Steel flashed like quicksilver in the morning light. Edge Regius pivoted, wooden practice sword slicing through humid air as he countered his father's overhead strike. The impact jarred his shoulders—a reminder that, despite his advancing age, Darien Regius hadn't lost his strength.
"Too slow," his father grunted, already flowing into his next attack. "You're telegraphing your movements."
Edge's green eyes narrowed in concentration. At eighteen, his 5'10" frame had filled out through years of farm work and sword practice, but against his father—a former knight of the outer garrison—he remained perpetually outmatched.
The thwack of wood against wood echoed across their modest yard, punctuated by the occasional crow of roosters from neighboring farms. Eastford village was stirring to life around them, but the Regius family had been awake since before dawn, as always.
In a desperate gambit, Edge feinted left before dropping to one knee and sweeping his blade in a low arc. His father jumped the attack with surprising agility, but Edge had anticipated this. He rose in a fluid motion, his practice sword finding its mark against his father's ribs.
"Point," Edge said, brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Darien's weathered face broke into a rare smile. "Not bad. You're learning to think three moves ahead." He lowered his weapon. "Enough for today. Your mother will have breakfast ready."
As they walked toward their stone cottage, Edge felt the familiar weight of expectation settle on his shoulders. Tomorrow marked the annual Arcanum Trials—tests administered throughout the kingdom to identify those with magical aptitude worthy of attending the prestigious Arcanum Academy. For generations, commoners like him had viewed the trials as little more than a formality, a reminder of the divide between those born to nobility and everyone else.
But Edge would take the test anyway. Everyone did.
Inside, his mother Lienna stirred a pot of porridge while his younger sister Miri set wooden bowls on their table.
"How was practice?" Lienna asked, her face prematurely lined from years of hard work.
"He landed a hit," his father said, hanging their practice swords on pegs by the door.
Miri's eyes widened. "Really? Did you break his ribs? Is he dying dramatically as we speak?"
"Sadly, I'll survive to make you do your chores," Darien replied dryly.
Edge smiled but remained quiet as he washed his hands in the basin. The conversation around him faded as his thoughts drifted to tomorrow's trials. He'd never displayed any magical ability, not even a flicker. Unlike the tales of noble children who often manifested powers before their tenth year, most commoners went their entire lives without a spark.
After breakfast, Edge headed to the village square for his regular work. Eastford was a trading post between larger cities, which meant merchant caravans frequently needed extra hands for loading and unloading. The pay was humble but essential to his family's livelihood.
"Edge! Right on time." Markus, the square's unofficial foreman, waved him over to a caravan that had arrived during his morning practice. "We've got spices and textiles from the southern provinces. Need everything inventoried and stored by midday."
Edge nodded and got to work. Physical labor had always come easily to him. His body moved with efficiency as he hoisted crates and barrels, his mind elsewhere.
"Someone's thoughtful today," observed Nella, a girl his age who worked alongside him most days. Her dark hair was tied back practically, her hands as calloused as his own. "Nervous about tomorrow?"
"What's to be nervous about?" Edge replied, stacking another crate. "We'll all go, we'll all fail, and life will continue exactly as before."
Nella shrugged. "My cousin's husband's brother passed the test three years ago. He was a commoner from Westdale."
"And I'm sure the nobles made him feel right at home at the Academy," Edge said more bitterly than he'd intended.
"You never know, Edge." She hefted a sack of grain. "What's that thing your father always says?"
Edge sighed. "Preparation meets opportunity."
"Exactly. You're more prepared than any of us. If anyone from Eastford has a chance, it's you."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of labor. By sunset, Edge's muscles burned pleasantly from exertion as he walked home along the dirt road that wound through Eastford. The village wasn't much—a collection of stone and wooden structures surrounding a quaint square—but its familiarity comforted him.
That evening, as shadows lengthened across their small home, Edge sat with his father by the hearth. His mother and sister had already retired, but sleep eluded him.
"The trials don't matter," Edge finally said, breaking the comfortable silence between them.
His father poked at the dying embers. "They might not. But you'll take them seriously anyway."
"Why? We both know what happens to commoners who take the trials."
"Most commoners, yes." Darien's eyes reflected the firelight. "But during my time in the garrison, I met two mages who came from nothing. Less than we have."
Edge looked up, surprised. His father rarely spoke of his time in service.
"The world has its order," Darien continued, "but that order isn't as fixed as they'd have us believe. The nobles need fresh blood occasionally, if only to prevent themselves from becoming too complacent."
"Is that why you've trained me with the sword since I could walk? In case I'm that one-in-a-thousand commoner?"
His father's laugh was unexpectedly warm. "I trained you because that's what my father did for me. Because it teaches discipline. Because in this world, you must be ready to defend what matters." He paused. "But yes, perhaps also because I've always sensed something different in you, Edge."
"I've never shown any magic," Edge reminded him.
"Magic isn't everything. There are different kinds of power." Darien stood, stretching his back. "Whatever happens tomorrow, remember who you are. You're a Regius. We may not have titles or land beyond this cottage, but we have honor and we keep our word. That matters more than any magic."
Later, lying on his straw mattress in the room he shared with Miri, Edge stared at the ceiling. Outside, the night creatures sang their chorus, a constant reminder of the unchanging rhythm of village life. Tomorrow would come, the trials would happen, and nothing would change.
So why did the air around his hands seem to shimmer just slightly as he finally drifted off to sleep?