Constara was still asleep when Eryon opened his eyes.
It wasn't a sudden awakening. There had been no nightmares that night. Only habit. The kind of habit born when someone learns too early that the world waits for no one.
The simple wooden ceiling above him rested quietly in the dim light. The house was small—two rooms, solid floor, walls he had reinforced himself during the last winter. Nothing luxurious. Nothing fragile.
He remained lying there for a few seconds, listening.
Silence. Breathing. The faint wind slipping through the cracks.
Safe.
He rose.
The ground was cold beneath his bare feet as he stepped into the small yard behind the house. The sky was still dark blue, the sun only hinting at its arrival. Constara wasn't a loud city. Even when it woke, it didn't shout. It functioned.
Eryon liked that. He liked the constancy of things.
He stopped at the center of the yard and took a slow breath.
First stance.
Feet firm. Spine aligned. Fists clenched.
He was twelve, but his movements were not childish. His base was solid, hips adjusted with precision. The straight punch wasn't explosive—but it was clean.
Breath. Strike. Side step. Repeat.
When he closed his eyes, he remembered larger hands adjusting his shoulders.
"Firm base. If your foundation is unstable, you fall."
Her voice had been calm. Steady. Warm.
He had been five back then. She had already been far too strong.
His sister had never taught complex techniques. Only fundamentals. Posture. Balance. Endurance.
Then she disappeared.
But the basics were enough for someone who refused to quit.
He punched the air again. The sound of his fist cutting through emptiness was dry and sharp. There was no mana flowing. Not yet.
But his body responded.
An hour later, the sun began to rise. Sweat ran down his neck. His muscles ached in a familiar way.
Good.
Pain meant growth.
He went inside, washed his face with cold water, changed into his simple work clothes, and left. The market was already waking when he arrived.
Constara functioned like a well-assembled mechanism. Every merchant knew their place. Stalls were organized. Guards patrolled without arrogance. No one shouted without reason.
That was how Perenia remained stable. Not the richest kingdom. Not the most powerful.
But the most balanced.
Eryon began unloading crates for one of the grain merchants. The work was heavy for someone his age, but he didn't complain. Shoulders firm. Steps steady.
Working meant eating. Eating meant training well. Training well meant becoming stronger.
Simple reasoning.
As he stacked sacks, low voices rose behind him.
"At least there's peace now."
"Peace? You call that peace?"
"Keep your voice down."
"I'm just saying the former emperor wouldn't have allowed—"
"And that's why he's dead."
Silence.
Eryon didn't look back.
He had learned that certain conversations weren't meant for children.
Or for ordinary adults.
"He did what was necessary," another voice murmured.
"Necessary to kill his own brothers?"
Footsteps approached. The metallic sound of a guard's armor. The conversation died instantly.
Eryon kept working.
The kingdom was stable. The streets were safe. Food was plentiful.
But stability had a price.
He didn't understand politics. But he understood loss.
The invasion that night had taken his parents.
Beasts. Flames. Screams.
And then silence.
The previous emperor had also died in that crisis. The current one took the throne shortly after.
And the kingdom remained firm.
People didn't talk much about it.
Peace was convenient.
"Hey."
Eryon looked up. An older man was watching him.
"You're the hero's brother, aren't you?"
He nodded.
"Shame you didn't inherit her talent."
There was no cruelty in his tone. Just observation. A few others chuckled quietly.
"If you had half her strength, you'd already be in the academy."
"Maybe he's trying."
"With those arms?"
More laughter.
Eryon tightened his grip on the sack. He didn't respond. Didn't look away. He simply finished the job.
The man sighed.
"Keep training, kid. Persistence pays off too."
It wasn't praise. But it wasn't contempt either.
It was simple truth.
Eryon answered with silence.
When he finished, he wiped his hands on his pants and left the market.
That was when he heard the voice that always shifted the weight of the world.
"Eryon."
He turned.
