He glanced at the door. Outside, Veyra hummed as she hung laundry, her voice soft through the open window. Talren was a distant figure in the fields, too far to notice anything.
Now or never, Kaelith decided. He needed more—more magic, more proof he wasn't just dreaming this power. And he needed it where no one could see.
He slipped the pebble into his pocket and toddled to the threshold, peeking out. The village square was still, most folks busy with their daily tasks. Lirien and her gang of kids were nowhere around.
Good.
He darted across the square, his small legs pumping faster than a three-year-old's should. The woods edged closer, a wall of shadows and tangled branches that seemed to beckon him. Veyra's warnings—wolves, dark paths—echoed faintly, but he brushed them aside.
Today, the woods felt like home.
He wove between the trees, the air growing cool as the canopy blotted out the suns. Moss softened his steps, and the earthy scent mixed with something sharper—decay, maybe. Deeper in, he found a clearing, a small circle where sunlight stabbed through the leaves.
Kaelith plopped onto a fallen log and pulled out the pebble. He set it on the ground, staring until his eyes stung.
Move.
The pebble twitched, then rose—an inch, wobbly but real—before dropping back.
He let out a shaky breath, grinning. Again.
This time, he pushed harder, brows knitting tight. The pebble lifted higher, trembling in the air. Sweat prickled his forehead, his fists balled up.
More.
He shoved his will into it, and the pebble rocketed up, smacking a branch with a loud crack. Leaves fluttered down as he laughed, the sound bouncing off the trees. This was it—power he could feel, not just some fantasy from his old life.
But the thrill wasn't alone. A familiar ache pulsed in his gums, his stomach twisting with hunger. Magic wasn't enough—he had to face the other side of himself too.
He scanned the clearing. A squirrel darted along a branch, its little heart thudding loud in his ears. So small, so alive.
His fangs ached.
Could I?
He shook his head hard, shoving the urge down. Not yet. Not like that.
Instead, he turned back to the pebble. Maybe he could try something new—fire, like in Veyra's old storybook. He pictured a flame, small and tame, flickering above his hand. He whispered the word he'd memorized: "Ignis."
Nothing.
"Ignis," he said again, louder.
A spark flashed—brief, orange, gone in a blink.
His eyes lit up. Almost.
He kept at it, voice growing firm. "Ignis. Ignis. Ignis." Each try birthed a bigger spark until, on the tenth, a tiny flame bloomed above his palm, warm and steady.
Kaelith stared, entranced. It didn't hurt—it felt like part of him, alive and hungry in its own way.
A twig snapped.
He yelped, the flame winking out. Spinning around, he saw Lirien at the clearing's edge, her eyes huge.
"Kael? What're you doing out here?" she asked, stepping closer.
He scrambled up, brushing dirt off his tunic. "Nothing. Just… playing."
She frowned, arms crossing. "I saw fire. In your hand."
His gut sank. She saw.
"I—uh—it was a trick," he stammered, toddler tongue tripping. "With sticks."
"Liar," she said, smirking. "I know what I saw."
Panic clawed at him. If she told—if Torvyn heard—he wasn't ready. "Please," he whispered. "Don't tell."
Lirien tilted her head, then grinned slyly. "Fine. But you owe me."
"Owe you what?"
"A favor. Someday." She winked, turning back toward the village. "Come on. Your mom's looking."
He trailed after her, relief flooding in. Lirien was too clever—dangerous, even. He'd have to watch her.
For now, though, his secret held.
That night, Kaelith lay awake, the flame's glow still dancing in his mind. It was a start—a whisper of what he could be.
But Lirien's words chewed at him. You owe me. In his old life, debts had crushed him—money, promises, trust he'd squandered. Not again.
He rolled over, blanket pulled tight. The hunger flared, sharper after the magic. It always did, like the two were knotted together.
He bit his lip, tasting blood. It dulled the ache, but not enough.
Patience, he told himself. You'll learn.
Morning came, and Kaelith sat at the table, poking at his porridge. Veyra bustled in the kitchen, kneading dough, her hum filling the quiet.
