Morning came quietly in the village.
It always did.
The first sounds weren't voices, but routines, wood creaking somewhere as a door opened, the soft scrape of a bucket dragged across dirt, the distant impatience of an animal that had learned humans were late more often than they admitted. Smoke slipped out of chimneys in thin lines that didn't hurry, rising into a sky that looked washed clean by last night's cold.
Aethan sat up on his bed of folded cloth and straw, blinking until the dimness sharpened into shapes.
Four years.
His body was still small. Still light. But it no longer felt like it would collapse under its own weight. His limbs responded faster now, less like borrowed tools and more like something he could begin to trust. He could stand without wobbling. He could run without immediately falling. He could even jump, though the results were… humiliating.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood, feet finding the ground without searching for it.
That part was new. The ease of it.
In his old life, balance had been a constant awareness. Something you trained until it wasn't thought, only instinct. Here, he had been forced to build it again, step by step, bruise by bruise, under the excuse of childhood clumsiness.
Now, it was returning.
Not the strength. Not the speed.
But the sense.
The feeling of where his weight belonged.
He stepped outside, pushing the rough cloth aside, and the air greeted him with a bite he didn't mind. It smelled of damp soil and smoke and the faint sweetness of grain being boiled somewhere. The village was already awake, moving in the slow, steady way of people who couldn't afford to waste daylight.
Aethan watched the line of a neighbour's footsteps in the mud and, without meaning to, counted them.
Too long. Too heavy. Sloppy.
He stopped himself before the thought could continue. There was no point judging a farmer for not walking like a soldier. And yet his mind insisted on categorising everything anyway. The way someone carried a bucket. The way another person leaned when they lifted a sack. Even the rhythm of footsteps told stories.
It was annoying.
It was also… useful.
He turned back toward the hut.
Inside, Elara was sitting up. Her blonde hair had been loosely tied, but strands slipped free around her face. She looked better than she had yesterday, there was colour in her cheeks, and her eyes didn't seem as glassy in the morning light. She was folding cloth with slow care, as if the act itself was a kind of proof that she could still do it.
Dain was near the small table, sorting through what little they had. One arm, steady hands. The same quiet seriousness he always carried, even when he was doing something as ordinary as splitting dried herbs or checking the last bit of salted meat.
Elara looked up first and smiled when she saw Aethan.
"Morning," she said, voice soft.
Aethan hesitated for a heartbeat, then answered, "Morning."
His words came out clean. Too clean, sometimes. He had learned quickly that speaking like a grown man was a mistake, so he kept his sentences short and simple. It was not difficult. Most of the time, he didn't feel like wasting words anyway.
Elara patted the space beside her. Aethan walked over and sat, letting her hand rest on his head for a moment. The warmth of it was familiar now, no longer something that startled him.
"You slept well?" she asked.
He nodded. "Yes."
Dain glanced over at the exchange. His gaze lingered, not suspicious, not sharp, just watchful in the way of someone who had learned not to relax completely, even in peace.
Elara's smile widened, and for a moment she looked almost like someone who belonged in a better life.
Then the moment passed.
It always did.
It wasn't dramatic. It never was. Elara's shoulders sagged slightly, as if something inside her had run out of thread. The colour in her cheeks dulled, and a small cough escaped her. She lifted a hand to her mouth, trying to hide it the way she always did.
Dain was already moving.
He crossed the hut and placed his hand on her shoulder, steadying her without making it obvious. His expression didn't change, but Aethan had watched him long enough to understand the tension beneath it. The way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes flicked to the corner where their few medicines sat, as if willing them to multiply.
"It's just the morning chill," Elara tried, voice light.
Dain didn't argue. He didn't comfort her with lies either.
He only said, "Sit. Don't force it."
Elara started to protest, then stopped, as if the effort of fighting him wasn't worth the breath.
Aethan watched the whole exchange quietly.
Logically, he understood. Bodies broke. Illness took people, especially when there wasn't enough food, enough warmth, enough everything.
But another part of him, the part that had fought wars and refused to accept losing, looked at Elara's shaking hands and felt something like irritation.
Not at her.
At the world.
Dain would not let her die. Aethan could see it in the way his father moved through each day. In the way he spent time with her even when he should have been outside working. In the way he rationed his own food without ever saying it.
He was trying.
Hard.
And still… effort didn't always win.
Aethan looked away before the thought could settle too deep.
He didn't like where it led.
Dain handed Elara a cup of warm water, then turned his attention to Aethan.
"Eat," he said, pushing a small bowl toward him.
Aethan did, because refusing would only draw attention. He ate carefully, measured, not because he needed to pretend to be polite, but because the habit of wasting nothing had already anchored itself into his new life.