Seren was walking down the street with steps far too decisive for someone their age. She wore simple clothes, but of better fabric than his. A book was strapped to her waist with a leather tie. Her hair was pulled back to keep it out of the way. Her gaze was steady.
She stopped in front of him.
"Shouldn't you be studying?"
"I already did."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's a lie."
She narrowed her eyes.
"I wake up early."
"Not earlier than me."
She made a sound of disdain and crossed her arms.
"You still haven't learned how to use mana properly and you want to compete with me over who wakes up first?"
He almost smiled.
"One day I'll use it better than you."
"Dream on."
They began walking side by side. They didn't need to agree—it was natural. A few times a week they walked to the edge of the forest. It wasn't forbidden. Just far enough that no one would interrupt.
Along the way, Seren spoke without looking at him.
"You're going to try for the academy when you turn fifteen?"
"Yes."
"Even if you haven't learned to use mana by then?"
"Yes."
She paused for a second.
"And what if you fail?"
"I won't."
"Stubborn."
He shrugged.
"Determined."
She huffed.
"That's not the same thing."
"It works the same way."
She tried not to smile.
Didn't quite succeed.
They reached the small clearing they usually used. Seren dropped her book onto a fallen tree trunk and picked up a stick, drawing on the ground.
"Mana isn't strength. It's organized intent."
He crossed his arms.
"You always say that."
"Because you always try to push mana like you're pushing a wall."
She drew curved lines.
"It flows better when it follows movement."
He took a deep breath and assumed his stance.
Movement. Strike. Nothing.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Frustration rose in his chest, but it didn't explode. He closed his eyes. Breathed. Tried to feel something beyond muscle.
Nothing.
---
Seren watched him.
"You're forcing it."
"I know."
"Then stop."
He lowered his arm.
They stood in silence for a few seconds. The wind moved softly through the leaves above them.
She sat on the fallen tree.
"You know you don't have to be like her."
He didn't answer immediately.
"I know."
"Then why insist?"
He looked at his own hands. Calm. Steady.
"Because I don't want to lose anyone else."
Seren didn't ask about his parents. She never did. She knew.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was understanding.
He lifted his gaze.
She was looking at him differently. Not like someone teaching. But like someone believing.
And that made something tighten in his chest.
Not pain.
Something deeper.
Admiration.
She was determined. Firm. She didn't bend when her family disapproved of her friendships. She didn't care about whispers. She was strong in a way different from his sister.
Eryon slowly clenched his fist.
"I'll make it."
"Make what?" she asked softly.
He thought for a moment.
He didn't have the right words yet.
But he knew the feeling.
"Strong enough."
She didn't laugh this time. Didn't tease him.
She just stayed there.
The sun had climbed higher. The city continued functioning in the distance. Stable. Constant.
And in that small space between trees, an ordinary boy took a breath and chose, once again, not to break.
There was no grand promise. No epic destiny.
Just a decision.
And sometimes, that was the beginning of everything.
---
Training ended when sunlight cut cleanly through the canopy. Seren picked up her book and erased the drawings on the ground with her foot.
"Don't train alone at night," she said, like she had said many times before.
"I know."
"You always say that."
"And I always mean it."
She studied his face for a moment, as if searching for invisible cracks.
She found none.
"I have advanced class today," she said. "The instructor mentioned they might allow a field demonstration next month."
He looked up.
"Already?"
"Already."
There was a spark in her voice. Controlled—but there.
"You'll participate?"
"Of course."
It wasn't arrogance.
It was certainty.
They walked back toward the main road. When the city came into view again, the contrast felt almost strange—as if the clearing had been a suspended world, separate from expectations.
Before they parted, Seren grabbed his arm.
"Eryon."
He stopped.
"Don't try to compensate for what you're not."
He looked at her steadily.
"I'm not trying to be someone else."
"Then what are you trying to be?"
He thought for a second.
"Strong."
She released his arm slowly.
"You already are."
But he wasn't so sure.
---
The rest of the day passed like any other.
Work. Silence. Food. Rest.