Talren stomped in, mud on his boots. "Morning, little man. Sleep good?"
Kaelith nodded, spooning up the bland mush. It didn't satisfy—not like it should.
Talren ruffled his hair, then glanced at Veyra. "Torvyn's stopping by. Wants to check Kaelith's ward."
Kaelith perked up. Torvyn—the priest who'd warded him against the suns. Maybe he knew magic too.
Veyra smiled, wiping floury hands. "About time. He's growing so fast—might need a stronger spell."
"Or he's outgrowing it," Talren said. "Kid's tough."
Kaelith hid a smirk, head down. If they only knew.
Torvyn arrived after lunch, robe swishing, staff tapping the floor. His bald head shone, and his eyes locked on Kaelith with a strange weight.
"Kaelith," he said, voice warm but probing. "You've grown."
Kaelith stood by the hearth, clutching a wooden toy, and nodded. Torvyn's gaze lingered, searching.
Veyra offered a chair. "He's been fine, thanks to you. No burns, no trouble in the sun."
"Good," Torvyn said, still watching Kaelith. "But wards need renewal, especially for one so… unique."
He waved Kaelith over. "Come here, lad."
Kaelith stepped up, standing still as Torvyn's hand pressed his forehead. Warmth spread, the ward sinking in, familiar and steady.
But Torvyn frowned. "Hmm. Your energy's shifted. Stronger. Restless."
Kaelith's heart thudded. He knows.
"Restless?" Veyra echoed, worried.
Torvyn pulled back, smiling thinly. "Nothing serious. Children change, spirits grow. It's normal."
His eyes said otherwise.
After the ward, Torvyn stayed for tea, chatting with Veyra. Kaelith lingered in the corner, pretending to play, ears sharp.
"—harvest festival's soon," Veyra said, pouring more. "You leading the blessing?"
"Of course," Torvyn replied. "Though a traveling mage might steal the show—fire mage, passing through."
Kaelith's head snapped up. Fire mage?
"What kind?" he blurted, voice still a childish mumble.
Torvyn chuckled. "Curious, eh? A pyromancer, I hear."
Kaelith's mind spun. Fire—the same spark he'd made. Maybe this mage could teach him.
"Can I see him?" he asked, too eager.
Veyra laughed. "You're too little, Kaelith. Mages don't bother with kids."
But Torvyn's gaze sharpened. "Maybe. Curiosity's a good sign. I'll see what I can do, lad."
Kaelith nodded, barely hiding his grin. A real mage—his first shot at something bigger.
The harvest festival turned Talsara into a whirlwind of color and sound. Stalls sold sweet buns and trinkets, lanterns glowed as the suns sank, and music—flutes and drums—pulsed through the air.
Kaelith gripped Veyra's hand, eyes wide. Talren hoisted him up onto his shoulders, laughing. "Best seat around, eh?"
Kaelith giggled, clinging to his father's hair. From up high, he saw it all—dancers, jugglers with flaming torches, the crowd alive with cheer.
Then, silence fell. The music cut off, and the crowd split.
A woman strode in—tall, robes shimmering like molten flame, red hair spilling down her back. Her eyes glinted, wild and sharp.
"The fire mage," a voice murmured.
She raised her hands, and a fireball bloomed above her palm. Gasps rippled out.
Kaelith leaned forward. The flame twisted—red, blue, gold—morphing into a dragon, then a phoenix, each shape alive and fierce.
His fingers itched. He wanted that—needed it.
The show ended, applause thundering. The mage bowed and melted into the crowd.
Kaelith tugged Talren's ear. "I wanna meet her."
Talren chuckled. "Next year, maybe. She's not big on chats."
But Kaelith wasn't listening. He scanned for Torvyn—there, by the well, with the elders. He squirmed, and Talren set him down.
He bolted, dodging legs and skirts, until he reached Torvyn. "Priest Torvyn!"
The priest turned, smiling. "Enjoying yourself, Kaelith?"
"Yeah. Can I meet the mage now?"