Elara watched him for a moment, then laughed softly. "You eat like an old man."
Aethan blinked. "Is that bad?"
"It's…" She hesitated, smile returning. "It's cute."
Aethan didn't understand how eating efficiently could be considered cute, but he nodded anyway. Elara seemed pleased.
Dain grunted. "He watches too much."
Elara's eyes softened. "He's just… observant."
Dain didn't answer. He only looked at Aethan a little longer than a father should look at a four-year-old child.
Uneasy, not afraid.
As if something about Aethan didn't fit neatly into the life they were living.
After breakfast, Dain went outside to work. There was always something to repair, always wood to chop, always fences that insisted on falling apart.
Aethan followed.
Not because he was asked to, but because he wanted to.
Outside, Dain moved with an efficiency that made Aethan's eyes narrow.
Even with one arm, the man carried himself like a soldier. Not in the obvious way, no swagger, no loud confidence, but in the small things. The way he planted his feet. The way he turned without wasting motion. The way he watched his surroundings without appearing to.
Dain lifted an axe one-handed and brought it down with a clean, controlled strike. The wood split, not because the axe was heavy, but because the motion was correct.
Again.
Again.
There was a rhythm to it, almost like a kata.
Aethan found himself mirroring the stance without thinking, shifting his own feet in the dirt, aligning his weight the way Dain did.
Dain paused mid-motion.
He didn't look at Aethan right away. He just stood there, axe resting against the stump, as if listening for something.
Then he turned.
Aethan froze, realising what he'd done too late.
Dain's eyes flicked down to Aethan's feet, then up again. His mouth tightened slightly, not in anger, but in that quiet way he got when his mind was working through something he didn't want to say out loud.
"What are you doing?" Dain asked.
Aethan hesitated. A normal four-year-old would shrug. A normal four-year-old would not have changed his stance like a trained fighter.
So Aethan gave him something in between.
"Watching," he said.
Dain stared for another second, then turned back to the stump. He lifted the axe again.
But the rhythm was off.
Only slightly.
Aethan could tell Dain was more aware now. Less relaxed. Not alarmed, just… attentive.
Aethan remained beside him, silent, letting the moment fade.
He was good at that.
Later, when Dain went to carry wood toward the hut, Aethan spotted a discarded branch near the fence. Long enough to be a stick. Straight enough to pretend.
He picked it up.
The moment his fingers closed around it, something in his body shifted.
It was subtle. It always was. His hand adjusted, not gripping too tightly, not too loosely. His thumb and fingers found the correct placement without needing to think. His shoulders relaxed. His stance widened by instinct, knees soft, weight centred.
It wasn't a child holding a stick.
It was a swordsman holding a blade.
Aethan realised it mid-breath and tried to correct it, but his body was already there. Already comfortable in the position it remembered.
The air around his skin warmed faintly, like a pulse beneath the surface.
Mana.
It didn't flare. It didn't surge. It simply existed, responding as if his posture had woken something.
Aethan's eyes narrowed. He didn't like that it reacted so easily. He didn't like that his body remembered better than his mind wanted it to.
He made a small movement, turning the stick slightly.
The motion was clean.
Too clean.
Aethan heard Dain stop behind him.
He didn't turn right away.
He could feel the weight of his father's gaze on his back.
When he finally looked over his shoulder, Dain was standing still, wood in his hand forgotten. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes, something like recognition, buried under disbelief.
"That's…" Dain started, then stopped, as if the rest of the sentence didn't make sense.
Aethan stared up at him, face blank.
Dain's gaze dropped to the stick, then to Aethan's grip.
"That's not how children usually hold things," Dain said at last.
Aethan blinked once, slowly, then loosened his grip and shifted the stick into a clumsier hold, like he'd never touched one before.
"Like this?" he asked, voice innocent.
Dain didn't answer immediately.
His eyes lingered for a beat too long, then he exhaled through his nose and turned away, setting the wood down as if he needed something else to focus on.
"Just… don't poke your eye out," he muttered.
Aethan nodded, then turned back to the fence, staring at the dirt so Dain wouldn't see the calculation behind his eyes.
So, his father had noticed.
Not fully. Not enough to accuse him of anything strange.
But enough to remember.
Aethan tightened his grip around the stick again, just slightly, and felt the warmth under his skin respond.
Mana flowed like a quiet river.
He didn't understand it yet. Not really. But he understood the feeling of potential when it sat in your hands.
He could work with this.
He had to.
Because the village might be peaceful, but peace was only ever temporary.
Aethan learned that long before this life.
The proof arrived in the afternoon.
