Ciro sat on the rocking chair, swaying back and forth as he looked at his hand raised high, wrapped in bandages.
I was able to cast Lucias the way the old man did, he thought.
But I ended up burning my hand because of it.
Intent—the old man said that was what he lacked when Ciro asked what went wrong.
Will, imagination, and belief in oneself.
What did any of that even mean?
Hermit emerged from the kitchen, vigorously grinding a green, viscous paste with a mortar and pestle. It was a mixture of various herbs, brewed to reduce inflammation and ward off infection.
"Hold out your arm, boy," Hermit said gently.
Ciro complied. The old man carefully unwound the strips of cloth around the boy's hand.
A week had passed since the injury. Between time and Hermit's healing magic, the wound had eased significantly.
With a snap of Hermit's fingers, the exposed burn sterilized itself, a faint shimmer of light dancing across the skin.
"Make a brave face," Hermit advised.
Watching the old man tend to his wound stirred memories Ciro hadn't realized he still carried.
Running to his mother.
Scraped knees.
Her hands ever so gentle and practiced.
Her voice echoed in his mind—warm, and achingly close.
Ciro! Such a clumsy boy you are. You really do take after your father!
Mom, it hurts! Make it stop...
Come. Sit next to mommy.
Promise me you won't go out into the forest again, okay?
Mhm...
"Ah!" Ciro groaned as Hermit applied the paste, the cool ointment stinging sharply against the burn.
I only ever watched you do it, Ciro thought, teeth clenched.
I should've went to that forest more often...
...If I knew you were going to disappear, Mom.
Ciro inhaled through clenched teeth, unable to feign the pain—though he couldn't tell whether it came from his hand, or from his chest.
Hermit was not one to pry, yet something in him urged him to speak.
"Let's leave it on for half an hour before wrapping," he said, setting the mortar aside. "We'll head to town."
The words pulled Ciro from his thoughts.
"What for?" he asked.
Hermit smiled.
"No reason."
_________________________________________________________________________________
Fishun was a small viscountdom on the southern fringes of Kaal City. Situated near the sea, it had naturally grown into a town devoted to fishing.
"Sir Hermit, what a surprise!" said the lone guard stationed at the wooden gate. "What brings you here?"
"I came to show the boy around," Hermit said, stepping aside to reveal a small figure trailing behind him.
"My, have you taken on an apprentice, Sir Hermit?" the guard asked.
Hermit laughed heartily, stroking his beard.
"Think of him as such if it permits us entry."
"But of course! Please—enter," the guard said, stepping aside and bowing. "Welcome to Fishun."
Hermit returned the smile as they passed through the gates, Ciro walking beside him.
My, there are some who don't belong here, Hermit mused to himself, sensing a vague disturbance in the air's mana.
"Oh?" a townsman noticed the familiar wooden staff, and the unmistakable grey beard. "It's Sir Hermit!"
Immediately, townsfolk gathered at the entrance, flocking like birds to scattered bread.
"Sir Hermit, I still haven't repaid—"
"Sir Hermit, please try my new—"
"May I ask who that boy is—"
Ciro glanced at the old man, who struggled to respond to the barrage of greetings.
"You're quite popular, aren't you, old man?" Ciro commented. "Didn't expect that from someone who lived in the middle of nowhere."
"I suppose it's a perk of being around a long time," Hermit replied, still trapped in the crowd.
"How long exactly—a million years?" Ciro snarked.
"I'm not that old, boy!"
Then, a deep, commanding voice cut through the chatter.
"Everyone, please calm yourselves!"
The townsfolk fell silent at once.
"Apologies, my lord. We got carried away," one woman said, quickly followed by others.
A man in leather armor stepped forward, a broadsword clipped to his belt. Thick red hair crowned him, and his size easily towered over the townsfolk.
"It is not me you should apologize to," he said, "but Sir Hermit."
The crowd complied, their excitement turning into a chorus of apologies.
"Oh, it's no trouble at all," Hermit assured them.
"Sir Hermit will have time to speak with you later," the man continued, "but for now, let him be."
The crowd dispersed, returning to their work.
"My boy—Chief," Hermit said warmly, clasping the man's gauntleted hands. "It's been quite some time."
