The summer began to fade, bleeding slowly into the crisp, golden edges of autumn.
For the past three months, I have lived a double life. To the world, and to Maria, I am Percival, the bright but normal son of the village carpenter. But in the solitary moments in the hidden gaps between chores and playtime, I am a student of the impossible.
I decided early on not to tell Maria. Not yet. It isn't that I don't trust her, but... how do you explain to a five-year-old noblegirl that you can bypass the fundamental laws of magic she studies so religiously? If she knew I could cast without a blueprint, without a sound, she might think I'm a monster. Or worse, she might feel jealous. I don't want to ruin the friendship we have.
So, I train in the shadows.
It is late August. The heat is still oppressive, a humid blanket that hangs over the valley, making the air shimmer.
I am in the field behind the hill, sweat dripping down my back. The grass is yellowing, dry and brittle.
I've mastered the basics. I can conjure a stone without a sound. I can create a small flame. But today, I want to push it. I want to see what happens when I stop treating them as separate subjects.
In my old world, matter changed states. Solids could melt. Energy could transfer.
I plant my feet. I take a deep breath, centering myself.
Earth, I think, pulling the heavy, sludge-like mana into my left hand. I visualize the density, the atomic structure of the stone. A rock forms, hovering just above my palm.
Fire, I think, pulling the sharp, vibrating heat into my right hand. A small flame flickers to life, dancing in the still air.
Now... combine them.
I bring my hands together.
It's harder than I thought. The mana feels different. The Earth mana is slow and stubborn. The Fire mana is erratic and hungry. Trying to merge them feels like trying to push two magnets together at the wrong poles.
I grit my teeth. Heat the stone. Make it magma.
I force the energy. I visualize the molecules of the rock vibrating faster and faster, fueled by the fire.
The rock starts to glow a dull red.
"Come on," I grunt, sweat stinging my eyes. "Just a little more."
I pour more mana into the mix. I scrape the bottom of my "cup," drawing out every drop of energy I have.
Crack.
The rock doesn't melt. It shatters. The thermal shock blows it apart, sending hot shards of stone flying into the grass.
At the exact same moment, a spike of pain drives itself into the center of my skull.
"Gah!"
I drop to my knees, clutching my head.
It isn't a normal headache. It feels like someone is inflating a balloon inside my brain. It's a throbbing, rhythmic agony that pulses in time with my heartbeat. My vision blurs, the edges turning white. Nausea rolls in my stomach, sudden and violent.
Mana depletion I think?
I've read about it with Maria, but feeling it is different. It feels like my soul has been scraped hollow. My limbs feel like lead. The heat of the day suddenly feels freezing cold, and I start to shiver uncontrollably.
I lie back in the dry grass, breathing shallowly, waiting for the world to stop spinning.
Okay, I think, closing my eyes against the glare of the sun. Note to self: Don't force the merge. And don't empty the tank.
It takes an hour before I can stand up without vomiting. I stumble home, my head still pounding, but a small smile plays on my lips.
I failed. But the rock did glow red. It's possible.
Month Two: October
The leaves on the oak trees began to turn amber and crimson. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of woodsmoke.
My mana capacity grew. It was a slow, agonizing process. Every night, I went to bed with that hollow ache in my chest. Every morning, I woke up feeling just a fraction deeper. The "cup" Maria talked about was stretching.
It is now mid-afternoon in late October. The sky is a pale, watery blue, and the wind has a biting chill that demands a thicker tunic.
I am outside in the yard with Sylvia. The garden is going dormant for the season, and we are busy prepping it for the coming cold.
"Percy, could you hand me the rake?" Sylvia asks, pointing to the tool leaning against the fence.
"Got it."
I grab the rake and trot over. Sylvia is kneeling in the dirt, pulling the last of the withered tomato vines. She wipes a smudge of soil from her cheek, looking at the garden with a satisfied sigh.
Sylvia is a strong woman. She manages the household finances, negotiates with merchants when they come to the door, and keeps Roxas organized. But I've noticed something specific about her over the years.
She never truly takes the lead.
It isn't out of fear or weakness. It's a profound, bone-deep trust. Whenever a decision needs to be made, her eyes immediately flick to Roxas. If he says we go left, she goes left without a second thought. It reminds me of the story she told me how she left her noble life behind just because he asked. She follows him not because she has to, but because her entire world revolves around his orbit.
"We should have enough preserves to last the winter," she says, standing up and brushing off her knees. "Your father will be pleased."
Just as she says it, the familiar heavy footsteps crunch up the front path.
Roxas enters the gate, looking tired but content. He's covered in a fine layer of dust, and he smells of cedar and beeswax.
"I'm home," he calls out, his voice booming in the crisp air.
Sylvia's face lights up instantly. She drops the vines she was holding and walks over to him. She doesn't say anything at first; she just wraps her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest.
Roxas chuckles, dropping his heavy tool bag to return the hug, squeezing her tight. "Good day?"
"Better now," she murmurs against his tunic.
He holds her for a moment longer than necessary, then pulls back, turning his gaze to me.
"How are you doing, Percy?"
He walks over, ruffling my hair with his large, callused hand. "Stay out of trouble today?"
