A two-year-old child sat cross-legged on the floor, his dark navy hair catching just enough sunlight to look nearly black. His cheeks were still round with baby fat, like a squirrel hiding nuts, yet his large blue eyes burned with an intensity far older than his years.
Before him lay a heavy tome, its pages lined with curling runes of Arcana — the language of magic. Aeon couldn't yet read the common tongue, Latis, spoken in every kingdom around Artia, but that hardly stopped him. His tiny fingers traced the symbols as though he might wrest meaning from them by will alone. Where others spent decades mastering the script, he, with the arrogance of someone who had once lived forty years in another life, believed he could grasp it in days.
A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips. "Heh… maybe I'll even cast something today," he whispered to himself, plotting as if he were already a grand magician.
The smirk didn't last. Smack! A firm but gentle hand came down on his head.
"Aeon," his mother's voice cut sharp, though her eyes softened immediately, "how many times must I tell you? Magic tomes are not toys. That book costs more than this house!"
Aeon's eyes welled instantly, shimmering like tiny lakes. He looked up at her with wounded drama. "M-Mommy… I wasn't playing. I was learning. So one day I can be the greatest magician ever!"
Aisa's lips curved into a sly smirk, her patience balanced between amusement and exasperation. "Oh, the greatest magician? You mean the one who can't even read Latis… and nearly ruined the precious magic tome he was so 'studiously' obsessed with last week?"
Aeon winced. The memory stung. Three days of staring at incomprehensible runes, frustration boiling until his toddler's temper got the better of him — and the book had suffered for it. His mind screamed, Not my fault, just infant hormones! But aloud, he straightened and delivered his excuse with solemn dignity.
Aeon puffed his cheeks, indignant. "It wasn't me! I told you, Mommy — it was the Shinybeak that tried to steal the book. I only saved it in time, but one little page got hurt in the battle!"
Aisa gave him a flat stare so sharp it made Aeon wonder if mothers were born with magic fiercer than any spell.
"A Shinybeak? Interested in books instead of shiny trinkets? Truly?" Her brow arched, the corner of her lips twitching as if daring him to keep spinning tales. "Next you'll tell me they've started borrowing scrolls from the library."
Aeon gasped dramatically, tiny hands on his hips. "Well… maybe the Shinybeak in our town is special!"
Before Aisa could answer, a flash of silver feathers zipped past the open window, a faint glint of a trinket in its beak. Aisa's lips pressed into a thin line as Aeon grinned smugly.
"See?" he whispered, as if the world itself had conspired to prove him right.
Her stern look wavered, and for a moment, something else flickered in her gaze — the shadow of worry she carried whenever she thought no one noticed. The same shadow that lingered whenever she remembered the man who was not here. She masked it quickly with a sigh. "Out. Before I lose my patience."
Before their playful bickering could spiral further, a shout came from outside.
"Aeon! Aeon! Come play!"
It was the perfect escape. Aeon leapt up, scampering toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a child freed from scolding. "Okay, Mommy! I'm going to play now. Byeee!"
"Don't cause trouble!" Aisa's warning rang behind him, carrying that deceptively sweet tone that could turn deadly if ignored.
Aeon only grinned wider. I don't cause trouble. Trouble just finds me.
At the gate, two figures waited. Mike, the three-year-old, stood with a runny nose and innocent black eyes, his brown hair sticking up like a startled chick. Beside him towered Pent, the oldest at four, his stick in hand like it was already a warrior's blade. Black hair, dark eyes, and a deeper, duskier skin tone set him apart from the rest — but his grin was pure mischief.
Aeon raised his arms in mock ceremony. "Mike, Pent! What's today's grand quest?"
Mike clapped his sticky hands and squeaked, "Quest! Quest!" as if repeating the word itself was the adventure.
Pent jabbed his stick into the dirt like a sword in a stone. "I'm leader. I'm the oldest. I decide the quest."
Aeon tilted his head, eyes wide with mock reverence. "Ohhh, mighty leader… then tell us your brilliant plan."
