After that fateful day, when the memories of my sister's death tore me apart like poisoned daggers, a few months passed in a succession of days that seemed to drag and fly simultaneously.
By the way, I heard my parents talk about arcane arts and not magic as I expected it to be... well, that didn't disappoint me at all. But back to what I was saying.
Maria's belly continued to grow, day after day, week after week, and along with it, so did the feelings and emotions that filled every corner of our modest home. Palpable anxiety on sleepless nights, whispered fear in conversations by the fireplace, happiness in small preparations, love in everyday gestures, hope in the glances exchanged between my parents... and, above all, my own fierce determination to protect my new family — especially, the one who had not yet arrived, my future sister.
Yes, I know it's too early for such concerns, that my fear may be irrational, a result of past traumas that still cling to me like dry roots in arid soil, refusing to die even after crossing between worlds. But how could I simply ignore them? How could I pretend that I don't carry these invisible scars? In these almost two years of new life, the family that welcomed me without knowing who I really am has become an inseparable part of what I am now, and all I wish, with every fiber of this small body, is to prevent the tragic story of my previous life from repeating itself in this new chance I've been given.
Lucius, my new father, also carried his own fears, although he tried to hide them under a mask of confidence. I could see it reflected in his face when he thought no one was watching — the wrinkles of worry that formed on his forehead, the distant gaze during meals, the nights when I found him sitting alone, contemplating the almost extinguished fire. Throughout spring and summer, he worked exhaustively, from dawn to dusk, to save money — enough to ensure that, this time, an experienced midwife would be by my mother's side at the time of birth, warding off the ghost of the tragedy that almost befell us at my birth.
By the way, "healer" is what they call midwives with skills in the arcane arts in this world. That's how I discovered that the elder Margareth was not just a simple midwife, but a healer of some renown in the region, respected even by the local nobility. It seems that in this world, as in the ancient hierarchies of the temples I knew in my previous life, there are also degrees and levels of skill, a rigid structure that determines the respect and value of each practitioner of the arcane arts.
With great sacrifice, selling part of our already scarce harvest and working on other people's lands on days off, Lucius managed to raise the necessary money. In nightly conversations I overheard by chance, hidden behind the half-open door, I understood that my arrival in the world cost the family dearly — and that the elder Margareth, although competent and respected, was known for charging well for her service, especially from nobles, even impoverished ones like us. Still, my father did not hesitate to go into debt again, mortgaging part of our lands, for the sake of my mother and the child to come.
I swear, by the gods of this and any other world, that one day I will repay every coin they spent on me and my sister. Every sacrifice will be rewarded a thousandfold.
But back to the present: the long-awaited moment was finally approaching, bringing with it a mixture of expectation and apprehension that hung over our house like a dense mist — as dense as the Nebulous Gray that, they say, envelops those at the Bruma level, the first stage of the arcane arts.
Today I am exactly two years and two months old. One of these days, I caught myself staring at my reflection in the small polished bronze mirror that my mother keeps as a treasure. Not that I was ugly, on the contrary — I inherited my mother's delicate and harmonious features, an almost ethereal beauty that seems out of place in this rustic world. Blonde hair like ripe wheat under the midday sun, eyes of an unusual golden hue, almost as bright as Starlight Gold, and a thin, slightly upturned nose that gives my childish face a certain natural nobility. I remember reading, in my past life, in some psychology or anthropology magazine, that this type of nose was considered the most attractive in men in Western culture. I hope this aesthetic rule applies here too, although appearance is the least of my concerns at the moment.
But appearance now matters little. The focus is elsewhere, much more vital and immediate.
Two days after the elder Margareth arrived at our house, bringing with her a worn leather bag full of herbs, the expected finally happened: my mother went into labor in the early hours of the morning, when the dew still covered the garden grass.
