The dream was soft, warm, and cruel.
Lucian was only seven, cradled in his mother's arms as she brushed a curl from his forehead. Her voice — gentle, like wind slipping through autumn leaves — hummed an old lullaby. The kind only sung in the highlands, where the stars felt closer to the earth. Her lips moved with a whisper he almost didn't hear:
"No matter what they say, Luci. You were born to change everything. You will be the greatest mage the world has seen, my love."
He opened his mouth to speak — but she was gone.
A cold chill swept across his back.
The lullaby faded. Her warmth with it.
Lucian's eyes opened to wood-paneled walls and a scent of earth and thyme. It was a dream, one from his memories when his mother was with him. For a heartbeat, panic surged — the forest, the guards, the mana — but then the world settled. He was alive.
And someone was cooking.
He blinked hard and sat up. A blanket, clean and warm covered him. His shirt was folded neatly beside the bed, his boots drying by the fireplace. A tray of steaming stew sat at the bedside — red root vegetables, cuts of meat, wild herbs.
Lucian didn't think.
He devoured.
Spoon after spoon — he didn't know if he was starved, exhausted, or just relieved. But for a moment, all that mattered was the food.
Until someone cleared their throat.
Lucian froze.
He looked up.
A man stood near the door, arms crossed. Rich brown skin. He looked like he was in his mid to late twenties, light but sturdy frame, black hair cropped short. His eyes — a light, patient bown — studied Lucian with something between amusement and curiosity.
"I take it you're feeling better," he said.
Lucian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed. "You… saved me?"
"I did," the man nodded. "You were out cold in the woods. Lucky I found you before beasts did."
Lucian sat straighter. "And the guards?"
"Carried them to the edge of the woods." he added with a smirk. "Amateurs. Out colder than drunk mercs in a desert."
Lucian almost chuckled — but his mind was already spinning again.
"Why… why did you help me?" he asked, voice low.
The man shrugged. "Didn't like the look in their eyes. Or the way they spoke your name. Seemed like they wanted you dead more than they wanted you caught."
Lucian looked down at his hands, silent.
"Want to tell me why?" the man asked. "I don't mean to pry. But I did save your life."
Lucian hesitated. Then, "Letters."
The man tilted his head, confused.
"From my mother," Lucian added. "They… hid them from me. Lied. Sealed my mana. Tried to kill me when I found out."
His voice cracked on the last word, but he masked it by reaching for the stew again.
The man studied him — really looked — then nodded and stepped back.
"I'll be outside," he said quietly. "There's a creek behind the cabin. Take your time."
The door shut softly.
Lucian chewed slowly now. He was not sure if it was the stew or his stomach that suddenly felt heavier. But once he was done, he stood and walked to the door.
The clearing was beautiful. The grass was green and alive, rustling with wildflowers in yellow and white. The creek sparkled under the sun like someone had scattered silver dust on the water.
It didn't feel like the same forest. It felt… clean.
He spotted the man moving through sword forms near a patch of smooth dirt. Each motion was deliberate. Not fast, not showy. Just… efficient. Precise. Like the sword was an extension of him, not a tool.
Lucian felt something twist in his chest.
He sat on a log a few yards away from the man.
His mind returned to his magic, to the mess of a life behind him. The house that tried to kill him. The family that cursed his name. And then... to the circle of mana flickering at his fingertips.
It formed without command — a smooth ring of blue mana, thin as thread, runes orbiting it in miniature. Even now, it remembered him. Even now, it obeyed.
He stared at it.
Twisting. Gentle. Alive.
Lucian clenched his fist — and it vanished.
This power… I don't want this.
Not now.
He turned and approached the swordsman, who paused mid-form as Lucian stood a few feet away.
"I want to learn," Lucian said, voice firmer than he expected.
The man arched a brow.
Lucian took a breath. "Please… teach me the way of the sword."
The silence stretched between them. The man studied him. Eyes not unkind — just sharp, weighing something unseen.
Then the man smiled.
"…Alright. Let's see if you have hands worth trusting with a blade."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The kid was strange.
That was the first thing Maldrik had decided when he dragged the unconscious body out of the woods and back to his cabin.
Not strange in the drooling-madman sense. Strange in the "what in the dead gods' names is this brat doing carrying a mana stone into his mouth" sense. He had seen desperate magic before — wild invocation, channeling forbidden spells with cracked glyphs and blood. But never had he seen someone — and a noble, no less — deliberately break a crystal and ingest raw ambient mana just to force open a seal.
That was… gutsy.
Witty, reckless, half-suicidal maybe — but gutsy.
He recognized the surge instantly. The mana Lucian released was raw, unrefined, but dense. Heavy enough to push back the very air around him. That was not just normal mana. That was potential — terrifying and wild, yes — but real. The kid is going to be a great mage.
And then, after eating a bowl of stew like he hadn't been inches from death a day ago, the boy had walked up and said something insane:
"Please teach me the way of the sword."
The man had nearly laughed.
He hadn't, of course. Lucian's eyes were too serious. Too tired. Whatever had happened to this kid had crushed something inside him — and buried something else just beneath the surface.
So he tested him.
He expected clumsy strikes. Over-eager, maybe. An aristocrat's attempt at heroism.
But Lucian surprised him again.
His stance was too careful to be improvised — square and measured, built for control rather than aggression. His grip lacked finesse, but not thought. And when he struck, there was rhythm. A methodical tempo. Stalwart, if he had to name it. Not aggressive. Not fluid. But clean. Determined.
He, in contrast, moved like a storm — a dance of deadly precision, every motion meant to kill or disarm in one breathless second.
Lucian did not have that.
But what he had was discipline. And beneath the inexperience, there was something else: restraint. Maybe the boy did not know it himself — but he wasn't just throwing strikes.
He was thinking. Studying. Adjusting.
And that made Maldrik pause.
He sheathed his sword and stepped back, watching Lucian's shoulders rise and fall with effort. Sweat beaded his brow, but there was a light in his eyes now. Not the flicker of magic, but of something steadier. Something quieter.
Resolve.
The man scratched his jaw, thoughtful.
He didn't know who this kid really was — not yet — but in the span of a day, he had seen him unleash mana like a mage-prodigy, wield a blade like a disciplined novice, and eat stew like it was his last day on earth.
Strange kid.
But maybe…
Just maybe…
He was worth teaching.