The days after Rannick's departure passed in quiet rhythm, each one bleeding into the next like smoothly like watercolors on wet paper.
Without his brother's steady presence he had quickly grown accustomed to, the house felt heavier. Their father barely moved from his spot in the corner, a permanent fixture among the shadows and empty bottles. He only stirred to drink more or mumble bitter words about the world owing him something, complaints that grew more slurred and incoherent during the day and more pronounced at night. The food was barely enough, rationed carefully to stretch their meager supplies, and most times, the silence hung thick as smoke, broken only by the occasional cough or the scrape of a bottle against the floor.
Despite all these, though it would have been a terrible circumstance for the old Xervia who was a child, for Jonathan who had now taken the role and person of Xervia fully, it was nothing, he was used to the quiet, he found comfort in the solitude.
That aside, Xervia spent most mornings outside, either wandering parts of the forest where Rannick had shown him the mushroom patches, or sitting under the crooked oak tree near the village square. The tree had been struck by lightning years ago, according to village gossip, but instead of dying, it had grown at an angle that made it perfect for leaning against. From there, he could watch people go about their daily lives, though there wasn't much to watch exactly, but from time to time, he would find an opportunity to get free food, rarely ever from being gifted than picking up leftovers here and there.
It was during one of those slow afternoons, when the sun hung lazy and warm above the village, that he overheard a group of boys, older than him but still in their early teens, walked past in rough linen uniforms that bore the unmistakable marks of hard use. Their clothes were patched in few places and most visibly faded, but they carried themselves with some kind of confidence.
If their matching uniforms didn't reveal that they were part of some school or something similar, their discussion did.
"Today's drills were brutal," one of them said, rotating his arm and wincing. "Master Velk made us cast until we passed out. I thought my mana channels were going to burst."
"You passed out. I was fine," another teased, his voice carrying the easy mockery of friendship. "You barely lit your stick. Looked like a dying candle."
"At least I didn't set my clothes on fire again," the first boy shot back, which sent the rest into fresh laughter.
"Ahh, shut up… I don't want to hear that from someone who might have to join the knight training."
Xervia perked up at the words drills, cast, master, knights... His curiosity was immediately piqued.
He got up from his spot under the tree and followed at a distance, his steps silent on the dirt path. When they slowed down near the village well to splash their faces with cool water, he gathered his courage and approached.
"Are you guys mages?" he asked. Since he was never a particularly socially awkward person, it wasn't as difficult.
The boys looked him over with the casual assessment of teenagers evaluating a younger child. One of them a boy with sandy hair and kind eyes, smiled. "What, you don't know about the mana school?" he said, his tone carrying curiousity more than mockery.
"No. It's not like that. I overheard you guys talking and wanted to ask. Maybe I can go there also," Xervia admitted.
"The school's in Crayhill," the tallest boy said proudly, puffing out his chest. "Half a day's walk east of the village. They teach anyone who can use mana proper technique, theory, even combat applications. Even you could try, if you're not totally mana-dead that is, though, I think you are too young."
Another boy elbowed him, grinning with the careless cruelty of youth. "Even mana-deads get a free lunch there. That's probably why he wants to go."
More laughter followed, but Xervia ignored the mockery. His mind clung to the important parts. There was a school that would offer for free, education, proper training in magic, and yes, lunch, which was more significant than they might realize for someone living on scraps and bland stale mushroom soups.
That night, he scraped together what food he could from their dwindling supplies, a heel of bread, some dried meat that had seen better days, and a few withered apples from the tree behind their house. He told his father he'd be going to Crayhill for the day, though he wasn't sure if it would be just one day or the beginning of something longer.
The man grunted and waved a hand dismissively, barely registering his presence through the haze of alcohol and self-pity. Xervia for one didn't care much for him, he felt no sense of attachment or care. The only reason he even said anything to him was out of his own sense of responsibility.
By dawn, Xervia was already walking, with the plan to reach his destination before dusk.