That evening, the house smelled like stew.
Alaric sat cross‑legged on the floor, bowl in hand, while the fire in the hearth crackled softly. Tomas occupied his usual stool, boots off, leg stretched out. Marla moved between pot and table, wooden spoon in one hand, the other flicking out sometimes to swat fingers that went near the pot too early.
"Eat, don't stare," she said as Alaric watched the flames. "If you burn your eyebrows, I'm not drawing new ones on your face."
"I was just looking," Alaric said around a mouthful. "It looks… nice."
"That's how it tricks you." Marla smirked and handed Tomas more bread. "You too. Slow down. The stew's not running away."
"It might," Tomas said. "You make it strong enough to walk."
Marla snorted, but Alaric could hear the fondness under it. He took another spoonful. It was mostly vegetables, a little thin, but it was warm. The fire painted the walls in orange. This was what "safe" felt like.
"Mom," he said, "what year is it again?"
She paused. "Where'd that come from?"
"The traveling priest last month said something like 'Year Fourteen-something' and I forgot the rest."
"Fourteen fifty‑nine," Tomas said. "Holy Calendar."
"Fourteen fifty‑nine A.D.," Marla added, out of habit.
"AD.....?" Alaric asked.
"After Deliverance," Tomas said. "After the Hero defeated the Demon God. The priests are very proud of that part."
"Oh." Alaric tried the words out anyway. "After Deliverance."
"Don't say it like you're cursing the soup," Marla said. "You'll call bad luck on us."
"I wasn't," Alaric protested. "I was just… saying it."
"Anyway," Tomas said, waving his spoon, "the numbers just help people agree on when to pay taxes. That's all most kings care about."
"And harvests," Marla corrected. "And children eating properly. Speaking of which—"
She topped up Alaric's bowl before he could object.
"Did the Hero really kill the Demon God?" he asked.
"That's what the murals show," Marla said. "If you ever go to a proper church, you'll see it. Big monster, big sword, lots of light. Why?"
"It just sounds… big," Alaric said. "Bigger than anything."
"It was," Tomas replied. "So big, they say, that the sky itself almost broke. But the Hero won, and we're still here." He tapped his bowl. "So eat. Winning a war doesn't fill your belly."
Alaric tried to imagine it. A monster large enough to threaten the whole world, and one person standing against it with a sword of light.
One person can do that?
His chest tightened with something he couldn't name.
"By the way," Marla said, changing the subject with a little smile, "someone mentioned you learned a 'spell' today."
Alaric perked up. "Old man Harn showed us. I can do it. I think."
"Let's see," Tomas said. "As long as you don't set my beard on fire."
Alaric set his bowl aside, wiped his fingers on his trousers, and cupped his hand. He took a breath and did as Harn had told him.
There's… something in the air. Like tiny bits you can't see. Pull a little. Not too much.
Warmth crept down his arm to his fingertip. He whispered, "Light."
A grain-sized spark appeared, then steadied into a tiny flame.
Marla froze. Tomas's eyebrows went up.
"Hey," Tomas said softly. "Look at you."
Alaric's heart hammered. The light wasn't big, but it was there, because he'd told it to be.
This is real.
"That's enough," Marla said quickly. "Put it out. We're in a wooden house, remember?"
"Right." Alaric focused on letting go, and the light flickered out.
Tomas chuckled. "You did well. Just listen to your mother. No showing off near the thatch. Or the chickens."
"Especially not the chickens," Marla said. "I don't want to eat burned chicken because you decided to be clever."
Alaric laughed despite himself.
As he reclaimed his bowl, he couldn't help glancing at his fingers again. They looked the same as always, but now he knew they could hold light.
If I can do that… what else can I do?
He didn't have fancy words for it. Just a knot in his chest that felt like wanting. A lot of wanting.
I want to learn more magic.