Winter came to Brent not with a whisper, but with a stranglehold.
The week after the black carriage disappeared over the horizon, the sky turned the color of bruised iron. The wind shifted, coming down from the northern mountains, carrying a bite that froze the mud in the streets into jagged ruts. Then, the snow began.
It didn't stop for three days.
The world I knew was buried under four feet of powder. The vibrant reds and golds of autumn were suffocated by an endless, blinding white. The village went dormant. The blacksmith's hammer grew silent, the bakery closed early, and the streets emptied as families huddled around their hearths.
For six months, my world shrank back down to the size of the cottage.
I threw myself into the grind.
Every morning, before the sun could struggle through the heavy grey clouds, I was in the backyard. The snow was up to my waist, a physical barrier that made even walking a workout. I had to spend the first twenty minutes of every session just clearing a small circle near the woodpile, using a shovel that was twice my size.
My breath puffed out in thick, white clouds. My fingers, despite the mittens, stung with the cold. But I loved it. The cold was clarifying. It sharpened my focus.
I started with Earth magic.
I had the basics down, but "basics" don't win championships. I needed precision.
I stood in my cleared circle, the walls of snow rising around me like the trenches of a fort. I focused on a dead pine tree about thirty feet away. It had a specific knot in the bark, a dark circle roughly the size of a strike zone.
I took a deep breath, centering myself.
Gather.
I pulled the heavy, sludge-like mana from my core. I didn't speak a word. I didn't need to anymore. I visualized the density, the weight, the jagged edges of a rock.
Solidify.
A stone, the size of a baseball, materialized in my right hand. It was cold, heavy, and real.
I shifted my stance. I dug my back boot into the frozen earth for traction. I went into the wind-up. Leg kick. Hip rotation. Shoulder drive. Snap the wrist.
Release.
I threw the stone with everything I had.
THWACK.
The stone slammed into the trunk of the pine tree, dead center on the knot. It shattered on impact, sending shards of rock flying into the snow.
"Strike one," I whispered, my voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around my face.
I did it again. And again. And again.
I threw until my shoulder burned. I threw until the mana reservoir in my chest ached with that familiar, hollow emptiness. I threw until the bark of the pine tree was stripped away, leaving raw, pale wood exposed.
I wasn't just practicing magic; I was practicing control. I learned to curve the stones in mid-air by visualizing the spin. I learned to make them denser, heavier, to increase the impact force. I turned myself into a living pitching machine.
Then, I started Fire.
Fire was different. Earth was heavy, obedient, and stable. Fire was angry. It was volatile. And trying to learn it in the middle of a freezing winter was a nightmare.
I sat cross-legged in the snow, staring at a single candle wick I had set up on a stump.
The air was freezing. The ambient temperature was fighting me. Every time I tried to manifest heat, the cold air swallowed it instantly.
I closed my eyes. I tried to visualize the heat. I thought about friction. I thought about the feeling of sliding into home plate, the burn of skin against dirt. I thought about the sun hitting the asphalt in Tokyo.
Ignite.
I pushed the mana into the tip of my finger. I tried to make the molecules vibrate. I tried to make them snap.
Nothing. Just a faint wisp of grey smoke that was instantly whisked away by the wind.
"Come on," I hissed, my teeth chattering.
I tried again. I pushed harder. I visualized the explosion of the fireworks I had made for the twins. I visualized the bonfire at the festival.
Burn.
A spark popped at the end of my finger. It sizzled for a microsecond, then died.
I did this for weeks. I spent hours freezing in the backyard, staring at that damn wick, trying to coax a flame into existence. I got headaches that felt like someone was driving a nail between my eyes. My fingertips were singed black one day and frostbitten the next.
But I didn't stop.
Finally, in the depths of January, it happened.
I was exhausted. I was cold. I was angry at the cold. I channeled that anger. I grabbed the mana sharp, vibrating, erratic and I crushed it into a single point.
IGNITE.
Fwoosh.
A flame didn't just flicker; it snapped into existence, hovering an inch above my thumb. It was blue at the base, transitioning to a rich, steady orange. It hissed against the cold air, a defiant little sphere of heat.
I stared at it, mesmerized. I could feel the warmth radiating against my skin. It was beautiful.
"Gotcha," I grinned, watching the flame dance.
My mana capacity grew. It was a slow, agonizing process. Every night, I went to bed with that hollow ache in my chest, feeling drained to the marrow. Every morning, I woke up feeling just a fraction deeper. The "cup" Maria talked about was stretching.
