I never had a father. Mom told me: "He was a real knight, with honor and dignity. He left to protect us and never returned." I don't know if it's true or a fairy tale, but I believed it. Leont seemed to fill that empty place in my life. He had no children of his own, and sometimes it felt like he looked at me as if I were his son.
"A knight is not just strength, but heart," he taught. "Protect those weaker than you, and don't lose yourself." Listening to him, I wondered: what if I never become like him? What if my weakness isn't just magic, but my heart?
Mom, Eila, and Leont—they were like three corners of a triangle. Mom gives hope, Eila—the light that beckons and warms, Leont—the shadow that keeps me on my feet. And I stand between them, small, awkward, with a dream that feels more like mockery.
You know what? Maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not strength that makes a person human, but how they live with their weakness. I move forward, chuckling at myself—at my purple ice, at childhood games, at how I try to be a hero in a world where heroes have long gone out of fashion.
Still, I believe: even the weakest can find their path if they keep trying again and again. Even me.
That's how my story began—the story of a little observer, tremblingly attuned to all the secrets of the adult world. Here, at the intersection of political intrigues and magical wonders, every raindrop trickling down the ancient stones of the castle walls reminded of the transience of moments. Every stone held a story, and every wound—a lesson.
Reality and fairy tale intertwined, irony and sorrow—in a majestic round dance that leads us along paths where even the weakest magic can become the key to unraveling the world's mysteries.
Four years—that's an eternity when you're twelve. For me, those four years in knight's camp became a second life, where a little boy had to learn to wield a sword heavier than his own arm and cast spells that adult mages master over decades.