The final two months before the predicted catastrophe passed in a manic blur of teaching and mental preparation. While the world outside our quiet village went about its affairs, inside our house, a private, frantic revolution was underway.
I had pushed my own training ruthlessly. My mana pool was large enough now to handle intermediate-level spells across the four main elements. I could cast a Fireball, erect an Earth Wall, produce a sizable burst of Wind Magic, and conjure clean Water, all with a silent incantation. The spells weren't instant, taking a second or two of intense focus, but they were ready.
My primary focus, however, was Aisha.
I cornered her one night, explaining the fundamentals of mana and the truth of her latent talent. She was annoyed at first. Like everyone in this world, she believed a person's magic talent was fixed at birth. She saw herself as a future manager or scholar, not a mage.
"I don't have magic, Kaelen! Zenith says my brother is the mage," she insisted, pouting.
"You do," I told her, my tone firm but encouraging. "You just need to exhaust your mana every day, and it will grow. Just try for one week, please."
Reluctantly, out of the unwavering confidence she had in me—the brother who spoke early, read early, and often explained concepts our mother couldn't—she agreed.
The result, after a week of intense fatigue, shocked her into silent compliance. By the end of those two months, Aisha's innate talent had manifested. Like me, she could now silently cast the basic level of spells in all four elements. We trained together in the dark every night, a secret cabal hidden beneath the roof of the Greyrat home.
During the daytime, I executed the second part of my plan: gathering intelligence. I asked Lilia and Zenith casual questions.
"Mama, if the carriage broke far away, how would you find clean water in the woods?"
"Zenith, what's the fastest way to make a fire without flint?"
They both answered patiently, seeing it as nothing more than a child's fascination or enthusiasm for the "adventurous life" they'd both left behind. They told me about edible plants, survival techniques, and how to spot dangerous creatures. I avoided asking Paul, knowing he still held a slight indifference towards me compared to his daughters, and I avoided Sylphiette entirely to maintain the necessary distance from Rudeus's circle.
The days melted away, leading us to the inevitable date. The day of Rudeus's tenth birthday arrived, though we weren't celebrating in Roa as originally planned. Norn had fallen suddenly ill, and more alarmingly, reports of increasing monster activity had made the long journey unsafe. Fate had conspired to keep us all together in Buena Village.
That night, after our final, exhaustive magic practice session, I sat on the floor, my muscles aching pleasantly with fatigue. I beckoned Aisha, who was watching me with admiration from her mat.
She crawled to me, and I pulled her onto my lap. My body, though still small, was now perceptibly stronger than hers due to the constant mana circulation. I wrapped her tightly in an embrace, inhaling the scent of her red hair.
"Aisha," I began, my voice soft, etching every word with the weight of my past life's knowledge. "I need you to promise me something important."
She looked up, her expression confused but attentive.
"In the future, if... if I'm not with you," I said, stumbling slightly over the lie, "you must never stop practicing magic. Every single day, you use it until your mana is empty. You read the magic from the books—even from the silly fairy tales—because magic can do what you will it to do."
I continued, explaining that once she was older and had perfect body control, she should seek out someone to teach her sword techniques, specifically from our mother or another experienced person.
Aisha listened intently, every word becoming a permanent fixture in her young mind. She had seen my true capabilities—the silent casting, the reading skills I displayed before Lilia formally taught us—and her unwavering confidence in my judgment was absolute.
Then came the dangerous part. "You must keep your magic a secret, Aisha," I warned her, holding her gaze. "To everyone. Even Lilia. Especially to Rudeus, when he comes home. You will show them only your sword talent."
"Why?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "How do you even know I'll be good at the sword?"
I couldn't tell her the truth, so I resorted to our usual playful lie. "I know by magic," I teased.
She pouted, hitting my arm lightly, angry that I wouldn't share the real reason. I laughed and hugged her gently, then repeated my warning with severe seriousness.
The room fell silent. We sat by the window, staring out into the dark night. Soon, Aisha's smaller body grew heavy on mine, and she drifted into sleep. I carefully picked her up, placed her in her bed, and covered her with a blanket.
As I turned to go to my own bed, I paused, looking at the door that separated our room from the hall.
"Lilia," I whispered into the darkness, knowing she was there. "Please. For Aisha and for our safety... keep our secret and help her learn as I told you."
Then, utterly spent, I collapsed into my own bed and fell asleep.
Lilia's Point of View
For the past two months, Lilia had heard the soft, unfamiliar noises coming from the children's adjoining room. She had dismissed it as them playing late, as the sounds always ceased by the time she was ready for bed.
But tonight, the noise was different. It was soft, intense murmuring, long after sleeping time. Lilia, ever the watchful guard, woke and walked silently to the adjacent door, pressing her ear to the wood.
She heard the soft cadence of Kaelen's voice, and then, the chilling words: "You must keep your magic a secret... Especially to Rudeus..."
Lilia froze, a wave of astonishment and then confusion washing over her. Both her children could cast magic? And silently? Genius. But why the secrecy? And why the specific warning about Master Rudeus? The words conjured an instant sense of cold chill, a faint memory of the treacherous courts she once served.
She listened as Kaelen described a future where he might not be present, giving explicit instructions on practicing magic and learning the sword. It was the speech of an adult strategist, not a two-year-old child.
Finally, she heard the noise of Kaelen putting Aisha to bed. Then, the whisper, clear and directed at the door.
"Lilia. Please. For Aisha and for our safety... keep our secret and help her learn as I told you."
He knew she was there. He had known the whole time.
Lilia stood motionless for another minute, letting the implication settle: her son was more than a genius; he was an intelligent actor with a profound, terrifying secret. She quietly opened the door to see both children sleeping peacefully. She closed the door and went back to her room, falling asleep with the cold weight of a new, complex duty resting on her shoulders.
The next morning, the day of the disaster, Kaelen woke up at the same time as every morning, oblivious that the next few hours would change his life forever.