I turned six in the dead of winter.
It was a quiet affair. Sylvia baked a cake with dried berries she had preserved. Roxas carved me a new set of wooden soldiers. We laughed, we ate, and we sat by the fire.
I blew out the candles.
The next day, the sun came out. The sky was a brilliant, painful blue.
I walked out to the fields. The snow had formed a hard crust on top, strong enough to walk on if you were light. I walked all the way to the oak tree.
It looked lonely without its leaves. The branches were bare, black fingers scratching at the sky.
I stood there for a long time. I looked at the spot where the roots curled up to form a natural seat. The snow there was undisturbed. A perfect, smooth blanket of white.
I sat down on the opposite side of the tree. I pulled a stone from the ground using magic, rolling it between my fingers. I looked down at the frozen lake.
I stood up and wound my arm back. I threw the stone. It skittered across the ice, sliding for a hundred yards before coming to a stop.
I waited.
I don't know what I was waiting for. Maybe for the ice to crack. Maybe for a splash. Maybe for a voice to tell me that was a good throw.
The only sound was the wind howling through the empty branches.
I turned around and walked home.
Then, the thaw arrived.
Spring in the valley was violent. The snow melted rapidly, turning the roads into rivers of slush and mud. The river swelled, roaring against its banks. But with the mud came life. Green shoots punched through the wet earth. The birds returned, screaming their songs from the rooftops. The air smelled of wet soil and new growth.
And now, here we are.
I am sitting on the plush couch in the living room, my legs dangling off the edge, swinging back and forth in a relaxed rhythm.
The house feels different today. It's busy.
Upstairs, the floorboards creak.
Creak... Thump... Creak.
Footsteps. Heavy, pacing footsteps. That's Roxas. He's usually the mountain of this family, unmovable, calm, steady. But for the last hour, he has been pacing the length of the hallway like a caged tiger.
I smirk, shaking my head. He's a nervous wreck.
There are other voices, too.
Danton, the village herbalist, is up there. I saw him arrive an hour ago with his satchel smelling of dried sage and antiseptic. And Sara, the midwife. She's a quiet woman with plain black hair tied back in a severe bun. She didn't say a word to me when she walked in, just rushed straight up the stairs with a bucket of hot water.
I lean back against the cushions, resting my head on my hands, staring at the unlit fireplace.
I'm not worried. Sylvia is strong. She's healthy. The pregnancy has been smooth sailing the entire time. In my mind, this is just a waiting game.
I look at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight coming through the window, swirling in slow, lazy circles.
I let my mind wander to what comes next. A brother or a sister. Someone to teach. Someone to protect. I imagine showing them how to skip stones on the lake. I imagine teaching them how to read, or maybe even showing them a simple magic trick once they're old enough.
It's going to be loud in this house soon. Crying, laughing, running around.
Good, I think. It's been a little too quiet lately.
Above me, the pacing stops. I hear Sara's voice, sharp and commanding, followed by the sound of a heavy door closing. Then, silence.
I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. The pendulum swings back and forth. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Any minute now.
I kick my feet a little faster, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Hours bleed into one another.
The afternoon sun slowly crawls across the floorboards, stretching the shadows of the furniture until they touch the opposite wall. The house is filled with a symphony of muffled noises from the floor above. I hear the clinking of metal instruments against ceramic basins. I hear the heavy, frantic footsteps of Roxas moving from one side of the room to the other. I hear Danton's low, murmuring voice giving instructions, steady and calm.
And, of course, I hear Sylvia. Her breathing is heavy, punctuated by sharp cries that drift down through the timber beams.
I don't flinch. I just sit there, kicking my legs, listening to the rhythm of life happening upstairs. It's a process. It's natural.
Then, the sound changes.
A sharp, piercing wail cuts through the house. It's high-pitched and indignant, the sound of a new set of lungs taking their first breath of air.
I grin, gripping the edge of the couch. Finally,
But then, just as the first cry settles into a rhythm... a second wail joins it.
I pause, tilting my head. An echo? No, the pitch is different. It's a harmony of chaos.
Minutes later, the heavy thud of boots comes down the stairs.
I jump off the couch as Roxas appears at the bottom of the landing. He looks like he's been through a war, but in the best way possible. His hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his tunic is wrinkled, and he's sweating profusely.
But his face... his face is beaming. He looks exhausted, drained, and completely, utterly happy.
