Three years passed like pages turning in a book.
Ren had learned to walk before his second birthday—much to his parents' surprise and his own relief. Being trapped in a crawling body with an adult mind had been its own special kind of torture. Now he could explore the cottage properly, though he still had to crane his neck to see over tables.
The morning light filtered through the kitchen window as he sat at the small wooden table, carefully turning pages of his father's primer. The letters were starting to make sense—not just shapes, but sounds, words, meaning.
"Ma-na," he sounded out slowly, finger tracing under the word.
"Good," his mother Mira said, setting down a bowl of porridge. "What's mana?"
"The... the thing that makes magic work?" He looked up at her hopefully.
She smiled—one of her rare, genuine smiles that made her whole face soften. "Close enough for now. Eat your breakfast."
His father Gareth wandered in from outside, brushing dirt off his hands. "Teaching him to read already, Mira? He's barely three."
"He asked," she said simply. "And he's quick. Quicker than most."
Ren kept his expression neutral, though internally he felt a stab of guilt. Of course he was quick—he'd already lived twenty-eight years. But they didn't know that, and he wasn't about to tell them.
"Fair enough." Gareth ruffled Ren's hair as he passed. "Just don't push him too hard. Boys need time to be boys."
"I want to learn," Ren said, the words coming out clearer than they had a month ago. Speaking was still an effort—his mouth felt clumsy, tongue too thick—but he was getting better.
"See?" Mira raised an eyebrow at her husband. "He wants to learn."
⸻
After breakfast, Ren climbed onto his father's lap by the fireplace. This had become their morning ritual—Gareth would practice his magic while explaining what he was doing, and Ren would watch with the fascination of a child who'd never seen anything like it.
Which, technically, he hadn't.
"Alright, little man," Gareth said, holding out his palm. "What do you want to see today?"
"Fire," Ren said immediately. It was always fire. Something about watching flames dance in his father's hand never got old.
"Fire it is." Gareth's expression grew focused, and Ren felt something change in the air around them. Not visible, but present—like the moment before lightning strikes.
A small flame flickered to life above his father's palm, no bigger than a candle's flame but somehow more alive. It danced and swirled, responding to minute movements of Gareth's fingers.
"How?" Ren asked, leaning forward.
"Mana," Gareth said, maintaining his concentration. "It's in everything—the air, the ground, our bodies. Magic users can feel it, shape it, use it." The flame grew slightly larger. "Fire magic is about heat and combustion. I'm taking the mana in the air and exciting it, making it burn."
"Can I do it?"
"Maybe someday. Most people can't feel mana until they're older—seven, eight years old at the earliest. Some never feel it at all."
Ren stared at the flame, trying to feel whatever his father was talking about. There was something—a tingling sensation, like static electricity before a storm. But when he tried to grab it, it slipped away like water.
"Is it hard?" he asked.
"Depends on what you're trying to do." Gareth let the flame grow until it was the size of his fist. "This is basic fire magic—First Tier. Just making flame, controlling its size and heat. Anyone with fire affinity can learn it."
"There are tiers?"
"Five of them, for each element." The flame began to change, shifting from orange to blue. "Second Tier is about refinement—hotter flames, better control, shaping the fire into different forms. Third Tier is when you can start combining fire with other elements or create more complex effects."
"What about Fourth and Fifth?"
Gareth's expression grew serious. "Fourth Tier mages can level buildings. Fifth Tier..." He paused, the flame flickering. "Fifth Tier mages can change the weather. There aren't many of them left."
"Why not?"
"Because power like that comes with a price. The more mana you use, the more it takes out of you. Push too hard, and it'll burn you out from the inside." He extinguished the flame with a thought. "That's why we start small and build up slowly."
Ren nodded, filing the information away. In his old world, power came from technology, from machines and systems. Here, it came from within, from some internal resource that could be depleted or developed.
"What about the other elements?" he asked.
"Other elements?" Gareth looked down at him. "What do you mean?"
"In the story, the other knights use different magic. Ice and lightning."
"Ah." Gareth nodded. "Yes, there are six types of magic. Fire is just one of them. But that's getting pretty complicated for a three-year-old, don't you think?"
"I want to know," Ren said stubbornly.
Gareth laughed. "All right, all right. But just the basics. Fire you know. There's also water, earth, wind, healing, and lightning. Each one does different things."
"Like what?"
"Well, water mages can make ice or control rivers. Earth mages can shape stone. Wind mages can fly." Gareth gestured with his free hand, and a gentle breeze stirred Ren's hair. "Your mother's got wind magic, actually."
"Mama can fly?"
"Not fly, exactly. But she's very good with air magic. Maybe she'll show you sometime."
Ren's eyes lit up. He'd known his mother had magic—he'd seen her do small things around the house—but he hadn't known what kind.
"Can I learn all of them?"