"A decade and a half," the man replied, smiling as his gaze shifted to Ciro. "And who might this be?"
"…Ciro. Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"A rather well-mannered boy," he praised. "Your pupil, Sir Hermit?"
"In a way," Hermit said, uncertain what to make of their dynamic.
"Oh—where are my manners," the man said, extending a hand. "Chief Fishun—Viscount of Fishun."
A viscount named Chief…? Ciro thought.
The man's hand was enormous—Ciro's looked like a twig grasping a log.
He shook it with both hands.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of Hermit the Great visiting my humble estate?" Chief asked with a smile.
"I'm merely showing the boy around," Hermit said. "Though I did wish to discuss a certain matter with you."
"Then allow my son to accompany young Ciro—" Chief said calmly.
Then he raised his voice.
"—LYE!"
A frail, black-haired boy, about Ciro's age, came scrambling over, a sword clutched in his hand.
"Yes, Father?"
Chief sighed as he took the sword and slid it into its scabbard.
"I've told you—sheathe your blade when you're not using it."
"I'm sorry, father. I was training," the boy said, lowering his head.
"My, you've had a son since. This town surely has grown," Hermit remarked, smiling.
Chief smiled back, proud. "This is my son—Lysander."
"Nice to meet you, boy," Hermit said gently, shaking the boy's hand.
"This is Ciro, Sir Hermit's pupil," Chief began, "Show him around town, and make sure he doesn't pay a single coin."
"Oh, we'll be paying—" Hermit started.
"Absolutely not," Chief said firmly. "It's the least we can do."
Hermit sighed, defeated.
"Let us speak at the manor," Chief said, walking off.
Hermit lingered for a moment, then turned to Ciro.
"Behave yourself," he said gently. "The adults will talk. Have some fun with Dim."
"Adult?" Ciro scoffed. "You're a fossil."
"I'm not that old!"
Hermit walked away, defeated—outmatched by an eight-year-old's words.
_________________________________________________________________________________
The two boys stared at each other, the noise of the bustling town filling the silence between them.
"So," Lye began, circling Ciro, "you're Sir Hermit's pupil?"
Ciro's gaze traveled slowly—from Lye's neatly groomed hair down to his polished, high-quality shoes. A noble's son, unmistakably so.
Yet the boy was frail, dark-haired, blue-eyed—nothing like Chief, whose red hair, amber eyes, and powerful frame marked him as a man built for command.
"Yeah," Ciro replied flatly. "And you're the viscount's son?"
Lye stiffened. Something in Ciro's tone—calm, unreadable—set his nerves on edge.
"What?" he snapped. "Did you think I wasn't?"
"I never said you weren't," Ciro replied. "I'm merely matching your tone."
A prickle of irritation crept up Lye's spine.
What's with this kid?
Before he could stop himself, Lye grabbed Ciro by the collar.
"Don't come into my town spouting nonsense," he growled. "You don't even look like a noble. How did Sir Hermit ever choose you as his pupil?"
Ciro pried Lye's hand from his shirt. It was a small gesture, but to Lye, a commoner laying hands on him was enough.
"I don't care if you're Sir Hermit's pupil," Lye snarled. "You're just some brat from the outskirts!"
POW!
Lye's fist struck Ciro's cheek, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Blood pooled at his lip.
Ciro spat.
"Spoiled nobles don't know how to throw a punch," he said calmly.
His fist clenched.
BAM!
It landed squarely on Lye's chin, knocking him flat. Ciro didn't hesitate, striking again and again until shouts tore through the street.
"Hey, hey, hey! Break it up!"
Strong hands dragged them apart.
"Master Lysander," a guard scolded, "this is the fourth fight this week. One more and I'll have to tell Lord Fishun."
He turned to Ciro.
"And you—Sir Hermit's pupil or not, striking a noble is punishable by hanging! You're lucky his name shields you. Don't sully it. That man's a hero."
The boys stood stiffly, hands behind their backs, heads bowed.
Lye's nose was stuffed with cotton, sniffling through the pain. Ciro's lip throbbed, but he said nothing.
"I have work to do," the guard muttered. "Don't fight again."
They nodded.
When he left, silence settled between them once more.
"Commoner jerk."
"Spoiled brat."