"Percy," he says, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat and waves me over. "Come on up. Your mother wants to see you."
I don't need to be told twice.
I head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. My heart is hammering against my ribs not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated anticipation.
Man, I can't wait.
I reach the top landing and walk down the hallway. It feels different now. The air feels heavier, warmer. I reach the door to my parents' bedroom. It's slightly ajar.
I take a breath, push it open, and step inside.
The room smells of antiseptic herbs, sweat, and iron. The curtains are drawn to keep the light soft. Danton is in the corner, packing away his glass vials into a leather satchel, wiping his hands on a cloth. Sara, the midwife, is busying herself with a basin of water near the vanity.
I ignore them. My eyes go straight to the bed.
Sylvia is propped up against a mountain of pillows. She looks pale, her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, but her eyes are bright and alert.
And in her arms, wrapped in thick white linen blankets, are two bundles.
I freeze in the doorway.
Two?
I blink, processing the sight. I expected a brother. Or a sister. I didn't expect a matched set.
Sylvia looks up, catching my eye. Her tired smile widens.
"Come here, Percy," she whispers.
I walk slowly to the right side of the bed, moving as quietly as I can, as if the floorboards might shatter if I step too hard.
I peer over the edge of the mattress.
Both babies are red-faced and squirming, letting out small, hiccuping cries. I look at the one closest to Sylvia's chest. A tuft of wet, dark brown hair identical to Roxas's sticks out from the blanket. Then I look at the other one, nestled in the crook of her arm. This one has a dusting of hair that shines like spun gold, the exact shade of Sylvia's chestnut-blonde locks.
Twins.
I feel a surge of emotion hit me in the chest. It's a mix of shock and a sudden, overwhelming warmth. I thought I was ready to protect one sibling, but two? The responsibility just doubled. But looking at them... seeing how small they are... I don't mind. I don't mind at all.
"These are your sisters," Sylvia says softly, shifting the bundles slightly so I can see their faces better.
Roxas moves to the other side of the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. He reaches out a massive finger, stroking the cheek of the baby with the dark hair. He looks at me, his eyes shining.
"What are their names?" I ask, my voice hushed.
Sylvia looks down at the baby with the dark brown hair. She kisses the top of her head.
"This is Sora."
Then, she turns her gaze to the baby with the golden hair.
"And this is Iris."
Sora and Iris.
I look at them both. They are tiny. Fragile. Their eyes are squeezed shut, their little fists bunching up the fabric of the blankets. They are adorable.
I smile, a genuine, uncontrollable reaction.
I reach out slowly. My hand, callused from gripping stones and carving wood, hovers over Iris. I gently extend my index finger and brush it against her tiny, clenched hand.
Her skin is incredibly soft, warm, and delicate. She's still crying, a thin, wavering sound, but she doesn't pull away.
I stare at her, my mind racing.
So small.
It's hard to believe I was this small six years ago. It's hard to believe something this tiny can even survive in a world like this. But they made it. They're here.
A fierce, protective instinct flares up inside me, hot and bright. I thought I was determined before, but this is different. This isn't just about me wanting to see the world anymore. It's about making sure the world is safe enough for them to live in it.
Hello, Sora. Hello, Iris.
***
A few months have passed since the twins arrived, and they are growing at a terrifying rate.
I'm also realizing something very important: I was an incredibly easy baby.
My parents were spoiled with me. I didn't cry unless I was starving or in dire need of a change. I slept through the night. I was polite.
Sora and Iris? They are normal babies. And normal babies, it turns out, are loud.
It is a constant barrage of noise. They cry in the morning when the sun hits their cribs. They cry in the afternoon when they're bored. And, without fail, they cry at midnight just to remind us they exist. They've taken over the guest room across the hall from me, turning it into a fortress of blankets and wooden toys, but the sound travels through the walls like they're made of paper.
It's exhausting. But... there are benefits.
Whenever Sylvia or Roxas are too busy which is often I get to step in.
I am currently sitting in the rocking chair in their room, holding Sora. She's a handful. Even at a few months old, she has a grip like a vice. She's currently holding onto my index finger so tightly the tip is turning red, staring up at me with intense, grey-blue eyes the exact same shade as mine. She's fussy, always kicking her legs, demanding attention.
"You're going to be a fighter, aren't you?" I whisper, gently prying my finger loose only for her to grab it again. It's aggressive, but I won't lie, it's super cute.
