Built far out on the outskirts where no ordinary folk seeking a new life would ever choose to settle, the house stood alone. It was gathered from aging timber and stones quarried from nearby caves, constructed to withstand harsh winters and violent storms. It was small, modest in every sense, though the man called it home.
Inside, it was a space of careful convenience and quiet knowledge. A kitchen lingered with the scent of dried herbs and unfamiliar spices. A bathroom held a single, well-worn tub. Two bedrooms occupied the rear of the house—one for sleeping, the other used only to store paraphernalia accumulated over many years.
It was not built for comfort, nor for company.
The boy was sat on a rocking chair the mage would use for afternoon naps, swaying back and forth in slow, steady motions. It pleased the boy, reminding him faintly of riding in the back of a caravan.
It had been a silent three months since the mage took him in.
In that time, the boy learned of the old man's name—Hermit. The boy thought not much of him, other than seeming wise, clearly elderly, and little else. There was not much for him to do—nor much he wished to do. In the months that he had spent living with Hermit, his pastimes consisted of staring aimlessly at the wooden ceilings, and sleeping through afternoons.
In the kitchen, Hermit had been stirring a medium-sized pot of horned rabbit stew, the meat fetched from the forest near his home. Horned rabbits were known for their gamey taste and tough flesh, which make them unpopular choices for meat-based dishes.
However, to experienced cooks such as Hermit, value was not found in ease, but in potential. Only those with the patience to refine rough game could uncover its worth.
The meat's harsh flavor was only present when poorly prepared. Hermit had soaked it for two days in a dense mixture of seasonings, allowing the spices to overtake the bitterness entirely.
"Ciro, please come help this old man with the table," he called, ladling steaming stew into two wooden bowls.
The boy hurried from the chair, following the pleasant scent drifting through the house. Though it had already been months living together, his bashfulness remained, lingering behind the door as if waiting for permission to enter.
Hermit smiled, finding himself fond of the boy's restraint.
"Come now," he said gently, setting a bowl on the table. "I cannot finish all of this on my own."
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"I am much too full," Hermit declared heartily, patting his belly.
He glanced toward the boy's side of the table. A small tower of horned rabbit bones had accumulated beside Ciro's bowl. Hermit had never encountered such an appetite—certainly not in a child.
"More," Ciro demanded, his expression aloof as ever, though his eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"Haha! Was it yummy, Ciro?"
The boy knew the answer instantly. Yet when he tried to speak, his voice abandoned him. He averted Hermit's gaze, staring into his empty bowl instead, and nodded faintly.
"I see," Hermit replied softly, rising to fetch the last bowl from the cauldron.
As the stew was placed before him, its steam already fading, Ciro felt an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It was a simple question—one that should have been easy to answer. Yet something unseen tugged at him, twisting his stomach, pressing down on his breath.
Hermit noticed. He said nothing.
"I'm not hungry anymore," Ciro muttered, setting down the wooden spoon before darting off into his bedroom.
The door shut with a dull thud.
Hermit sighed, staring at the untouched bowl for a moment before reaching for it himself.
"It seems I'll have to finish the leftovers."
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At the advent of dawn, Hermit awoke from the comfort of his rocking chair.
"I recall me being the owner of this home," he grumbled to himself, casting a sidelong glance at the enclosed bedroom he once called his own.
He rose and tended to his small garden, kneeling beside rows of sprouting crops. With a lazy flick of his hooked staff poured out a soft stream of water, guided gently over the soil as he hummed along with the rhythm of the waking morning.
The road near his home was one seldom traveled. The sole exception was Dim, the local paperboy from Fishun, the closest settlement to Hermit's abode.
"Oh, Dim. Good morning," greeted Hermit.
"Sir Hermit, good morning!" Dim replied brightly, grabbing a roll of fresh papers from his leather pouch and handing it with care.
"I cannot thank you enough," Hermit said, accepting the delivery. "Even from such a distance, your service still reaches."
"It's no trouble at all, sir," Dim said with a grin. "It's the least we could do after all you've done for the town."
With his final route completed, the boy pedaled back toward Fishun, waving enthusiastically as he disappeared down the road.
Fetching his reading glasses, Hermit flipped eagerly through the pages, making straight for the magic section.
Moments later, he sighed.
Nothing of interest.
The most notable headline spoke of a local mage being awarded the Medal of Mages for developing a spell capable of removing stains from clothing.
"They hand out the M.O.M. for anything these days," Hermit muttered. "Horseradish. Absolute horseradish. Where are the flashy spells? The explosions? Horseradish, I say—horseradish!"
In his view, the newer generations of mages being produced had grown softer over time. Treaties have been signed, and laws are upheld. The need for the development for combat magic had decreased significantly, leading to focus on magic that battled everyday inconveniences instead.
Still…
Hermit folded the paper and glanced toward the bedroom door, slowly creaking with a foggy boy stepping out, awoken from the old man's noise.
"Even so," he murmured, "it seems I did not fight for nothing."
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