I can't say it was a calm or silent process. They didn't let me stay in the room, naturally — Lucius took me to the living room and tried to distract me with stories and simple games — but the screams of pain that pierced the thin walls of our house and the long, agonizing minutes of silence between them were enough to put me on high alert, my heart beating so hard it seemed to want to escape my chest. Finally, after almost two hours that seemed like an eternity, the purest and simplest sound I have ever heard in any of my lives filled the house like a blessing: the sharp and vigorous cry of a new life announcing its arrival in the world.
Twenty minutes later, when everything was calmer and more organized, my father took me to the room, his eyes shining with contained tears of relief and happiness.
When I entered, I found Maria reclining on pillows, exhausted, her face still pale and damp with sweat, but shining with such intense happiness that it seemed to illuminate the entire room. Her blue eyes, normally clear as the summer sky, were fixed with adoration on that small being in her arms, who was still whimpering softly, wrapped in thick, clean cloths.
— Elian, come here — my mother said, her voice tired, but sweet as honey. — This is your sister. Come meet her.
I approached slowly, almost in reverence, feeling the weight of that moment in every step. I looked with curiosity and an instinctive affection at the newborn's red, wrinkled face, so small and perfect in its fragility. And then, as if by some ancient and inexplicable arcane force, at the exact moment our eyes met — mine golden, hers still an undefined blue — the crying ceased completely, replaced by an almost solemn silence.
— It seems she already recognizes her older brother — my mother said, smiling tenderly, stroking the few golden hairs on the baby's head.
A strange, warm wave invaded my chest, spreading throughout my body like an overflowing river. It was... happiness in its purest form. Longing for something I lost. Instant and unconditional love. And a subtle, bittersweet pain, which I still carried from the memory of my old sister, Luana, whose smile I will never forget. When I felt the lump in my throat form and tears threaten to fall, I made a conscious effort to push these conflicting emotions to the back of my mind, focusing only on that precious moment that destiny granted me.
— My sister... my new sister... — I thought, the words echoing in my mind like a sacred mantra.
My eyes filled with tears that I couldn't hold back, but this time they were tears of pure joy, not of pain or loss. My father, noticing my emotion, approached silently and carefully lifted me, placing me beside my mother on the bed, so I could better see the small miracle that had arrived in our family.
— Do you want to hold her? — he asked, his voice betraying his own contained emotion.
I nodded silently, unable to form words in that transcendental moment.
With infinite care, as if handling the most precious of treasures, my mother transferred the small bundle to my inexperienced arms, helping me to correctly position my hands to support the fragile head. When I held her in my arms, feeling her almost imperceptible weight, her absolute fragility, a silent promise was born within me, etched in iron and fire in my soul: I will protect her from everything and everyone, no matter the cost. No harm will touch a hair on this child's head as long as I live.
And then, something completely unexpected happened, something that would change the course of my new life forever.
A strange sensation, unlike anything I had ever experienced before, began to spread through my left hand. First a slight tingling, like when a limb falls asleep, then an unbearable itch that seemed to come from the inside out, from the very cells. I began to rub my hand desperately against my clothes, trying to relieve that disturbing sensation, but something unusual and inexplicable was forming there, under my skin, as if an invisible force were drawing on my flesh.
My parents and the elder Margareth, who remained discreetly in the corner of the room observing the family scene, suddenly watched me with paralyzed expressions, a mixture of surprise, reverence, and something that seemed almost... fear? No, it wasn't fear exactly, but a kind of respectful awe.
When I finally dared to look at my hand, I almost dropped my sister in fright. A symbol was now etched there, on the back of my left hand, glowing softly with a bright amber light that pulsed to the rhythm of my accelerated heart. A perfect six-pointed star — the symbol of the Spark, the second level of the arcane arts — intricate and beautiful in its supernatural symmetry.
It was then that Margareth, in a low and reverent voice, but clear enough to echo in the minds of all present as if amplified by some mysterious force, murmured words that would change my destiny:
— The Spark... he awakened with the Spark. The inner flash that reveals what vibrates beyond the flesh.