Iris is the complete opposite. She's lying in the crib next to me, awake but content. She just watches us with her own pair of grey-blue eyes, bubbling with spit. When I lean over to make a funny face, sticking my tongue out, she bursts into a fit of giggles, her gummy smile warming my chest instantly.
So this is what being a babysitter is like. It's loud, it's messy, but it's hard not to love them.
When I'm not playing babysitter, I'm doing chores or helping Roxas in the shop. My magic practice has taken a hit. I haven't been nearly as consistent with my training; it's hard to sneak away to the field when you're on diaper duty. I still practice silently in my room when I can, molding small stones or flickering a tiny flame, just to keep the "clay" from hardening, but the volume has dropped.
The nights are the funniest part, though.
It's past midnight. I'm wide awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling. Across the hall, the dual-siren wail of the twins kicks up.
Thump... Thump...
I hear the heavy, exhausted footsteps of my father dragging himself down the hall.
"I'm coming... I'm coming..." Roxas groans, his voice thick with sleep.
I listen to him fumbling with the door handle, followed by the soft murmuring of him trying to shush two screaming infants. He sounds absolutely defeated.
I turn over in my bed, pulling the covers up, a smirk of pure satisfaction spreading across my face.
"Now you know how it feels, old man," I whisper to myself.
I remember all those nights a couple of years ago, waking up to the rhythmic thumping of their bed frame against the wall and the muffled sounds coming from their room while I tried to sleep. They kept me up plenty of times.
"Consider this payback," I chuckle, closing my eyes.
While my world has shrunk down to the cottage and the twins, my connection to the outside world comes in the form of envelopes sealed with blue wax.
I've received three letters from Maria over the past few months. I keep them in a wooden box Roxas made for me, treating them like treasures.
The first one arrived two months after she left.
Dear Percy,
We finally made it! The journey took nearly two months by carriage, and I am exhausted. My father says I slept through half the continent.
The change in scenery was incredible. We left the grasslands weeks ago. Crossing the border into the Milten Kingdom was like stepping into another world. It's so cold here! The entire kingdom is blanketed in white. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen.
You would love the animals. I saw a Flit today, but it wasn't brown like the ones in Brent, it was pure white, blending in perfectly with the snow. There are birds here that look like living icicles, and yesterday, we saw a herd of White Stags moving through the pines. They were elegant and ghostly. I wish you could have seen them.
I miss our walks to the oak tree. Write back soon.
Your friend, Maria.
The second letter came a month later, detailing their arrival.
Dear Percy,
We have settled in. The city is called Shaltier, and it is massive. It sits right in the heart of the Northern Territories.
It's intimidating at first. The city is surrounded by a huge stone wall that looks like it was carved from the mountain itself. But inside? It's full of life. The streets are paved with grey stone and are probably kept clean by magic, because there isn't a speck of slush on them despite the weather. There are shops everywhere, selling things I've never seen before.
My father used his connections to buy a manor in the upper district, nestled right into the mountainside overlooking the city. It's very big, and a little lonely.
I saw students from the Academy walking in town today. They wear these blue and silver uniforms. I felt so nervous looking at them. I hope I can make friends.
I hope you are doing well. Have the leaves fallen in Brent yet?
Your friend, Maria
And the last letter, which I received just yesterday. I'm currently sitting at my desk, reading it by candlelight while the twins finally sleep.
Dear Percy,
TWINS?! You had twins?!
I am so excited for you! I can't believe you have two sisters now. Sora and Iris are beautiful names. I know you are going to be an amazing brother. You were always so patient with me when I was struggling with my incantations, so I know you'll be great with them.
I have big news too, I started my first classes at the Shaltier Academy! It's amazing here. The library is bigger than the entire village of Brent. Everyone is so nice and kind. I've met a few other children my age who are also exceptional in magic. It's nice to have people to practice with again, though none of them are quite as good at skipping stones as you.
I really miss you, Percy. It's fun here, but I miss the oak tree. I hope you'll be able to visit at some point like you promised.
Please tell Roxas and Sylvia I said congratulations!
Your friend, Maria
I finish reading the letter, a genuine smile spreading across my face.
"That's great," I say softly.
I'm glad she's settling in. I'm glad she found people who can keep up with her. It would have been terrible if she went all that way just to be lonely. She's chasing her dream, and she's crushing it.
I dip my quill into the inkwell to write my reply. I'll tell her about Sora's grip strength and Iris's laugh, and how much trouble they're giving Roxas.
It's good to hear from an old friend.