"Always," I grin. "What's for dinner? I'm starving."
Roxas laughs. "That makes two of us."
"I have a stew simmering," Sylvia interjects, smoothing down her apron, her eyes still fixed on Roxas. "And fresh bread."
"Sounds perfect. Let's get inside."
The evening settles in, cozy and warm. The cottage is filled with the rich, savory scent of beef and root vegetable stew. We sit around the heavy oak table, the candlelight flickering against the walls.
It's a comfortable silence at first, broken only by the scraping of wooden spoons against bowls.
"So," Sylvia starts, breaking off a piece of crusty bread. "How was work?"
Roxas swallows a mouthful of stew and nods. "Busy. I spent most of the day over at Danton's herb shop. The old shelving unit in the back finally gave out. I had to rip the whole thing out and install a new cedar system. Danton talked my ear off the whole time about some new shipment of medicinal roots he got from the north."
He chuckles, shaking his head. "The man knows his herbs, but he treats every shelf like it needs to hold a dragon's weight."
"He just wants it to last," Sylvia says softly, pouring him more water.
"And you, Percy?" Roxas looks at me. "What did you get up to?"
"I hung out with Maria for a bit earlier," I say between bites. "She was telling me about a book she's reading. After that, I came back and helped Mom clear the garden for winter."
Roxas smiles, a genuine, proud look crossing his face. "Good lad. It's good you're making friends. And helping your mother... that's important."
He takes another bite, chewing slowly. He glances at Sylvia.
They exchange a look.
It's subtle, but I catch it. Sylvia bites her lip, smiling, her eyes shining with a secret. Roxas grins back, a silent conversation passing between them in a split second. The atmosphere at the table shifts. It becomes charged with a nervous, happy energy.
Roxas sets his spoon down and clears his throat. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, looking directly at me.
"Percy," he starts, his voice dropping to a serious but gentle tone. "Your mother and I... we have something important to tell you."
I pause, my spoon hovering halfway to my mouth. I look from Roxas to Sylvia.
"You're going to be an older brother," Roxas says, his smile widening until it takes up his whole face. "Your mother is pregnant."
I blink.
Honestly? I knew. I've known for weeks. I've heard the morning sickness she tried to hide. I noticed the way she's been touching her stomach absentmindedly. I've noticed the... lack of nighttime activities recently.
But as the words hang in the air, my adult brain shuts down. My heart stutters in my chest.
Pregnant.
In my old life, that word was a death sentence. My mother died in childbirth. I never met her. I grew up watching my dad stare at her photo with a sadness that never went away.
I look at Sylvia. She looks happy. She looks glowing. But all I can see is fragility.
"Is..." my voice comes out small, trembling. "Is it safe?"
Roxas's smile falters. He looks at me, confused. "Safe?"
"Is Mom going to be okay?" I ask, the fear bleeding into my voice. "Danton... is he a good doctor? What if something goes wrong?"
The table goes silent.
Roxas realizes it then. He sees the genuine terror in my eyes. He reaches across the table, covering my small hand with his massive one.
"Hey," he says softly. "Your mother is strong, Percy. She's the strongest woman I know. And Danton has delivered every baby in this village for forty years. We're going to be fine."
Sylvia reaches out and squeezes my other hand. "I'm not going anywhere, Percy. I promise."
I look at them. I look at the warmth in their eyes. I take a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the old trauma back down. This is a new life. This is a new chance.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay."
Then, a smile breaks through the fear. A real one.
"Really?" I ask, squeezing their hands back. "A baby?"
"That's right," Sylvia beams. "You're going to have a little brother or sister."
"Wow," I breathe out. "That's... that's amazing."
I lean forward, letting my curiosity take over. "When? When is the baby coming?"
"Ideally around late spring," Sylvia answers.
"Do you have names picked out yet?" I ask. "Or are we waiting to see if it's a boy or a girl?"
"Not yet," Roxas laughs. "We figured we'd get your input first. We'll need a strong name to keep up with you."
"I'll start thinking of some," I promise, nodding solemnly. "I'll make a list."
Roxas roars with laughter, reaching over to ruffle my hair again. "I'm sure you will. I'm sure you will."
The next morning, I wake up feeling like I could run a marathon.
The heaviness of the previous days, the secret training, the exhaustion, the fear it had completely evaporated. Maybe it was the talk with my parents, or maybe it was the crisp, electrifying chill of the autumn morning, but I feel lighter.
I throw the covers off and sit up. I dress quickly in my tunic and trousers and head downstairs.
Breakfast is a lively affair. We eat warm oatmeal sweetened with honey and dried apples. The conversation revolves around the baby again Roxas throwing out ridiculous names like "Thorgar" just to make Sylvia laugh, while I veto them with the seriousness of a council judge.
Once the meal is done, I attack my chores with renewed vigor. I sweep the floor so fast I nearly create a dust storm, and I stack the firewood with such precision it looks like an art installation.
"I'm heading out!" I call, grabbing my coat from the hook.
"Have fun, Percy," Sylvia calls back.
I step out into the world. The air is sharp and cold, smelling of woodsmoke and decaying leaves. I pull my coat tighter and start the trek down the road.