Little Aito grew. From a baby who could barely crawl, he became a curious child who ran through the palace hallways, always with a question on his lips. And from feeling mana for the first time, he progressed to controlling it with a skill that surprised everyone.
Aito Greymont had awakened to mana. And when he did, it became clear that he was no ordinary child. His affinity with magical energy was prodigious, on par with that of high-ranking nobles and royalty. An innate talent that promised a brilliant future, although the path he would take was still a mystery.
Despite his innate talent for magic, Aito felt an almost obsessive fascination with mages. He loved watching them practice in the towers, observing how their hands traced symbols in the air and how the words that left their mouths shaped reality.
He devoured stories of legendary mages' adventures, dreaming of the journeys they undertook and the mysteries they unraveled. Magic captivated him, filled him with wonder.
Unfortunately, and although it may seem a contradiction, Aito had not been destined to be a mage. At least, not in the traditional sense. His gift was not that of casting spells from a distance or summoning various elements. His gift was something else, more subtle and perhaps more dangerous. But that he did not know yet. He only knew that he loved magic with all his heart, and that watching mages filled him with a mixture of admiration and a pang of melancholy for something he felt he could not attain.
But that morning, Aito was not thinking about magic. It was a special day.
Little Aito, now a five-year-old boy with straight black hair that reached almost to his waist and golden eyes that shone with the excitement of a new day, walked through the palace hallways with a determined step. Nothing escaped his curious gaze: the portraits of ancient kings hanging on the walls, with their stern faces and shining armor; the vases with fresh flowers that the maids placed each morning; the plays of light filtering through the stained glass windows, painting the floor with fragments of rainbows.
In the background, like a familiar melody that marked the rhythm of life in the castle, the sounds of swords resounded from the training yard. A rhythmic, metallic:
Clang-clang… Clang-clang…
A distant but constant sound, speaking of discipline, effort, and honor.
Aito finally arrived at his destination: the training halls. There, his master Zekin was already waiting for him, his training sword in hand and an expression that was severe but affectionate.
—I have arrived, Master —said little Aito, with the respect that Zekin had instilled in him from the first day.
Then, upon seeing the young girl who was already putting on her protective gear, he smiled widely.
—Hello, big sister! —he greeted enthusiastically.
Lady Calithia, who at eight years old was already beginning to show the elegance and determination that would characterize her in the future, looked up and gave him a smile.
—Ai… Aito —she said, as if the effort of putting on her protective gear had taken her breath away—. Welcome. Did you sleep well?
—Yes, sister! —Aito replied, as he prepared himself and grabbed a wooden sword, adapted to his small stature but with just the right weight to begin training.
And so, under Zekin's watchful eye and alongside his sister Calithia, little Aito began a new day of training. The morning sun streamed through the windows of the hall, illuminating his dark hair and making his golden eyes shine with the promise of a future that, although uncertain, presented itself full of possibilities.
Clang-clang… Clang-clang…
The sound of the wooden swords, much softer than that of true steel, began to fill the hall. And Aito, with a smile on his lips and determination in his eyes, took his first steps on the warrior's path, unaware that his destiny was woven with threads much more complex than anyone could imagine.
The morning sun continued to bathe the training hall, a spacious stone room with high windows that overlooked the palace gardens. The scent of wood, sweat, and steel permeated the air, mixing with the fresh morning smell coming through the open windows.
Zekin Marville, the royal commander, stood before the two children with the unwavering posture of one who has spent decades perfecting the art of the sword. His training sword, though wooden, was handled with the precision and authority of a real blade. His experienced, sharp eyes observed every movement of his young pupils with a mixture of severity and contained pride.
—Are you ready, children? —Zekin asked, in a grave but calm voice.
—Yes! —the two responded in unison, with determination etched on their childish faces.
Calithia was the first to lunge. She always did. Ever since Aito had begun training, she had adopted a protective role that went beyond what was expected of an older sister. She always threw herself into danger for her little brother, Zekin thought with a mixture of worry and admiration.
She pushed off the ground, her small bare feet propelling her forward with a speed unbecoming of an eight-year-old girl. She left Aito behind, her wooden sword already in motion, swinging in a wide but uncontrolled arc.
Zekin watched the attack approach. Too predictable. With a slight, fluid movement, almost imperceptible, he turned his torso. Calithia's sword whistled past, inches from his chest, without reaching him. The effort of the charge made her stumble slightly as she passed, but she recovered quickly.
Too quickly for an eight-year-old girl, Zekin thought. But he said nothing.
Calithia spun on her heels, her hair tousled by the movement, and swung the sword again. She attacked once more, this time with a diagonal blow aimed at her master's shoulder. Zekin repeated the movement, the same elegant turn, the same perfect evasion. Calithia's sword cut through empty air once again.
—I'm joining in too, sister! —Aito shouted from behind, his small voice high-pitched but full of determination.
And he charged straight ahead.
But something different happened.
From his feet, at the very moment he propelled his small body forward, something emerged. A faint swirl of air that coiled around his ankles and propelled him with a sudden speed, impossible for a child his age.
The training hall, bathed in sunlight, witnessed how little Aito crossed the distance separating him from Zekin in a fraction of a second. It was as if the air itself caressed him and pushed him, as if the wind had recognized a prodigal son and answered his instinctive call.
Just before reaching him, Aito crouched slightly, bending his small legs to gain momentum, and jumped. In the air, his body traced a perfect arc, his wooden sword raised above his head. His golden eyes shone with a fierce intensity, focused solely on his target.
A descending strike, charged with wind.
The air around him seemed to solidify for an instant, and then Zekin drew his own sword with a speed that belied his years. The movement was so fast that the wood whistled as it cut the air.
Crack.
The impact resounded throughout the hall.