphael ducked, slammed his shoulder into the man's chest, and drove his sword through his gut before twisting it free.
Two more charged together, screaming, blades high. Raphael blocked the first, sidestepped the second, and swept his leg in a low, brutal arc that sent them both to the ground. He finished them without hesitation—one thrust, one slash.
Alexander could barely breathe.
A sixth man ran in with a rusted axe. Raphael let the axe graze past, then slammed the hilt of his sword into the man's temple, dropping him like a sack of grain.
Another tried to flee. Raphael hurled his blade—clean and practiced. It pinned the man to a post like a crucifixion.
Eight.
The square fell quiet but for the crackle of flames and Alexander's ragged breath.
Raphael retrieved his sword and turned. His voice was steady.
"They came from the ridge. Stole horses from the Eastway. No one stopped them."
Before Alexander could speak again, a deafening crack of magical force echoed from the northern edge of the village.
"The granary," Raphael muttered. "That's Liz."
Alexander turned, heart racing, and sprinted toward the burst of light.
He found her standing in the road before the granary, staff glowing with pulsing blue fire. A wide arc of scorched earth surrounded her. Bodies lay scattered—smoldering, groaning, broken. Three more attackers hesitated in the shadows beyond, reluctant to challenge the storm she had become.
"Back!" she roared, thrusting her staff forward. A wall of compressed wind slammed the remaining attackers into a fence, shattering it like dry wood. They didn't rise.
Her hair clung to her face with sweat and soot. Her robes were singed at the edges. But her eyes burned with fury.
"You!" she snapped, spotting Alexander as he skidded to a stop.
"Where's Sophia? Where's Emil?"
Alexander gasped for breath. "I—I came looking for you, and Raphael—"
Liz instantly understood his intentions, as well meaning as they were, yet with worried anger building inside her, she strode toward him, jabbing a finger into his chest.
"You idiot. You weren't made for this! This," she gestured to the carnage around her, "isn't your fight. Not tonight. Not like this. You should be home. With them."
"I had to—"
"No," she snapped. "You wanted to help. That's noble. But don't be a fool. This village isn't defenseless... But your family? They only have you."
Alexander stared at her, chest heaving.
She softened, just slightly. "Go home, Alexander. You're not failing them by not taking care of us, You're failing them by not being where you're needed most."
He didn't argue.
Didn't nod.
He just turned—and ran.
Toward home.
Toward the part of the world that mattered more than any other.
---
Back at the cottage, the world was already shattering.
The front door had been kicked in. It was a seemingly nicer home compared to the rest of the village so there was no doubt plenty of value within.
Two men—wild-eyed, snarling—had found their way inside. One held a chipped blade, stained from the blood of villagers. The other, a rusted axe, still dripping. Their boots crushed broken toys beneath them. Their eyes scanned the room like jackals.
And between them, small and barefoot, stood Emil.
His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts. His eyes were wide, glassy. Not with fear—something stranger. A stillness.
And then—he heard it.
Not with his ears.
With something deeper.
A soundless scream beneath the fabric of the world. A pressure, ancient and grieving. The voice of the earth, the wind, the mana that bled from every tree and stone. It was crying—not for help, but for vengeance.
The axe-wielding man stepped forward with a sneer, eyes full of lust and a mind filled with every perversion conceivable as he inched his way towards Emil.
"Hey, boy—come here."
He raised the weapon.
And the light in the room changed.
The shadows pulled inward.
The air cracked like thunder.
Mana surged—untamed, furious, older than language. Emil raised his hand, not in defense, but in answer. His eyes, glowing faintly green, locked onto the men.
The first died before he could blink.
His body lifted from the floor, twisted backward, spine snapped like dry wood, then flung through the far wall in a bloom of splinters and fire.
The second after recovering from the initiql shock if seeing this, screamed in anger, raising his blade—only to freeze mid-motion. His limbs contorted as if strings controlled him, bones warping inward with sickening crunches. Blood ran upward from his mouth, eyes wide with a silent, begging terror—then he, too, was reduced to ruin.
Smoke poured from their corpses.
The wall behind them charred black.
Emil stood in the center of it all, the mana still swirling around him, cracking the very stone beneath his feet. His hand trembled. His lips parted.
And then he collapsed to his knees, gasping.
He stared at his hands.
Then at the blood.
And finally, he wept—aware yet unaware of his actions. Defending oneself was appropriate even to the point of taking life, yet deep guilt blossomed within.
A child again.
Alone in a house full of death.
He wailed at what he had just done.
---
Behind the house, the shed door hung open.
Alexander nearly stumbled over the threshold, breath ragged, the weight of dread anchoring his steps. Moonlight spilled in uneven shafts across the yard.
And there—half-hidden in the tall grass—was Sophia.
She was slumped against the shed, her dress torn and drenched in blood that painted the earth beneath her like a crimson flower. Her hair was matted. Her breaths shallow, each one a stuttering gasp pulled from collapsing lungs. One hand clutched her side where something jagged had torn through flesh and bone. The other still held a bloodied garden trowel.
Beside her lay a man—broken, lifeless. She had fought him. And won.
But the price had been everything.
Alexander dropped to his knees beside her, voice strangled. "Sophia!"
Her eyes fluttered open. She tried to smile. "You're late, merchant."
Tears spilled down his cheeks as he cradled her face. "No, no, no—stay with me. Stay awake. Help is coming."
"There's… no help," she whispered. Her lips were pale. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. "It's too late, Alex."
He shook his head, frantic. "Don't say that. Gods, please. You're stronger than this. You always have been."
She coughed, winced, and reached up to cup his face, smearing his cheek with her blood.
"I dreamed of our life together… before I ever knew your name," she said. "I dreamed of the quiet… the orchard… our boy's laughter. You gave me everything I never thought I'd have."
"You still have it," he begged, his voice cracking. "You have it. Just hold on. For Emil. For me."
Her gaze shifted past him, to the small figure trembling in the doorway.
Emil stood there, blood on his hands, ash clinging to his skin. His eyes were wide, broken.
Sophia reached toward him. "Come here, my sweet boy."
He ran to her, dropping beside them, sobbing as he touched her trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "I didn't mean to… I didn't know—"
"Shhh," she soothed, even as her voice frayed like torn silk. "You protected yourself… like you should have. Like I hoped you would."
"I don't want you to go," Emil cried.
"I know," she whispered, brushing his hair back. "But the world… the world needs you more than I do now."
Alexander held her tighter, forehead pressed to hers. "I can't do this without you."
"Yes, you can," she murmured. "Because our love made you strong. And now, you have to be that strength for him."
She pulled Emil close with her last strength, wrapped her arms around both of them—husband and child.
Her voice trembled, barely audible now. "Grow strong… grow wise… and be brave when I cannot be."
Her hand slid from Alexander's cheek.
Her breath slowed.
And in that embrace, in the arms of the man who loved her and the son she had brought into the world, Sophia exhaled for the last time.
A final kiss on Emil's brow.
A final breath.
And then… she was gone.