My parents turned their eyes to her simultaneously, seeking answers, confused and amazed at the same time, like devotees before an unexpected miracle.
Lucius, still perplexed, was the first to break the heavy silence that had settled in the room:
— What exactly does that mean, Margareth? What's happening to our son?
Margareth looked at them with an enigmatic expression, almost as if the answer was too obvious to be explained to laypeople, but at the same time too complex to be fully understood.
— As you can see, your son awakened to the arcane arts three years earlier than normal. Most children remain at the Bruma level until they are five years old, enveloped in the Nebulous Gray of the dormant soul. This, in itself, would already be extraordinary.
With a slow and deliberate movement, she removed the leather glove she always wore on her left hand, revealing a symbol on the back of her left hand: two superimposed triangles, forming the symbol of Ascension, the sixth level of the arcane arts, which glowed with an incandescent white light, softer than mine, but equally mesmerizing.
— I myself awakened at four years old, right after losing my mother to the black plague. You two probably awakened at five or six years old, which is more common for those with some aptitude for the arcane arts, but you never passed the Bruma level, the first stage where the soul is still dormant.
My parents nodded silently, confirming her assumption.
— Elian awakened at two years old, completely skipping the Bruma level and directly manifesting the Spark. This is extremely rare, almost unprecedented in modern records. Perhaps it was triggered by a very strong emotion? No one can explain with certainty what determines the exact moment of awakening. This is not common, not even among families with ancient arcane lineages.
She paused significantly, observing me intently, her green eyes studying every detail of the symbol in my hand as if trying to decipher a text in a forgotten language.
— As I said, I lost my mother when I awakened my aptitude. It's not uncommon for strong emotions, especially traumatic ones, to influence awakening... but it's not an absolute rule. Many children experience terrible situations and never awaken any arcane ability. And, moreover, awakening early doesn't necessarily mean exceptional talent. Many factors are involved.
I, still holding my sister with one arm and looking fascinated at the symbol in my hand, tilted my head, curious and confused, trying to understand what all that meant for my future in this strange world.
Margareth gave a bitter smile, like someone carrying painful memories, and continued her explanation:
— Perhaps Elian is truly different. Do you remember what I said when he was born? That he was a true miracle, a child who returned from death itself. Perhaps this has some relation to his early awakening.
My mother, even paler than before, extended her trembling hand and touched my face with reverence, as if I were a sacred relic, and murmured:
— He... has already awakened directly with the Spark. Normally, awakening happens at the Bruma level, the most basic... Look at the amber glow emanating from his hand. It's the announcement of a potential that still lacks direction.
She paused for a moment, as if searching for words to express the extraordinary, and then added, her voice almost a whisper:
— Margareth... if I remember correctly from the teachings, you also awakened directly with the Spark, didn't you? Skipping the Bruma level?
Margareth confirmed with a solemn nod of her head, her eyes never leaving mine.
— And today your level is Ascension, the sixth level, right? Where the soul transcends the flesh and power molds reality around it?
Another confirming nod, now accompanied by a discreet smile that seemed to hide ancient and powerful secrets.
— Your symbol... the two superimposed triangles... and that incandescent white light emanating from it... — my mother murmured, almost in a trance.
My father then intervened, his voice now serious and formal, as I rarely heard him speak:
— Does this mean that our Elian has exceptional talent for the arcane arts? That he can become a powerful arcanist, perhaps even reach the Flame level or beyond?
Margareth smiled, this time more lightly, like a teacher before a promising student.
— One could say yes, he has rare potential. The Spark decides: it ignites or it extinguishes. In Elian's case, it seems to have ignited with unusual force. But natural talent, however great, guarantees nothing without constant effort, iron discipline, and proper training. Many prodigies get lost along the way due to lack of proper guidance, never managing to feed their Spark until it turns into Flame.