"Maybe. Some people can use multiple elements, but it's rare. Most folks stick to one or two." Gareth closed the book. "But you're getting ahead of yourself, little man. First you need to see if you can feel mana at all."
⸻
That afternoon, while his parents worked in the garden, Ren sat on the cottage's front step with a book in his lap. The primer was getting easier to read, and he'd graduated to simple stories about heroes and monsters.
The world beyond their cottage was starting to make sense through these stories. They lived in the Kingdom of Vaelthorne, ruled by King Aldric from the capital city of Drakmoor. Their cottage sat in the Thornwood Province, on the edge of the Whispering Forest—a place where monsters still roamed and ancient magic lingered.
The nearest town was Millbrook, a day's walk through the forest. Gareth went there once a month to trade his woodcarvings for supplies they couldn't make or grow themselves. Mira had promised to take Ren when he was older, but three years old was still too young for the journey.
"Reading again?" a voice asked.
Ren looked up to see a woman approaching on the path. She was tall, with silver-streaked hair and the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent outdoors. A sword hung at her hip, and she moved with the easy confidence of someone who knew how to use it.
"Aunt Lyra!" Ren called out, recognizing his father's sister. She visited every few months, always with stories of the outside world.
"Hello, little scholar," she said, ruffling his hair. "Where are your parents?"
"Garden," Ren said, pointing around the side of the cottage.
"Still teaching yourself to read, I see. How's it going?"
"Good. I can read most words now."
"Most words?" Lyra raised an eyebrow. "That's impressive for someone your age. Mind if I test you?"
She pulled a letter from her traveling pack—official-looking, with a red wax seal. "What does this say?"
Ren squinted at the formal script. "By... royal... decree... of His Majesty... King Aldric..." He stumbled over some of the longer words, but managed to get the gist of it. Something about tax collection and militia service.
"Well, I'll be damned," Lyra said, though she quickly glanced around to make sure his parents hadn't heard the curse. "You really can read. That's Third Year academy level, at least."
"Is that good?"
"Good? Boy, most nobles' children can't read that well at twice your age." She knelt down to his level. "Has anyone tested you for mana sensitivity yet?"
"Papa says I'm too young."
"Maybe. But if you're this bright..." She held out her hand. "Here, put your palm against mine."
Ren hesitated, then pressed his small hand against her larger one. Her skin was warm, callused from sword work.
"Close your eyes," she said. "Tell me what you feel."
He closed his eyes and tried to focus. There was that tingling sensation again, stronger now. Like electricity crawling under his skin.
"It feels... buzzy," he said. "Like before a storm."
Lyra's eyes widened. "Mira! Gareth! Get over here!"
His parents came running, dirt still on their hands from the garden. "What's wrong?" Mira asked, already scanning for danger.
"Nothing's wrong," Lyra said, grinning. "Your son can sense mana. Strong enough to feel it through me."
"That's impossible," Gareth said. "He's only three."
"Tell that to his mana channels." Lyra stood up, brushing dirt off her knees. "This boy's got the potential to be a real mage, not just a hedge wizard. You need to start thinking about proper training."
"Training?" Mira's voice was sharp. "He's a baby, Lyra."
"A baby who can read academy-level texts and sense mana through skin contact. Face it, Mira—he's not normal." Lyra's expression grew serious. "And in this world, not normal gets you noticed. You need to decide whether you want to train him here, in secret, or send him to the capital where the real teachers are."
"We're not sending him anywhere," Gareth said firmly.
"Then you better start teaching him yourselves. Because ready or not, he's going to manifest magic soon. And when he does, you want him to know how to control it."
⸻
That evening, after Lyra had left with promises to return soon, Ren sat with his parents by the fire. The mood was different—heavier somehow.
"Are you going to teach me magic?" he asked.
Mira and Gareth exchanged glances. "Do you want to learn?" Mira asked.
"Yes," Ren said immediately. In his old world, he'd been powerless—just another cog in the machine. Here, he had a chance to be something more.
"Then we'll teach you," Gareth said. "But slowly. Carefully. Magic isn't a toy, Ren. It's a tool, and like any tool, it can hurt you if you're not careful."
"I'll be careful," Ren promised.
"We know you will," Mira said, pulling him onto her lap. "You're a good boy. Smart, thoughtful. But being smart and being ready aren't the same thing."
"When will I be ready?"
"When you stop asking when you'll be ready," she said with a smile.
That night, as Ren lay in his small bed, he stared at the ceiling and thought about the future. In his old life, he'd drifted through twenty-eight years without purpose. Here, he had parents who loved him, a world of magic to explore, and the promise of power beyond anything he'd imagined.
But with that promise came responsibility. Lyra's words echoed in his mind: not normal gets you noticed.
He didn't want to be noticed. Not yet. He wanted to grow strong first, to learn everything he could in the safety of his family's cottage.
But if this world was anything like the stories he'd been reading, safety was always temporary.
And he had a feeling his childhood was about to get a lot more interesting.