The sun was still rising when the boy began his chores. The village was stirring, though sluggishly; the crisp morning air still carried the drowsy quiet of night. His sister's laughter echoed from somewhere near the garden as she chased a bird that had wandered too close to the edge of their plot.
The boy hauled water from the well, his arms straining as the bucket tipped and sloshed. His mother worked nearby, her hands deft as she bundled herbs from their small garden. She glanced up at him, her sharp eyes catching every tremble in his grip.
"Mind the balance," she said. "Too much weight on one side, and it'll tip before you reach the door."
The boy adjusted his stance and tried again, muttering under his breath. The weight steadied, though his muscles ached. He set the bucket down near the hearth with a heavy thud.
His mother gave him an approving nod, her hands never slowing as she tied another bundle of mint. "Patience," she said without looking up. "It makes hard work lighter."
The boy wiped his hands on his tunic and stepped back outside, eager to escape the watchful eye of his mother. His sister darted past him, her golden hair a blur as she laughed.
"Come on, slowpoke!" she called, spinning on her heel to face him. She held up a flower crown, her fingers woven with daisies and forget-me-nots. "If you're not going to help, at least wear this. You look too serious all the time."
The boy waved her off, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "Go bother the birds," he said.
She stuck her tongue out at him before skipping away, humming a tune that blended with the morning breeze.
The boy turned his steps toward the clearing where Matteo waited.
The towering pines formed a natural boundary around the clearing, their spindly shadows stretching across the forest floor. The flat stone at the center was just as he had left it the day before, bathed now in the cool light of morning. Matteo sat on the edge of the stone, his back straight despite his years. His weathered hands cradled a small, unlit lantern. The boy paused at the edge of the clearing, watching the merchant's stillness. It was as if Matteo were part of the forest itself, rooted like the ancient trees overhead.
"You're early," Matteo said without turning. His voice was soft, yet it carried, each word deliberate. "Good. The fire is less forgiving to those who waste its time."
Matteo extended a hand, his fingers curling slightly. The boy recognized the familiar focus in his teacher's eyes as the air seemed to hum faintly. With a muttered incantation in Latin—"Ignis, surge et pare"—Matteo summoned a small flame, steady and bright, into his palm.
The boy watched intently as the flame danced above Matteo's skin, its light casting faint flickers across the stone. Matteo extended his hand toward the boy. "Take it."
The boy hesitated, his gaze flicking from the flame to Matteo. "Do I have to learn Latin to do that?" he asked, his voice low.
Matteo's mouth curved into a faint smile. "No," he said simply. "The words are just one way—a tool. I was taught to use them when I was your age because my teachers believed they helped focus the will. For many, they do. But the flame doesn't understand words—it understands action."
The boy tilted his head. "Action?"
"Yes. Latin helps sharpen the mind, but the flame will not respond to language alone. It watches you—how you move, how you breathe, how you feel." Matteo gestured toward the flame. "Take it."
The boy swallowed hard, his hand hovering uncertainly above the flame. He felt its warmth before he touched it, a living pulse that seemed to push against his palm. Slowly, he cupped his hands around it, letting Matteo release the flame into his care.
It flickered, wavering for a moment as the boy's focus faltered. "Steady," Matteo murmured. "The flame reacts to you. If you're restless, it will fight you."
The boy nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried to clear his thoughts, to focus on the warmth in his hands. For a brief moment, the flame steadied, its light glowing softly between his fingers. But then it sputtered and went out, leaving only a faint heat behind.
"Again," Matteo said, summoning another flame with a flick of his fingers.
They repeated the exercise, each attempt lasting a little longer than the last. The boy's frustration mounted, but Matteo's calm, steady presence grounded him. Each time the flame went out, Matteo reignited it without comment, his movements fluid and unhurried.
"You're doing better," Matteo said as the boy held the flame longer than before. "You're beginning to understand that fire is alive. It doesn't obey—it responds."
The boy tilted his head, intrigued. Matteo leaned closer, his tone quiet but firm. "Fire tests you. It doesn't wait for orders. It listens, but it also demands that you adapt to it. That's what makes it dangerous—and beautiful."
The boy let the flame settle in his hands, its warmth calming him. For a moment, it felt alive—like it was breathing in time with him.
"It feels… strange," the boy muttered. "Not like wood or steel. It's… different."
Matteo nodded. "That's because fire isn't a thing—it's a reaction. A meeting of air, heat, and energy. It's the same with your connection to it. You can't hold it like you would a sword. You meet it halfway."
When the flame finally went out, Matteo clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Good. You've learned something important today."
"What?" the boy asked, his voice edged with curiosity.
"That fire is not a tool," Matteo said simply. "It is a reflection of yourself. Respect it, and it will respect you. Fear it, and it will consume you."
The boy frowned, flexing his fingers as though the flame might still be there. "But how do I know when it's… right?"
Matteo crouched slightly, meeting his gaze. "You'll know," he said quietly. "Fire tells the truth. It doesn't lie. When it steadies, when it feels like it belongs to you—it means you've earned its trust."
As they made their way back toward the village, Matteo's thoughts drifted, his gaze lingering on the boy walking beside him. He's better than I expected, he mused, watching the steady rhythm of the boy's steps. Quicker to adapt, sharper than I gave him credit for. There's a fire in him—a kind of spark you don't see often. But it wasn't just the boy's potential that stirred something in Matteo. There was a familiarity to him, something that tugged at the edges of Matteo's guarded heart.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair as he looked away, pretending to adjust the strap of his pack. I'm getting too attached, he thought, the realization settling uncomfortably in his chest. He had always kept his distance, always been careful not to let anyone get too close. Attachments complicated things. They made you vulnerable. Yet here he was, feeling something almost… paternal. The boy's quiet determination, his hunger to learn, the way he glanced up now and then as if looking for approval—it was all starting to wear down Matteo's carefully built walls.
It reminded Matteo of his son at that age, before the world had taken him away. Before Matteo had been forced to harden himself against the unbearable weight of loss. The boy's energy, his unguarded curiosity, and the hope that lingered in his eyes were all things Matteo thought he'd never see again. And though he tried to push the thought away, it settled deep in his chest, stirring something he'd long since buried.
Potential is nothing without discipline, he reminded himself, forcing his thoughts back to safer ground. And there's still so much to teach him—so much he doesn't yet understand. But even as he tried to focus on the lessons ahead, his mind betrayed him, wandering to the boy's earnestness, his stubborn resolve. It was both a blessing and a curse, this reminder of what Matteo had lost and what he was beginning to care for again.
He clenched his jaw, tightening his grip on the strap. Don't be a fool, he told himself. You're a teacher, not a father. Not anymore. Keep it that way. But when the boy glanced up at him with a fleeting, uncertain smile, Matteo couldn't help but return it, just briefly. And in that moment, the boundaries he'd drawn in his mind felt thinner than ever.
The boy's steps felt lighter as he followed Matteo, his earlier doubts softened by the small victory. His hands still tingled faintly from the warmth of the flame, and though it had gone out, it had left something behind—a connection he couldn't quite name. It was enchanting.
Matteo's gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the fjord stretched endlessly. I can't stay here forever, he thought. The road calls, as it always does. But maybe… just a little longer.