Pent froze, frowning, because of course he didn't have one. Mike copied his frown, then promptly sneezed.
Aeon smirked and swooped in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "If the leader has no plan… then clearly fate has chosen me to guide us."
Mike nodded instantly, loyal to whoever sounded confident, while Pent spluttered, "That's not how it works!" But the gleam in Aeon's eyes had already sealed the matter.
Today's quest carried the kind of thrill only children could feel: sneaking into the old witch's backyard. To grown-ups, it was just an abandoned house. But to the boys, it was a fortress of secrets. Neighbors whispered endlessly — that the witch had fled years ago, leaving behind enchanted trinkets, perhaps even artifacts. Some claimed the garden still grew herbs that could quicken a child's magical growth. Others swore a spirit lingered, guarding the place with unseen claws.
Mike shivered at the thought, Pent clutched his stick tighter, but Aeon? He let the rumors play. Fear made the game sweeter. Adults without toys or fun probably just made up monsters to scare each other. Still, if the others thought this was a grand quest, then he'd happily lead the charge.
As they trudged closer, a Firefly-Moth with ember-like wings drifted past them, glowing faintly in the afternoon light. Mike gasped, reaching out, while Aeon only grinned. Magic was everywhere here — sometimes gentle, sometimes deadly.
Aeon's mind wandered, as it always did, painting the world in bright, curious strokes tinged with danger. This land was vast… wild and magical, yet strangely orderly. Magic wasn't just spectacle — it hummed in rivers, danced in the wind, and pulsed beneath the soil. Even ordinary humans carried fragments of it, though death and peril lurked at every turn.
Aeon thought of the beings he rarely saw in Artia — elves with their ethereal grace, demons with forms that seemed to ripple and shift, and beastmen of countless shapes and sizes. He had glimpsed only a few in his short life — an elf crossing the street with quiet elegance, a demon passing through the market in a swirl of shadow, a small beastman darting between stalls. Each fleeting sight thrilled him. They were alive, tangible, and yet somehow felt like creatures from storybooks and legends, moving through the same streets as humans, as if nothing were strange.
Artia itself sprawled across the land far beyond his small town. Rolling hills, winding rivers, and fortified towns threaded the kingdom, each alive with magic and hidden danger. From what he had learned — from books, tales, and whispered stories in town — the kingdom was enormous, almost as vast as Europe had been on Earth. Except here there were no cartoons, no glowing screens, only glowing runes and whispered legends that seemed to step out into the street.
Even in his two-year-old body, Aeon could feel the pulse of this world teasing him, calling him toward discovery and mischief. Magic, always magic, whispered in the rustle of the grass, in the bend of a branch, in the scent of damp earth — promising secrets and power just beyond reach. He knew, from whispers and scraps of lessons stolen from Essa, that humans formed elemental cores around the age of ten, though the rich could hasten the process with rare herbs, and prodigies might awaken even sooner. Aeon was neither prodigy nor adult — at least outwardly — yet having lived far longer than any child, he already felt the edges of rules, the way history could be nudged, and the possibilities waiting to be bent.
A tug at his sleeve pulled Aeon from his thoughts.
"Aeon… we're here," Mike whispered.
Blinking, Aeon looked up and finally saw it: the witch's house. Two stories tall, built of sagging timber and stone, with windows dark and cracked like watching eyes. The backyard sprawled wide, taller than him in grass and half-choked by trees, a wild tangle that seemed to swallow the ground itself.
The air smelled of damp earth and forgotten secrets. A broken shutter groaned in the breeze. Somewhere inside, wood creaked faintly — too slow, too heavy to be the wind. The grass itself seemed to lean inward, as though listening. Even Pent stopped twirling his stick.
For a moment, silence pressed on them like a blanket. Aeon felt a shiver crawl up his arms — and grinned anyway.
"Ready, guys?"
Beyond the tall grass and crumbling stone, the old house waited in silence — a relic of whispers and secrets. To the children, it was mischief. Yet unseen, the pulse of magic stirred, shifting faintly, as if the world itself leaned closer. Their laughter was small, but destiny was already listening.