It was then that Lucius, to my complete surprise, knelt before her in a fluid movement, a gesture of submission very rare from a noble, even an impoverished one like him, and said in a firm voice:
— Elder Margareth, please accept my son as your disciple. I am willing to pay any price for his training, even if it means even greater sacrifices for our family.
I was also paralyzed by the unexpected scene, but he continued, his voice now laden with an emotion he rarely showed:
— Please, Archmage Margareth. Don't let this gift be lost.
"Archmage?" — I thought, stunned by the revelation. I would never have imagined that this woman of simple appearance and discreet manners was an archmage. Suddenly, her whole presence seemed different to my eyes, as if a mask had fallen.
My mother, still weak from the recent childbirth, to my horror, forced herself to get up with difficulty from the bed and knelt beside my father, making the same request, silent tears streaming down her exhausted face.
Margareth, visibly surprised and even a little embarrassed by the extreme gesture, immediately asked her to get up and go back to bed.
— Please, Maria, you just gave birth. Don't kneel before me or anyone in this state.
After helping my mother settle back in, she turned to my parents with a grave expression:
— You know this won't be cheap, right? Training an apprentice in the arcane arts requires time, resources, and exclusive dedication. Especially one who has already awakened with the Spark, skipping the Bruma stage.
My parents nodded simultaneously, determination etched on their faces.
— Are you willing to sacrifice the comfortable future of your newborn daughter... perhaps even that of the fief and its lands? Because that's what could happen if you invest all resources in Elian's arcane education, hoping that he will one day reach the Flame, the Roar, or perhaps even the Storm.
The question fell like a stone in still waters, creating waves of tension that spread through the room, and only then did I fully understand the weight of the request my parents were making. They were willing to sacrifice everything — absolutely everything — for my future, even if it meant difficulties for my newborn sister.
Before they could answer and potentially condemn my little sister to a life of deprivation, I gathered my courage and, to everyone's surprise, spoke with a clarity and articulation that no one would expect from a two-year-old child:
— Elder Margareth... I know I am just a child in everyone's eyes, but I solemnly promise that, if you accept me as your disciple, I will never bring you dishonor or disappointment. In the name of the gods, I swear that I will repay every penny invested in me, whether today or in the future. My sister will not suffer because of me. And one day, I will make the bright amber of my Spark transform into the viper red of the Flame, and beyond.
An astonished silence followed my words. Margareth stared at me for long seconds, her green eyes penetrating mine as if they could see beyond the infant body, perhaps glimpsing the ancient soul that inhabited it. Finally, she smiled, a smile that mixed admiration and scientific curiosity.
— Very well, Elian. Your words are surprising for someone so young, even more so for someone who has just awakened. I will accept you as my apprentice in the arcane arts. But with two non-negotiable conditions.
She paused dramatically, ensuring everyone was attentive.
— The first: you will study every day at my house, from sunrise to sunset, returning to your family only at dusk. There will be no days off, except for sacred festivals. The path from Spark to Flame is arduous and requires absolute dedication. You will only rest when I decide you deserve it.
— The second: when the time comes for your formal presentation at the Royal court, you must demonstrate your worth and progress before all present. If you fail, our association will be terminated.
My parents accepted the conditions without hesitation, as if they were the most reasonable in the world, visible relief on their faces for having secured my future.
Margareth then turned to me and, with a look that mixed severity and something that seemed almost sadistic amusement, said in a tone that brooked no argument:
— From tomorrow at dawn, your life as you know it will become an inferno of training, study, and discipline. I hope you are prepared, little miracle. For the path of the Spark is only the beginning. We will see if you have what it takes to transform it into Flame, where the soul feeds its power until it turns into fire.
And so, holding my newborn sister in my arms while contemplating the arcane symbol in my hand and the amber glow emanating from it, years of suffering, learning, and transformation began. Years that would shape not only my powers in the arcane arts, but my very soul, on a journey that not even I, with all my experience from a previous life, could foresee. A journey that, if I succeeded, would take me from Spark to Flame, and perhaps beyond, through the nine levels of the arcane arts.