Morning in Matra arrives without mercy.
It doesn't ease you awake with light or birdsong. It drags you up by the collar with noise—vendors shouting, carts rattling over uneven stone, someone arguing two buildings away about the price of grain that's already gone stale. The air is cool but heavy, thick with soot and yesterday's sweat, and my lungs still haven't decided whether they like it here.
I sit up slowly, joints stiff, and wait for the dizziness to pass.
'Congratulations,' I think. 'You've unlocked Day Two of Survival Mode.'
My body is still catching up to the fact that I exist again. Muscles complain at unfamiliar angles. My hands look too small when I flex them, fingers thin and callused in places that don't match my memories. This body has already worked harder than it should.
Across the room, my father is already awake.
Darius Veylan sits on the edge of the bed, tying a strip of cloth tightly around his knee. His jaw is clenched, not in pain exactly, but in preparation. He moves the way men do when stopping would mean admitting something they can't afford to face.
"You're up early," he says without looking at me.
"I woke up," I reply. "The city screamed me conscious."
He huffs, almost a laugh. "You get used to it."
'That's not comforting,' I think.
My mother hums softly near the stove, stirring porridge that's too thin to pretend otherwise. She moves carefully, like the air itself might bruise her if she isn't polite. When she notices me watching, she smiles anyway.
"Sit, Kairo," she says. "It's still warm."
I do as told, lowering myself onto the stool. The porridge tastes like survival and apology, but I eat every spoonful. Hunger has already taught me it doesn't care about pride.
Selene chatters beside me, telling a story with no clear beginning or end. Lio listens with half an ear, eyes sharp as he watches my father finish wrapping his knee.
'That one's dangerous,' I think. 'He notices too much.'
When my father stands, there's a brief hitch in his movement. He catches it. Pretends he didn't. Lio sees it anyway.
"Be careful," my mother says quietly.
Darius nods once. "I always am."
'That's a lie people tell when they don't have better options,' I think.
The walk to the water well is short and exhausting.
I carry a small bucket, arms trembling by the time I reach the corner. Other kids are already there, some older, some bigger, all louder than necessary. They shove past each other, laughing, arguing, proving they exist.
I keep my head down.
That lasts about three seconds.
"Well, look who crawled out of the ashes," a boy says, blocking my path. He's got a chipped tooth and confidence he didn't earn. "The sick kid's walking again."
I look at him, then at the bucket.
'I could say something clever,' I think. 'But I don't have the energy.'
"I just need water," I say.
He snorts. "Don't we all?"
Someone bumps me from behind. The bucket tips. Water spills onto the dirt, soaking into dust like it never mattered.
Laughter follows.
I feel it then—not anger, not yet—but something colder. A memory of deadlines and unpaid overtime. Of being laughed at in meetings that pretended to be friendly.
'Different world,' I think. 'Same species.'
I kneel, right the bucket, and refill it without another word.
They lose interest quickly. Bullies prefer resistance. Silence starves them.
On the way back, my arms burn.
Each step sends a dull ache through my shoulders, but I don't stop. Stopping invites help, and help invites questions. I've learned that lesson twice now.
As I walk, I feel it again—that faint pressure, like the world is breathing around me. Threads, invisible but present, brushing against my awareness. When I focus, my head throbs.
'Mana,' I think. 'Still there. Still ignoring me.'
Fine. I can wait.
I always do.
The day passes in small labors.
Sweeping the room. Fetching scraps. Holding Selene when she cries for reasons no one understands. I watch my parents closely, cataloging every wince, every shallow breath.
'You're not supposed to be the adult,' I remind myself. 'You're a kid.'
My mind doesn't listen.
By afternoon, exhaustion drapes itself over the house like a second roof.
I sit near the window, watching the street below. Matra moves constantly, people flowing like a tired river. Somewhere in the distance, someone shouts about mana stones. Another voice laughs too loudly.
'Magic world,' I think. 'Still terrible infrastructure.'
Lio joins me, leaning against the wall.
"You don't cry much," he says suddenly.
I blink. "Should I?"
He shrugs. "Most kids do."
'Most kids didn't die at a desk,' I think.
"I'm saving it," I say. "For something important."
He studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're weird."
"I know."
He smiles, sharp and pleased. "Good."
That night, the hunger returns louder.
I lie on my mat, staring at the ceiling as my stomach argues with me. Sleep comes reluctantly, dragged in by exhaustion rather than peace.
In the half-dream space, memories slip through—spreadsheets, fluorescent lights, the quiet dignity of collapse.
'I won't end like that again,' I think, the promise returning, firmer now.
The pressure in the air seems to pause.
Just for a moment.
Then it resumes, indifferent as ever.
I wake once in the night to my father coughing.
The sound is wet, ugly, held back by pride. I sit up, listening, every muscle tense. My mother murmurs to him softly until the coughing stops.
I lie back down slowly.
'No magic,' I think. 'No system. No shortcuts.'
Just this.
Just endurance.
As sleep finally takes me, one last thought drifts through my mind.
'If this world runs on rules,' I think, 'then I'll learn them.'
Not loudly.
Not quickly.
But thoroughly.