The next day, Eryon helped repair a fence near the southern edge of the city. The property owner complained about the increase in minor monsters in the area.
"Nothing serious," the man said. "Just pests. Still enough to annoy farmers."
"If it keeps up, the guard will need more patrols," someone replied.
"Or they'll send academy apprentices."
Laughter.
"As long as they send more than theory."
Eryon listened while hammering wood into place.
Monsters were appearing more frequently.
Not an invasion. Not a crisis.
But not normal either.
When the job ended, the sun was lowering in the sky. He received a few coins, nodded in thanks, and headed home.
The path was peaceful.
Children played near the central fountain. Merchants closed their stalls. Guards spoke quietly.
Stable.
Always stable.
But something felt different.
The wind.
He stopped.
It was subtle. Barely noticeable.
But the air felt… heavier.
Like before a storm.
He frowned slightly and inhaled.
Nothing.
Maybe imagination.
He continued walking.
Then he heard it.
A scream.
Short. Frightened.
From the side street leading to the old storage district.
His body moved before thought.
He ran.
Turned the corner.
Three children were backing against a wall.
Between them and the exit stood a creature—small, quadrupedal, dark-skinned, yellow eyes glowing with instinctive aggression.
A beast.
Weak—but fast.
Eryon recognized it immediately.
He had no weapon.
The creature lunged.
One of the children stumbled.
There was no time to call the guard.
He stepped in front.
Stance. Firm base.
The beast leapt.
He sidestepped cleanly, throwing a lateral strike.
Missed by inches.
Too fast.
The creature twisted mid-landing and charged again.
His heartbeat quickened.
Not paralyzing fear.
Absolute alertness.
It leapt again.
This time he waited half a second longer.
At the exact moment it committed to the jump, he stepped forward instead of back.
Impact.
His shoulder struck the creature midair, disrupting its trajectory.
They both hit the ground.
Pain flared in his arm as claws scraped across his skin.
He ignored it.
He locked his forearm under its neck and drove it against the ground. It writhed. Strong. Instinctive.
He gritted his teeth.
I can't give in.
The crawler opened its jaws—
And then—
Something shifted.
No explosion.
No bright light.
Subtle.
A different kind of pressure moved through his arm.
Warm.
Fluid.
For a brief—very brief—moment, his movement aligned with something beyond muscle.
The creature's strength faltered.
As if struck from within.
It stopped.
Silence.
Eryon remained frozen for a few seconds, breathing hard, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
His arm burned.
But it wasn't only pain.
He released slowly.
The creature didn't move.
The children stared in shock.
"D-did you kill it?"
He looked at his hands.
There was no glow. No visible sign.
But he had felt it.
For a second.
Flow.
Not forced.
Aligned.
The guard arrived minutes later, drawn by the noise.
Questions. Confusion.
He answered simply.
"I reacted."
One of the guards examined the corpse.
"Strange."
"Why?"
"Doesn't look like just physical impact."
Eryon kept his face neutral.
"I just hit it."
The guard studied him a moment longer than necessary.
Then nodded.
"Good work."
The children were escorted home.
The street returned to normal.
As if nothing had happened.
---
That night, Eryon sat in the yard.
The sky was clear.
He raised his hand in front of his face.
Closed his eyes.
Breathed.
Tried to remember the sensation.
Not force.
Not pushing.
Following.
Movement aligned.
He tried again.
Nothing.
Only his own pulse.
He opened his eyes slowly.
He didn't smile.
Didn't celebrate.
But something had changed.
He wasn't sure if it had truly been mana.
But he knew it wasn't just muscle.
And for the first time since he began trying—
The doubt felt smaller.
Not because he had succeeded.
But because, for a moment—
He had touched the path.
Inside the small house, silence remained.
The city slept.
The kingdom stayed stable.
The emperor ruled.
The academy trained prodigies.
And an ordinary boy, sitting beneath the night sky, brushed the edge of something that might one day change everything.
Not because he was special.
But because he refused to stop.