The sound came first, hoofbeats, multiple, heavy enough to shake the packed dirt road. People stepped out of their huts, faces tightening, eyes narrowing against the sun.
Dain was already outside, standing straighter than he had all day.
Soldiers.
Aethan watched them arrive in a loose formation, armour dulled by travel, blades strapped to their sides. They didn't look like heroes from stories. They looked tired. They looked hungry. They looked like men who had seen things they didn't want to describe.
Behind them, tied to a cart, dragged across the road with ropes, was the reason the village had gone quiet.
A beast.
Wolf-like in shape, but far too large, wagon-sized, its limbs thick, its chest wide enough that Aethan couldn't imagine any normal animal carrying it. Its fur was matted and stained dark, but even through the blood and dirt, Aethan caught a strange colour beneath it.
A purple tinge.
Not like dye.
Like the creature had been born wrong.
Its mouth hung open, teeth too long, too many. Its eyes were glassy with death, yet something about the body still felt… unnatural. As if it didn't belong in the world's rules.
Aethan stared, fascination rising where a child's fear should have been.
He'd seen beasts in battle. Horses. Dogs. Even war-bred animals trained to kill.
This was something else.
A soldier near the front spat onto the road and spoke to the villagers in a rough voice. "Keep your children inside. These things have been coming closer."
Aethan's attention sharpened.
These things.
Plural.
Dain stepped forward, not aggressively, but with the calm authority of someone who understood soldiers. "Where did you find it?"
The soldier glanced at Dain, eyes flicking over his missing arm and the way he stood. Respect flickered briefly, then faded back into exhaustion.
"North of here. Near the outer fields. It wasn't alone, but we managed to drag this one back."
Another villager murmured something about monsters. Someone else whispered a prayer.
Aethan listened, storing every word.
So, the danger wasn't a distant rumour.
It was already at the edge of the village's world, close enough for blood to be dragged through the main road.
Aethan's skin warmed faintly again, mana stirring as if reacting to the presence of the creature even in death.
He didn't move.
He didn't reach for the stick.
He only watched, eyes calm, mind already adjusting.
Swords alone might not be enough in this world.
But swords were still the foundation.
And now there was mana, flowing beneath his skin like a second breath.
When the soldiers finally moved on, taking the carcass with them, the village exhaled as if it had been holding its breath the whole time.
People returned to their work. Voices came back. Life resumed.
But the quiet had changed.
That night, Elara was in bed early. She'd had another coughing fit, and even when it eased, her body remained weak, shaking under the blanket. Dain sat beside her for a long time, one hand resting lightly against her shoulder as if he could hold her together by will alone.
Aethan stayed near the doorway, watching the lantern light flicker across the hut's walls.
When Dain finally stood, he didn't go outside. He didn't reach for a sword.
He picked up a worn tool and began sharpening it with slow, careful strokes, the sound soft and steady.
Aethan listened.
It reminded him, strangely, of the battlefield. Not because it was violent, but because it carried the same meaning.
Preparation.
Dain glanced at Aethan without looking like he was doing it. "You saw the soldiers today."
Aethan nodded. "Yes."
Dain's hand paused briefly on the sharpening stone. "Things might change soon."
Aethan looked at him. "Because of the beasts?"
Dain's mouth twitched, faint surprise at the question. "Maybe. Because of everything."
Aethan waited.
Dain exhaled, then said, quieter, "There's been talk. Recruitment."
Aethan's attention sharpened so quickly it almost felt like a physical shift.
"Recruitment?" he repeated.
Dain nodded once. "The academy. They send people sometimes, when they need more hands. When the regions start pushing again. When… when the world reminds everyone, it doesn't stay still."
Aethan stared, the word academy settling into his mind like a blade sliding into its sheath.
A place that trained soldiers.
A place that could mean money, food, medicine.
A place that could mean answers.
He felt curiosity rise, not wild excitement, not childish eagerness, but the calm, focused interest of someone who had been waiting for the next step without knowing what it would be.
Dain went back to sharpening, voice low. "It might be nothing. Just rumours."
Aethan didn't answer right away.
He looked out into the darkness beyond the doorway, beyond the road, beyond the quiet fields.
This village was small.
Safe, in the way fragile things pretended to be safe.
But the world had already begun to reach for it, through soldiers, through beasts, through whispered recruitment.
Aethan felt the warmth beneath his skin pulse softly, as if agreeing.
He didn't know what the academy would be.
He didn't know what it would demand.
But the idea of it settled into him with an unfamiliar feeling.
Not dread.
Not fear.
Something closer to anticipation.
As if, for the first time since waking up in this life, the road ahead had started to form a shape he could recognise.