It had been eight years since Ezra had been reborn, Despite it looking like Ezra just did nothing and just lazed around, he managed to figure out a few things like how this world operats in a similar way to his former which left him wondering the connection between the two the
Some of the runes he had mastered in his former world did not work in this one, the ones that did were mostly the simple and easy to draw these ones.
The reason Ezra wasn't able to draw runes when he was younger was because runes are very fragile and dangerous at the same time, and he didn't trust his baby hands, and neither did he have the needed tools to work which he did obtain two weeks ago after going through his dads bag of tools, what he took from there was some sort of carving knife but he still had to adjust it to his need which wasn't as easy as he expected.
Ezra's father, Bram, was often gone before dawn, his bow slung over his shoulder and a hunting knife at his belt. He'd return before dusk with rabbits or deer, sometimes wild fowl, sometimes nothing at all but a good story. The moment his heavy boots hit the porch, the smell of forest and sweat followed him inside, and Roana would always meet him with that tired, fond look she reserved for her husband alone.
Ezra liked the rhythm of it the way life seemed to flow with quiet certainty. but he still felt a little uncertainty like this peace wouldn't last long. In his past world, everything had been about precision, time, deadlines. Here, even time itself felt different, and thatmade him a little uneasy
Outside, the village children played in the muddy lanes, chasing each other with sticks that served as swords. Ezra sometimes joined them, pretending to be just another boy, but his thoughts often wandered elsewhere. He noticed things the others didn't.
It didn't frighten him. Not yet.
He spent hours observing the world trying to find the difference between this one and his former world maybe he could find a way back home the so he studied tried to find the reason some runes don't work here he tried discerning the patterns Everything had a structure, a design. The same way his old world had systems and code, this one had its own kind of language.
Their neighbors, the Torvens, lived two houses away. Jorah Torven was a cheerful man who owned a small blacksmithing shed by the creek. His wife, Lysa, was Roana's closest friend and often stopped by with baskets of herbs or freshly baked bread. Their daughter, Mira, was a year older than Ezra, bright-eyed, endlessly talkative, and completely unafraid of dragging him into whatever mischief she'd planned for the day.
"Come on, Ezra! You think too much," she'd scold, tugging at his sleeve as they ran down to the meadow. "It's not a crime to play, you know."
He'd roll his eyes but follow anyway.
The town itself was simple but alive. Market days filled the square with chatter traders from other towns selling honey, cloth, and talismans carved from moonstone. There was always someone playing a lute or telling tales about the Old Kingdoms, the fallen empires of Thalen that left ruins scattered across the continent. Ezra listened, memorizing details others dismissed as myths.
His mother taught at the schoolhouse again now that he was older. Sometimes she brought back little stories about her students, about the lessons she taught in reading and arithmetic. Ezra would sit on the floor, pretending to doodle, while secretly absorbing everything. He noticed how she spoke of "the Great Library in the north," and of scholars who studied something called Arcane Theory a discipline that mixed language and essence, thought and matter.
That name stirred something in him. Arcan. It felt close to something he was supposed to know.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and the valley turned gold, Bram returned home with a strange look on his face. He placed his bow on the table, eyes fixed on his son who suddenly felt an involuntary shiver down his spine.
"Ezra," he said slowly. "You've been spending time near the old ruins again, haven't you?"
Ezra froze. He hadn't realized anyone had seen him. The ruins half-buried stones a mile past their house in the mountain range had always drawn him in. Not because of the carvings or mossy arches, but because the air there felt familiar. Different. He couldn't explain it.
"I just wanted to see them," he said softly.
Bram's expression softened. "Be careful, son. Those stones are older than anyone remembers and people who do muster the courage to enter are known to go missing that's why no one approaches them."
"so promise me you won't go there anymore". Bram said while looking into his son's eyes
"fine, i won't go anymore ".Ezra said knowing he will still break his promise
Roana, listening from the hearth, smiled faintly. "Let him explore. Curiosity's a good thing."
Ezra said nothing, but his mind churned.
Older than anyone remembers.
That night, as the hearth crackled and his parents drifted to sleep, Ezra lay awake staring at the wooden ceiling beams. The world of Thalen was beautiful and peaceful but beneath its quiet, something *ncient stirred when Ezra was born like a missing piece Ezra felt attracted to that ruin
He didn't know what it wanted.
But he was beginning to understand that he wasn't meant to live this life quietly forever.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and rain through the open window. And somewhere in the valley below, a faint chime soft and distant echoed once.
Then vanished.