Two years passed like mist over a mountain lake—soft, quiet, and impossibly fast.
I could walk now. Not the wobbly toddler steps most children take, but steady ones. I could talk in full sentences, though I still chose my words carefully, letting the adults think it was just precociousness rather than memories from another life layered beneath infant skin.
The house we lived in was enormous by any standard, but never felt cold. High stone walls warmed by ever-burning mana-lamps. Wide windows framed with frost-resistant crystal that let in pale winter light without the bite. Floors of dark polished wood that smelled faintly of cedar and old spells. Everywhere there were traces of magic so subtle most people would never notice: a candle that never guttered, a hearth that stayed perfectly warm without smoke, doors that opened a fraction before you touched them if your hands were full.
This world was called Aether.
Not Earth.
No cars. No phones. No internet. No neon signs or exhaust fumes.
Instead there was mana—a living current that flowed through everything. Trees breathed it. Rivers sang with it. Even the snow outside carried a faint shimmer if you knew how to look.
Mother told me I had unusually strong mana.
She said it one winter afternoon while we sat together in the sunroom. I was curled in her lap, wrapped in a blanket patterned with silver crescent moons. She was brushing my hair—slow, rhythmic strokes that made my eyelids heavy.
"Your mana is… special, Rain," she murmured. "Very strong. Stronger than most children your age."
Her voice trembled at the edges.
I tilted my head back to look up at her.
Ruby eyes met mine. They were wide, almost frightened.
"What's wrong, Mom?"
She blinked rapidly. The brush stilled.
"Nothing, sweetheart." A quick, practiced smile. "Winter is coming early this year. Let's go inside where it's warm, okay?"
She lifted me easily, even though I was already tall for two, and carried me back toward the main hall.
She didn't answer the question.
Neither did Father when I tried asking him later.
They were hiding something.
I was only two, but I wasn't stupid.
So one night—when the house was quiet except for the soft crackle of the ever-flame in the great hearth—I slipped out of my small bed. Bare feet on cool wood. I moved like a shadow, the way Amura had started teaching me "for fun," though we both knew he was already treating me like a little soldier-in-training.
I crept down the hallway, past Luna and Lina's room (I could hear Luna snoring softly, a tiny whistle on every exhale), past Amura's (silent, probably awake and sharpening blades by candlelight), and stopped outside my parents' door.
It was ajar.
Just a crack.
Enough.
I pressed my ear to the gap.
"…can't tell Rain yet," Mother was saying. Her voice was low, strained. "He's still so small."
Father's deeper timbre answered. Calm. Steady. But there was steel underneath.
"I looked again tonight. The seal is holding—for now. But his mana… Luna, it's divine. The kind only gods and the transcendent carry. How is that possible? He's our son, yes, but—"
A long silence.
Then Father sighed.
"That boy was hiding there very well. Why don't you come out now, Rain?"
My heart slammed against newborn ribs.
I froze.
No footsteps. No sound at all.
They'd known the entire time.
I considered running—pointless. They'd hear me. Father could probably track me by heartbeat if he wanted to.
So I pushed the door open slowly.
Both of them turned at once.
Mother sitting on the edge of the bed in a loose nightgown, silver hair spilling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. Father standing near the window, arms crossed, black hair catching the faint glow of the mana-lamp.
I swallowed.
"Please don't beat me up."
Father barked a laugh—genuine, surprised.
Mother covered her mouth, eyes crinkling.
"We would never," she said softly. "Come here, little one."
I padded across the rug.
Father crouched so we were eye-level.
"I know you were curious about your mana. That's why you came, right?"
I nodded, cheeks burning.
He ruffled my hair—gentle despite the calluses on his palm.
"Your mother and I… we don't know everything yet. But whatever this is, we'll face it together. You need to be careful, okay? Very careful."
"Okay."
Mother opened her arms.
"You're sleeping with us tonight."
I didn't argue.
She pulled me into the middle of the enormous bed. Father slid in on the other side. They sandwiched me between them—warm, solid, safe.
Mother kissed my forehead.
Father rested his hand on top of my head, thumb brushing my hairline.
For the first time since waking up in this body…
I felt it again.
A mother's love.
A father's protection.
Tears pricked my eyes.
I remembered the car. The snow. Horashika's face fading behind hospital glass. Mom and Dad's funeral on a gray spring day.
Never again.
I swear it.
Never again.
∞
Morning came with soft gold light pouring through the curtains.
Mother was still asleep, one arm draped over me, the other curled around Luna and Lina who had somehow migrated into the bed during the night. Amura was sprawled at the foot like a guard dog, one hand resting on the hilt of a practice sword he'd brought "just in case."
Father was already up.
I could smell bread baking. Bacon. Something sweet—probably the honey cakes Luna begged for every week.
I wriggled free carefully.
Padded downstairs in my nightshirt.
Father stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, flipping flatbreads with practiced flicks of his wrist.
He glanced over.
"Morning, spy."
I grinned despite myself.
"Morning."
"You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep anymore."
He nodded toward the table.
"Sit. Food's almost ready."
I climbed onto the chair—still a little too tall for my legs to dangle properly—and watched him work.
After a while the rest of the family trickled in, blinking, hair wild, still half-asleep.
Luna rubbed her eyes.
"How did I get downstairs…?"
Lina just yawned and climbed into the chair beside me, resting her head on my shoulder without a word.
Amura stretched until his back popped.
"Did we all sleep in Mom and Dad's bed again?"
Father chuckled.
"Seems like it."
Mother appeared last—hair mussed, eyes still dreamy.
She saw us all at the table and smiled so wide it made my chest hurt.
"Good morning, my loves."
Father turned.
"It's almost noon, honey."
She froze.
"Noon?!"
She never slept past dawn.
Panic flickered across her face.
"I—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Father crossed the kitchen in three strides, cupped her face gently, and kissed her forehead.
"It's okay. You needed it. Come eat."
She melted against him for a second.
Then she turned that smile on all of us.
We ate together.
Laughter. Stories. Luna stealing bacon from Amura's plate. Lina quietly pushing honey cakes toward me because she knew they were my favorite. Father telling terrible jokes that only Mother laughed at.
In the middle of it all I looked around the table—really looked.
And I asked the question that had been burning in me since I could form words.
"Father… what should I learn first? Magic or swordsmanship?"
The table went quiet.
Father set his fork down.
Mother's eyes flicked to him, then back to me.
Father spoke first.
"Swordsmanship."
Mother immediately countered.
"Magic."
They stared at each other.
Amura snorted into his juice.
Luna giggled.
Lina just watched with wide eyes.
I raised both hands.
"I'll learn both."
They blinked at me in unison.
Mother tilted her head.
"Magic swordsmanship… it's not impossible, but there hasn't been a true magic swordsman on this continent in ten thousand years, sweetheart."
Father nodded slowly.
"It's a heavy path. Too much for a child. Think about it again when you're twelve, alright?"
"Okay."
But inside I was already decided.
Both.
I would master both.
Because the next time the world tried to take someone from me…
I would be ready.
After breakfast we gathered in the family room.
Father pulled out an old leather-bound book.
Mother settled on the couch with me in her lap.
Luna and Lina curled against her sides.
Amura sat cross-legged on the rug, sword across his knees like it was a teddy bear.
"Story time?" Luna asked hopefully.
Mother smiled.
"Ancient story time."
She opened the book even though she didn't need it.
Her voice dropped into that special cadence she used only for tales this old.
"Ten thousand years ago… this world nearly ended."