Four years. Four turns around a stubborn sun, measured in seasons that painted the forest first green and then gold, in harvests of herbs that filled the cottage with their pungent scent, and in the slow growth of a child who seemed to absorb the world with the intensity of a hungry star. The cottage, once an improvised refuge, now breathed with the constancy of a home, every plank and stone infused with the routine of our lives. And Azra'il, the spark found in the petricite forest, was now old enough to ask complex questions, but still small enough to fit within the arc of an embrace.
I had known from the beginning that she was no ordinary child. The quietness of a babe had given way to a different kind of silence in the child she had become. It wasn't empty; it was observant. Her eyes, a blue that seemed to hold stardust, did not merely see; they analysed, catalogued, understood. Once, when she was a little over two, she sat in the pen, staring at one of our most stubborn goats for nearly half an hour, unmoving. I watched her from the window, curious. In the end the goat, an animal that defied gravity itself for a greener tuft of grass, lowered its head and ambled away with a low bleat, as if it had been bested in a philosophical argument I could not hear. Azra'il simply blinked, as if to say, 'Finally, some sense.'
That afternoon, while she was drawing patterns in the dust with a stick, patterns that looked unnervingly like constellations that should not be visible from this hemisphere, I made a decision. Her containment was strong, an invisible seal of self-control that pulsed just beneath her skin. But seals can crack. Secrets can leak. It was time to teach not power, but control. Philosophy before practice. Responsibility before strength.
"Azra'il," I called from the cottage door, my voice soft but firm.
She stood, brushed the dust from her small hands with remarkable efficiency, and came over. "Yes, Morgana?"
"Come here." I pointed to a bench near the cold hearth. "Let's make an agreement. Agreements are stronger than prohibitions, because prohibitions tell you what not to do and invite rebellion. Agreements remind you why we do things, and they invite trust."
She climbed onto the bench opposite me, resting her chin in her hands. Her serious, focused gaze always disarmed me a little. It was like being appraised by something very, very old wearing a child's face.
"Rule one," I began, looking her directly in the eyes so she would understand the weight of each word. "Magic, of any kind, however small, only here in this clearing. And only when I am with you."
"Why?" The question came without a tantrum, only the clarity of one who demands logic.
"Because there are people out there, beyond the trees, who are afraid of magic. And fear makes them cruel. To them, magic is a disease, a disorder to be cut out. And they do not ask questions before they act. Here, in this clearing, I see everything, I feel everything. I can protect you. Out there, the world is very large, and my eyes cannot reach everywhere."
She nodded slowly. "Security within a controlled territory. Logical."
"Rule two: you do not leave the clearing without me. Ever."
"What if the chicken runs off and only goes to the edge of the woods?" she countered, testing the agreement's limits with the precision of a lawyer.
"You call me. I assess the risk. And then, we go. Alone, you are fast. With me, you are safe. There is a fundamental difference."
She considered this for a moment, her blue eyes focused on a distant point. "Approved."
"Rule three, and the most important." I leaned forward. "If I say 'now', or 'run', no matter what is happening, you run to the hollow under the roots of that old beech tree, and you only come out when I tap your shoulder three times. Three times, not two, not four. Understood?"
"What if it's just the wind in the branches?"
"I will decide if it is wind or danger. Your only job is to be faster than your own shadow."
"Right." The word was small, but solid as a stone.
I rested my forehead against hers for an instant, a gesture that had become the seal of our most serious agreements. "Outside. In two minutes. Today, you will have your first real lesson."
"A lesson!" Her eyes lit up with a hunger for knowledge that was almost palpable. She slipped off the bench without a sound.
Outside, the clearing breathed peacefully in the afternoon sun. I stopped in the centre and closed my eyes. It was not a prayer, but a listening. I drew in a breath and released it in three low, silent syllables. It was a pulse of resonance, a question asked of the land, which answered me with silence. We were alone. I opened my eyes. "All clear."
I turned to Azra'il, who was watching me with the patience of a rock.
"Today's objective is simple: to understand what magic is, where it comes from, and, most importantly, how not to become a target because of it."
"Theory first," she said, sitting cross-legged on the ground, as formal as a scholar awaiting a lecture.
"Quite. Listen well." I knelt and, with the same stick she had used, scraped a rough circle in the dirt. "Think of magic as a great river. It has always existed. It flows through this world, sometimes calm and deep, sometimes in raging torrents. Long ago, parts of this river were dammed into powerful stones, the World Runes. Mortals, in their greed, warred over them and nearly drowned the world in their power. The Rune Wars."
"And what happened to the Runes?"
"An old mage, who saw the disaster first-hand, now spends his life collecting them, hiding them to protect the world from itself. The lesson is this: raw power exists, it is tempting, and it always destroys those who lack the wisdom to contain it. If you ever see something that shines too brightly and promises you the world, you run in the opposite direction. It is a promise that must never be accepted."
"The 'absolutely never ever' sort of never?"
"Precisely that sort."
