The silence between us stretched like pulled taffy.
Edric stood at the gate. I sat by the ward stone. The garden hummed with residual mana, and the moonpetals swayed in a breeze that didn't exist.
"I was... playing," I tried.
"You were modifying the ward pattern. I saw the light change."
"It might have been a trick of the—"
"Lucien." His voice was flat. Not angry. Not even worried, exactly. Just... flat, like he was processing something that didn't fit into his existing understanding of the world. "I left temple early because I forgot my ledger. I came through the back way. I've been standing here for two minutes."
Two minutes. He'd seen everything. The mana channeling, the octagonal shift, the crystal brightening. Everything.
I considered my options.
Option one: Deny everything, act confused, hope he chalks it up to a child playing pretend.
Option two: Partial truth — I have a natural mana talent and was experimenting innocently.
Option three: Trust him.
Edric had a secret he trusted me with. I'd kept it. That counted for something.
"Sit down," I said.
He did, slowly, settling onto the grass beside me with the wariness of someone approaching an unexploded device.
"I've been studying ward theory," I said. "From Father's books."
"You're seven."
"We really need to move past the age thing."
"You modified a ward pattern. That's not reading a book. That's applied Sanctus Architecture. Third-year seminary students can't do that."
"The pattern was inefficient. Hexagonal geometry creates destructive interference at the midpoints. Octagonal is better. I just... tested it."
Edric's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "How did you channel mana? You haven't been trained. You don't even have a formal core assessment yet."
"I felt it and pushed."
"That's— you can't just—" He stopped. Rubbed his temples. "Okay. Okay. I'm going to ask a question, and I need you to be honest with me."
"Okay."
"Are you really seven years old?"
The question hit differently than I expected. Not because it was surprising — in retrospect, this conversation had been inevitable — but because of how he asked it. Not with suspicion or fear. With genuine, open curiosity.
Like he was ready to accept whatever answer I gave.
I chose option three.
"...No," I said. "And yes. It's complicated."
"Uncomplicate it."
I took a breath. "I have memories. From before I was born. Not this birth — a different life. A different world. I don't know how or why, but when I was born as Lucien Ashveil, I already had an adult's mind. An adult's knowledge."
I waited for the reaction. Disbelief. Horror. A call for Father. An exorcism, maybe.
Edric was quiet for a very long time.
Then he said: "That explains the 'contemplative' thing."
I blinked. "What?"
"Nobody uses the word 'contemplative' at four. I noticed. I just thought you were a prodigy." He paused. "What was the other world like?"
"No magic. No Goddess. No monsters. But we had machines that could fly, devices that let you talk to people across the world, and we'd walked on the moon."
"The moon."
"Yes."
"You're either telling the truth or you're the most creative liar in history."
"It's the truth."
He looked at the ward stone. At the still-fading residual glow. At me.
"So when you corrected Celestine's sword form—"
"Basic physics from my old world. The body is a system of levers and counterweights. Her form had an asymmetric load distribution."
"And the questions about mana crystals and ward efficiency—"
"In my old world, we didn't have magic, so we had to understand the underlying mechanics of everything. We called it science. Some of those principles apply to magic here."
"And you're... how old? In your head?"
"Thirty-three. Twenty-six from before, plus seven here."
Edric exhaled slowly. "I've been taking math help from a thirty-three-year-old."
"To be fair, you're very good at math. You didn't need much help."
He laughed. Incredulous, slightly hysterical, but genuine.
"This is insane," he said. "You know that? This is completely insane."
"Yeah."
"Who else knows?"
"Nobody. Just you."
He looked at me. Really looked at me, and I could see the moment something shifted in his expression — not just acceptance, but something more. Understanding. We were both people hiding who we really were, both performing roles that didn't quite fit, both carrying secrets.
"I won't tell anyone," he said.
"I know."
"But Lucien — what you did with the ward? That's dangerous. Not because it's wrong, but because the church controls Sanctus Architecture. If they found out a seven-year-old was independently modifying ward patterns — and doing it BETTER than their designs — they'd have questions. Questions that could lead to attention from the diocese. Or worse, the Empire."
He was right. I'd been so excited about confirming my theory that I'd underweighted the political risk.
"I'll be more careful," I said.
"You need to be invisible," he said. "Until you're old enough and trained enough that your abilities can be attributed to natural talent rather than... whatever you are."
Smart. Practical. Edric would've been a good strategist.
"How long?" I asked.
"Seminary starts at eleven. If you demonstrate exceptional ability there, it's unusual but explainable. Before that?" He shook his head. "Before that, you're a child prodigy at best and a heretical anomaly at worst."
Four years of hiding. I could do that. I'd been doing it for seven already.
"Deal," I said.
He extended his hand. I shook it. My hand was tiny in his.
"For the record," he said, standing up and brushing off his trousers, "the octagonal pattern was brilliant. Even I could see the efficiency difference."
"Thanks."
"Now fix the ward back to normal before Mother notices."
Right. I should do that.