Elio did not speak right away.
The words sat heavy in his chest, tangled with fear and something close to shame. His father still faced the window. His mother's footsteps moved outside, steady but tired. The house felt smaller than usual, as if it were listening.
"I think," Elio finally said, voice low, "I think I can hear thoughts."
Silence followed.
Not the sharp kind. The soft kind. The kind that waits.
His father turned slowly, eyes searching Elio's face, not with shock, but with something closer to careful attention.
"How long?" he asked.
Elio frowned. "A few days. Maybe more. I didn't understand it at first."
His father nodded once, as if that explained something only he could see.
When Elio's mother entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron, she stopped the moment she noticed the tension. Elio repeated himself, this time faster, afraid he might lose courage if he paused.
She did not laugh.
She did not tell him he was imagining things.
Her face simply changed.
"Oh," she whispered.
To Elio, it felt strange. He had expected disbelief. Panic. Questions. Instead, his parents exchanged a look so brief that it almost escaped notice.
Most people would brush it off.
Elio didn't know why it stayed with him.
"I wanted to go to a literature school," he said quickly, as if afraid they would interrupt. "I still do. I wanted to study poetry properly. I know it's not practical, but I thought maybe if I tried hard enough—"
His voice broke.
"But that won't help us," he continued, forcing the words out. "It won't save the land or the house. And if I really have this… ability, then I should try for the institute."
The Aurelian Institute.
The name itself carried weight. A place where magicians were trained, tested, and shaped into something the world could rely on. It was far away. Expensive. Ruthless.
His mother sat down slowly, her hands trembling.
"So far," she said quietly.
Elio swallowed. "I know."
Tears filled her eyes, and she didn't bother hiding them. "You've never been far from home," she said. "You don't even like rules."
"That hasn't stopped me before," Elio tried to joke.
She smiled weakly, then pulled him into an embrace that smelled of earth and work and familiarity. "I don't want the world to harden you," she whispered.
His father watched them, face unreadable.
"We'll manage," he said after a moment. "However we can."
Elio did not know why, but the way his father said it made his chest ache.
The Aurelian Institute stood near the capital, surrounded by walls older than memory. It was said that the land there had been chosen long ago, where magic flowed more easily, where Astrae responded faster.
The institute was built after the first great war.
Long before Elio's time, before the Order had a name, demons had crossed into the human lands. They were called the Noxclad, creatures bound in darkness, clever and patient. Humanity had been unprepared.
Then came the first king, Aurel Veyr.
Stories said he was blessed by the gods themselves. That he survived what no human should have. That he learned to wield power without losing his humanity. He gathered warriors, taught them, and fought back.
The legendary battle was remembered as a turning point. Victory came at a cost so high that it reshaped the world. From that moment, magic was no longer wild. It was regulated. Controlled. Trained.
The institute became the heart of that control.
Every generation, students arrived with bloodlines, expectations, and years of preparation behind them. Children of famous families. Talented heirs. Future leaders.
Elio would arrive with none of that.
Meanwhile,
Inside the institute, preparations were already underway.
Dormitories were cleaned. Training halls were inspected. Records were reviewed and rewritten. Professors discussed schedules and trials, arguing over how much pressure new students could survive.
In one of the upper halls, a man stood by a table, reading names.
"Is Seris here yet?" he asked without looking up.
"She arrived this morning," another professor replied. "Already started training."
A small nod followed.
"She'll be the strongest in this batch," the man said calmly. "She always was."
Seris Calder. Fire wielder. Top of her class since childhood. Daughter of an old friend. A future no one doubted.
Some students were easy to believe in.
---
That night, Elio lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He thought about poetry. About freedom. About open fields and wandering without purpose. About how heavy books made him feel trapped.
He knew he would never be the best. He didn't expect brilliance. He didn't dream of greatness.
But he made a promise anyway.
I'll try, he told himself. I'll try to be better than I am today.
Not perfect. Not powerful.
Just better.
And maybe, somehow, still free.