I scraped a square next to the circle. "This is Demacia. This kingdom was born from the fear of the torrents that drowned the world. It was built upon petricite, this pale wood-stone, which acts as a sponge for magic. What began as protection became dogma. Now, they are suspicious of any spark. Which is why, here, we are like the underground stream: we exist, but in silence and in shadow."
Finally, I scraped several wavy lines spreading across the ground, creating a crude map of the continent. "Other places have different rules. Noxus admires power, the torrent, so long as it serves to expand the empire. Piltover and Zaun use technology to create their own artificial 'sparks'. And Ixtal hides in jungles, treating magic as an exact science, an element to be mastered with rules as strict as a chemist's."
My stick circled a vast, empty area on our improvised map. "And this… this was Shurima. Millennia ago, it was the greatest empire this world had ever seen, forged under a merciless sun. Its emperors were Ascended, mortals remade into demigods through a ritual of pure solar magic. They built cities of gold and raised a Sun Disc that shone brighter than the star itself. But the hubris of their last emperor caused a catastrophe that turned their capital to ruins and scattered sand over their legacy. Today, Shurima is a land of nomads, mercenaries, and terrible beasts, where ancient power sleeps beneath the dunes. It is a reminder," I said, looking directly at Azra'il, "that even the power of gods can be reduced to dust and forgetting."
My stick stopped over a crudely drawn island. "And there is Ionia."
"Ionia," Azra'il repeated, and the name sounded different on her tongue, as if she knew it.
"Yes. There, magic is not a tool, a weapon, or a disease. It is the very air one breathes. The land is alive, vibrant. Magic flows from the trees, the rivers, the mountains. The people do not wield magic so much as they live in harmony with it. To an Ionian, cutting down an ancient tree is like severing a friend's limb. They seek balance, the dance between the spirit world and the physical."
"So… they don't hunt people like us there?" Her eyes were fixed on mine, an unusual intensity in them.
"Not as they do here," I admitted. "But their harmony is fragile. They are suffering an invasion from Noxus, and the pain of that war is poisoning parts of their land, creating demons born of suffering. Even in a paradise, mortals find ways to create their own hells. But no, in Ionia, you would not need to hide for being what you are."
I noted her interest, a spark in her eyes, but filed it away for later. "Where does our 'river' come from?" Azra'il asked, pointing to her own chest, changing the subject with a calculated swiftness I recognised as deflection.
"There are many tributaries. Yours seems to be innate, like a deep spring. Mine is a mixture: part of it was born with me, another part was learned, tamed. It is why my magic makes no sound. It has learned to hide."
"What are the limits?" she asked directly.
"Four walls," I replied. "Your will, which must be clear. The cost, for nothing is free. The environment, for magic reacts to the place it is in. And the most dangerous of all: people. They fear, hunt, or covet what they do not understand."
She nodded. "So, low profile is the default."
"Always. Now, practice." I stood and scuffed out the map with my foot. "Close your eyes. The first step is not to project, but to listen. Breathe in for a count of four, out for a count of six. Listen to the world in three layers: what is inside you, what is in this clearing, and what is at the forest's edge."
She closed her eyes. Her breathing deepened. After a moment, she said, "Close: my heart beating and my blood moving. Middle: the chickens scratching the dirt and the goat chewing. Far: the wind through the leaves of the beech trees and the sound of a woodpecker."
I smiled. "Correct. The world already tells you its secrets. Now, the second lesson: concealment. Breathe the same way, but as you breathe out, imagine you are a stone on the ground. Cold, quiet, unimportant."
I felt the small spark of power that always shone around her dim, retracting inwards until it became almost indistinguishable from the ambient magic of the forest.
"Excellent," I murmured, impressed. "The third lesson: projection. It is not about strength. It is about precision." I placed an unlit candle on a stone. "I don't want a bonfire. I want you to light only the wick. Whisper to the flame, don't shout."
Azra'il held out her hand. A tiny golden spark, the size of a grain of rice, leapt from her fingertip and landed perfectly on the cotton wick. The flame was born, small, steady, and completely silent.
"Remember this," I said, my voice serious. "The greatest power is not in proving you can do something. It is in having the wisdom to choose when and if you should do it."
"Choice is the real power," she repeated, absorbing the lesson. "Next module?"
I snuffed the candle out with my fingers. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow, simple runes. Your homework is this:" I picked up three small pebbles from the ground. "Think of these as your energy. One for listening, one for hiding, one for lighting the candle. If you use all three at once, you have nothing left to run or defend yourself. Always keep one stone in your pocket, Azra'il. Always."
"Otherwise you get a headache and your body gets tired," she added, with a wisdom that did not belong to a four-year-old.
The corner of my mouth lifted. "Yes. Body and magic walk together. One pays the other's debts. Now, wash your hands, and let's have supper."
She turned towards the cottage but paused and looked back over her shoulder. "The chickens are studying the roost again."
"The chickens are always planning something," I replied, following her.
Inside the warmth of our small home, the order of the world made sense. An order that, stone by stone, we had built ourselves.