Every night since the day he got that book, after the last guest had gone to sleep and the inn had settled into its creaky silence, Ryan would get into his cellar. There, hidden beneath a loose wooden board in the far corner, lay his secret treasure—the book the mage had left behind.
He would light a stubby candle and carefully unwrap the old cloth. The leather cover still gave off that faint scent of ash and pine—and he felt the same quiet thrill as the first time he found it.
Ryan couldn't read the words inside. Not yet. Letters danced before his eyes like a language from another world. Sometimes he'd stare at a single page for minutes, hoping the shapes would somehow speak to him. But they never did.
Still, he flipped through it every night, memorizing every illustration—stones floating in midair, fire erupting from hands, shadows moving like animals, winds swirling into rings, glowing symbols in the sky. Each page felt like a glimpse into something sacred, something forbidden.
He wished he could understand it. Wished he had the gift of reading, like the noble children surely did in their grand towers and proper schools. He had asked his parents once, timidly, if he could learn to read. They had only exchanged glances, and Mira had muttered, "Not in this kingdom, love. Not for people like us."
It had been a sort of heartbreak.
But still, Ryan held on to hope. He believed, deep down, that maybe—just maybe—this book had found its way to him for a reason. He didn't know what that reason was yet. But if he could just understand even a single word… it might change everything.
So he returned to it night after night, not because he expected to learn magic, but because it made him feel like he still had a chance.
A chance to become more than what the world had decided for him.
One day, the inn felt like any other day—noisy, and half-full with weary travelers. The hearth crackled in the corner, and the scent of root stew hung in the air. Ryan was at the back, scrubbing dishes with sleeves rolled high and fingers numb from cold water. But his ears were sharp, always catching bits of the conversations that floated in from the main hall.
That's when he heard it—a voice louder than the rest, slurred with ale and confidence.
"I've *been* there, I tell you," the drunk man barked. "Caelondia! The continent beyond the sea! You wouldn't believe it—people usin' magic like it's bread and butter. Lanterns floatin' on their own! Wagons pullin' themselves! Even the barmaids pour ale with a flick o' the finger!"
Laughter erupted around him—mocking, dismissive.
"Yeah right," someone jeered. "And I've got a dragon in my pantry!"
More laughter. Someone clapped the drunk on the back, others rolled their eyes. But Ryan, half-hidden behind the kitchen doorway, stood still. Every word wrapped around his heart like a vine. *Magic… used in daily life?*
Then came the heavy tread of his father's boots.
Harwin walked over to the man, his jaw clenched tight. "That's enough," he said in a low voice. "You want to spout fairy tales, do it somewhere else."
The drunk blinked. "Wha—? I'm just tellin' the truth, friend."
Harwin stepped closer. "This isn't a place for talk like that. Not here. Not with these walls listening."
Something sharp flashed in the drunk's eyes, but it vanished under the weight of Harwin's glare. There was a brief argument—low voices, sharp words—and then a loud scrape of chair legs. Harwin grabbed the man by the arm and hauled him toward the door. A few patrons cheered. Others muttered under their breath, calling Harwin a coward for shutting down harmless talk.
But Harwin didn't flinch. He closed the door behind the man and stood there a moment, hands balled into fists.
Ryan had seen everything. His father's silence. The anger. The fear.
He knew better than to ask Harwin about it—his father had no room for stories. But curiosity burned too bright in his chest, so later that evening, he approached Mira while she was sweeping by the counter.
"Mama," he asked softly, "where's Caelondia?"
She paused mid-sweep. For a moment, she didn't answer.
Then she sighed and said, "It's west of here, across the sea. They call it the Central Continent. Bigger than Zeronthal, richer too. But that's all you need to know. Now go fetch more kindling."
But it wasn't *all* Ryan needed to know. It was only the beginning.
That night, after his chores, he stood by the window near the back hallway. Beyond the edge of the village, past the crooked rooftops and the muddy road, lay the sea—vast, still, unknowable. A few battered boats bobbed by the old port, tied down with frayed ropes and hope.
He squinted toward the horizon, but there was nothing to see—only blue fading into grey.
And yet… now he knew something was out there.
A world beyond Zeronthal.
A world where magic wasn't forbidden.
A world waiting.
A world beyond The Sea.
Since that night, something in Ryan had changed.
He began to listen more carefully—not just to the stories, but to the silences between them. To the tone of a traveler's voice. To the words people chose not to say. It was the only way someone like him, born a commoner in a closed-off world, could gather knowledge. He couldn't read books. He couldn't go to school. But he could *listen*.
Days passed, slow and uneventful. The inn carried on with its usual rhythm—clatter of dishes, creak of floorboards, the bitter smell of stew. But Ryan didn't grow restless. He was only nine. He still had time. His father often said that boys in Dunlowe became men at sixteen—when they could take up real work, earn their keep.
Maybe by then he'd be behind the bar like Harwin, wiping mugs and counting coins. The thought made Ryan's stomach twist. Not because he wasn't proud of his father—he was—but because he wanted something *else*. Something *more*.
And then, one ordinary morning, something changed.
Ryan was drying a plate when he heard the front door creak open. Five figures stepped into the inn, brushing off the sea wind from their cloaks. Ryan glanced up and blinked. They didn't look like the usual traders or farmers. Their clothes were fine—clean, layered in deep colors with metal fastenings and polished leather boots. Not quite like the royal mage he had seen, but still far above anything commoners wore in Zeronthal.
They spoke in low voices to one another, using a tongue Ryan didn't recognize—smooth and flowing, unlike the hard and clipped dialect of his homeland. He leaned forward slightly, the plate forgotten in his hand.
One of the men, taller than the rest and dressed in a deep blue coat with silver clasps, approached the counter. His voice was polite, smooth as riverstone.
"Good day to you," he said with a small bow. "My name is *Elandor Veylin*. I'm a merchant, come from *Caelondia* on business."
Ryan's heart skipped.
*Caelondia.* There it was again. That name. That place beyond the ocean.
His imagination lit up, flooding him with questions he dared not ask. What was it like? Did they really use magic in their daily lives? Did people there grow up reading books, casting spells, building wonders?
He said nothing, but his eyes locked onto Elandor, watching, absorbing every detail—from the way the man smiled, to the way he spoke with respect, like Mira was his equal.
That moment lingered in Ryan's mind long after the guests had gone to their rooms. He didn't know it yet, but something had begun to shift. A quiet thread had tied him to a distant land. A land he had never seen. A land he could now dream of.
And that dream… was just beginning.