Redleaf Hollow buzzed with life.
By midmorning, woven flags were already fluttering from every post and rooftop. Lio darted through the narrow lanes, shouting greetings, while Noa followed close behind, trying not to bump into the growing crowd.
"Come on, Noa!" Lio grinned, waving him over to the village square. "The Fireleaf Festival only happens once a year!"
Noa's eyes flicked upward. The trees surrounding the village had begun to turn a deep amber-red, their wide leaves shimmering with gold veins. Each one looked like a flame caught mid-burst—hence the name.
He took in the sights like a sponge:
Stalls made of oiled cloth and wood.
Barrels of root cider cooling in the creek.
Children running past with paint on their cheeks.
The smell of roast buzzlegourd and spiced graincakes filled the air.
It reminded him of Earth—of seasonal fairs in old towns—but warmer, more alive.
The main square had been transformed.
Craftspeople displayed woven baskets, leatherworks, and jars of preserved herbs. One stand offered glimmering jewelry carved from whistlehorn shell. Another had carved figurines enchanted to sway slightly as if breathing.
Noa's eyes lit up.
"Are those… moving?" he whispered.
"They're enchanted," Lio replied proudly. "My friend Mila said her cousin learned how to make them. He's a Tier 1 mage now."
That caught Noa's attention. "So magic can be used in objects…"
"Yup. But you need the right things. Special stuff. Like shimmerdust or runebark or something."
Enchantment magic, Noa mentally noted. Requires materials. Possibly catalysts. That limits casual use.
He was so caught in thought he didn't notice Seri calling until Lio tugged his arm.
Seri had set up a simple herb stall, as she did every year. Locals came for dried teas, ointments, and small bottles of fireleaf tonic. She wore a long wrap skirt and her hair tied in a loose loop, a deep red fireleaf pinned behind one ear.
"Don't stray too far," she told the boys. "And don't cause trouble."
Lio immediately ran toward a crowd of kids stacking barrels for a tumbling race.
Noa hesitated.
"I'll just walk around."
Seri smiled. "Don't forget to breathe, my little thinker."
Noa wandered past stalls, quietly observing. His mind picked apart mechanisms—weights in wind chimes, the oil-burning trick in a toy flame, the counterbalance of a wooden dragon puppet.
Then he heard a hush ripple through the crowd.
At the far edge of the square, beneath a cloth canopy shaded in blue and silver, stood a figure unlike the rest.
They were tall, wrapped in a long gray robe with a hood that shadowed most of their face. Rings lined their fingers—some glowing faintly, others blackened with use. A set of thin crystal rods hung from their belt like an instrument.
No sign, no banner, no helper.
Just a circle of curious villagers standing back.
Noa crept closer.
With one motion, the mage raised their hand. A ring flashed blue.
A strip of glimmerleaf paper floated from their satchel and hovered in the air.
No chant. No words.
With a gentle flick of the wrist, the mage snapped two fingers—and the leaf burst into a glowing flower of flame, spiraling upward like a twisting feather.
The crowd gasped.
Then, with a gesture, the flame split into three strands, dancing through the air as if pulled by invisible strings. They weaved in and out of each other, forming a shifting shape—first a bird, then a crown, then a spiral that slowly unraveled into sparks.
It all lasted ten seconds.
Then silence.
Noa's heart raced.
That wasn't luck. That wasn't random.
That was control.
He stepped closer. "How did you do that?"
The mage turned slightly—just enough for Noa to see their mouth. They were older than they sounded, maybe middle-aged. Thin lips, pale skin, and eyes that gleamed like stormlight beneath the hood.
"You ask questions like a scholar," the mage said, voice low but calm.
"I just… want to understand," Noa said honestly.
The mage nodded. "Understanding comes with cost."
"Cost of what?"
The mage tapped one of the glowing rings. "Catalyst. Focus. Discipline. Most believe magic is will and gesture. It is not. It is… resonance."
Noa tilted his head. "Resonance?"
The mage pulled a small rod from their belt—a smooth crystal with lines carved along its sides—and let it hum gently in the air.
"When the body, mind, and medium align," the mage continued, "resonance is born. And through resonance… comes magic."
Then, without another word, they turned and vanished into the dispersing crowd, leaving behind only the faint scent of burnt glimmerleaf.
Noa stood still, rooted to the spot.
He'd expected wands or shouting spells. But this?
Body, mind, and medium.
Resonance.
He pressed the word into memory like ink on paper.
That night, while the festival wound down and villagers shared songs near the bonfire, Noa sat with a graincake in his lap, scribbling lines in the dirt beside the fire.
Arcs. Frequencies. Patterns.
"Still thinking?" Seri asked as she wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.
He nodded.
Lio, already asleep nearby, mumbled something about fireworks.
Tomir raised a brow from across the fire. "What did you see today?"
Noa looked at the stars and whispered, "A spark. Just a spark of something bigger."