The main room of the cottage glowed with the hearth's warmth, its low fire snapping and spitting as it chewed through a stack of pine logs.
The scent of baking bread, its crusty aroma mingling with the sizzle of bacon frying in an iron skillet.
Kaelith's stomach growled as he stepped inside, the tunic brushing his legs with every movement.
Talren sat at the table, his broad frame hunched over a chipped clay mug of blackroot tea, steam curling around his weathered face.
His hazel eyes flicked up as Kaelith entered, crinkling at the corners with a tired but genuine smile.
"Morning, lad," he rumbled, his voice rough from years of shouting over wind and cattle. "That tunic suits you—makes you look taller."
Kaelith slid into his seat across from him, the wooden chair creaking under his slight weight.
He grabbed a slice of bread from the basket Veyra had set out, its crust still warm and crackling as he tore into it.
Crumbs scattered across the table, and he brushed them off absently. "Thanks," he said around a mouthful, the bread's faint sweetness melting on his tongue.
Talren took a slow sip of his tea, the mug dwarfed in his calloused hands, and leaned forward, elbows thudding against the table. "Big day today," he said, his tone shifting—deeper, more serious. "Eight years old. Time to think about your path."
Kaelith paused mid-chew, the bread suddenly heavy in his mouth. He swallowed, forcing it down, and frowned. "Path?" he echoed, his voice tinged with unease.
"Age of Promise," Talren explained, his gaze steady, pinning Kaelith in place. "It's just a little thing where you explore what your future might hold; generally it's for young kids to dream big. But I suppose you're a bit different in that regards."
The bread stuck in Kaelith's throat, a lump he couldn't quite shift. He set the rest of the slice down, his fingers brushing the table's worn grain. "Didn't know I had to pick now," he said, his voice quieter, the weight of it pressing against his chest.
Talren's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm, the grip firm but not unkind. "You've got till sundown," he said, his tone softening. "No rush—just listen to your heart, lad. It'll tell you what you need."
Before Kaelith could respond, the door flew open with a bang, wood rattling against the frame. Lirien stormed in, her auburn braid a wild tangle from the wind, her green eyes blazing with an energy that filled the room like a gust. "Kaelith!" she barked, grabbing his arm with a grip like a vice. "Let's go—training time! No dawdling!"
Veyra spun from the hearth, a wooden spoon in one hand, the skillet hissing behind her. "Don't you two be late tonight!" she called, waving the spoon like a general marshaling troops. "I mean it!"
Lirien didn't answer, already dragging Kaelith toward the door, her boots stomping across the floorboards. He stumbled after her, the tunic flapping against his legs, her momentum a force he couldn't resist. The village blurred past them as she pulled him outside, its waking hum swallowed by her storm.
The Grove's Lessons
The training grove lay a half-mile from the village, a hidden pocket of shadow nestled between towering pines whose branches wove a thick canopy overhead. The twin suns' light barely pierced through, casting dappled patterns across the mossy ground, their heat muted by the cool, damp air. The scent of sap hung heavy, sharp and resinous, blending with the earthy musk of decaying leaves and the faint tang of crushed ferns. Kaelith's boots sank slightly into the moss as Lirien released his arm, spinning to face him with her hands planted on her hips, her grin wide and feral.
"Happy birthday!" she declared, her voice ringing off the trees, scattering a pair of birds from their perch. "Eight's a big deal—you ready for it?"
He rubbed his arm where her fingers had dug in, the new tunic shifting against his skin, its silver threads catching stray beams of light. "Guess so," he said, kicking a pinecone across the moss with a soft thud. "Veyra said something about a promise?"
Her grin faltered for a heartbeat, then sharpened, her eyes narrowing with purpose. "Age of Promise," she corrected, stepping closer, her boots crunching pine needles. "You declare your future tonight—the whole village hears it. What're you gonna say?"
"Dunno," he admitted, his gaze dropping to the pinecone as it rolled to a stop. "Magic, maybe. Something to beat the sun."
She nodded, fierce and approving, her braid swinging as she tilted her head. "Good choice. We'll get you there—starting now. Shadow Mantle—go!"
He squared his stance, feet sinking deeper into the moss, and drew a slow breath, the air cool against his throat. Mana stirred in his chest, a restless warmth that pulsed with his heartbeat, eager to be shaped. "Umbra Protego," he intoned, his voice steady, hands rising with palms turned upward. Shadows bled from the ground, dark tendrils curling upward like smoke, wrapping around him in a cloak of night. The cold weight of it pressed against his skin, heavy and suffocating, and he gritted his teeth, arms trembling as he held the spell.
"Ten!" Lirien called, circling him like a hawk, her boots snapping twigs with each step. "Twenty—keep it steady!"
Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes, the mana draining from him in a slow, relentless trickle. His legs shook, muscles burning as he counted silently—thirty, forty. "Forty!" Lirien shouted, her voice sharp and close. "Hold it, Kaelith!"