Two months passed in the quiet rhythm of Brustel, my days split between sword training with my father and magic lessons with Maren. Life felt steady, even predictable, but the constant challenge of my training kept me energized. I began to make progress, both with the sword and with magic. My strikes grew sharper, my movements more fluid under Darrick’s relentless instruction. The ache in my arms, once unbearable, became a badge of pride. My father’s smile, rare but genuine, became my favorite reward.

  On the magic front, my breakthroughs came slowly, but they came. It started one afternoon in the forest, as I practiced sensing Mana in the world around me. Maren had told me that before I could channel Mana through myself, I needed to recognize it in other living things.

  “Start with plants,” she had said, her tone firm but encouraging. “They hold small traces of Mana—easier to detect. When you can sense the spark in them, you’ll be ready to move on.”

  At first, it seemed impossible. I spent hours wandering the forest, touching leaves and flowers, willing myself to feel something—anything. For days, I returned home empty-handed and frustrated. Then, one afternoon, it happened. I was crouched beside a cluster of tiny white flowers near the edge of a brook, focusing as hard as I could. For the first time, I felt it: a faint, warm hum, like the whisper of a distant melody. My breath caught in my throat as I realized what it was. The Mana in the flowers—delicate and fleeting, but unmistakably there.

  I rushed back to Maren, nearly tripping over myself in my excitement. Her face lit up with pride when I told her.

  “Good,” she said. “Now the real work begins.” She gave me a small vial of liquid, thick and shimmering like molten gold. “This will help you extract Mana from objects you’ve already sensed it in. Use it sparingly. A few drops on a plant or a flower should be enough.”

  Eager to put her advice to use, I began practicing in our garden. Each evening, I’d choose a different flower or blade of grass, adding a single drop of the liquid and watching as the Mana within it glowed faintly before fading. It felt like a small kind of magic, but it was magic nonetheless.

  One evening, however, my enthusiasm got the better of me. I had been practicing by the hearth, and in my curiosity, I let a drop of the liquid fall into the fire. The result was instant—and chaotic. Thick, acrid smoke billowed out, filling the room in moments. My mother and father came running, coughing and waving their arms as they tried to clear the air.

  “Ronan!” my mother shouted, her voice sharp with panic. “What did you do?”

  “I’m sorry!” I stammered, my face hot with shame. “I didn’t mean to—it was an accident!”

  “Accident or not, you could’ve burned the house down!” my father growled, his stern expression making me feel even smaller.

  I spent the rest of the evening apologizing profusely, scrubbing the hearth until it was spotless. My parents eventually forgave me, but I resolved to be more careful with my experiments in the future.

  The next day, after my morning training, my father decided to share one of his stories. We sat in the shade of the large oak tree behind our house, the wooden training swords resting at our feet.

  “Alright,” he said, leaning back against the tree trunk. “You’ve earned a story today. I’ll tell you about the time I faced the Iron Behemoth during my days in the Militia.”

  “The Iron Behemoth?” I repeated, my eyes wide.

  Darrick grinned. “Aye. It was during a campaign in the west, near the Ironwood Forest. We’d received reports of something terrorizing the villages—livestock disappearing, fields trampled, entire homes crushed as if by some giant’s hand. At first, we thought it was just bandits or maybe a rogue beast. But when we arrived... it was something far worse.” He paused, his gaze distant as though recalling the scene. “The Iron Behemoth was a monstrosity—a creature of metal and stone, taller than the tallest trees. It moved with a clumsy sort of grace, each step shaking the ground beneath our feet. Its eyes glowed red, and its roar... by the gods, I’ve never heard anything like it. It sounded like the groaning of the earth itself.”

  I leaned forward, captivated. “What did you do?”

  “Well, the first thing we did was panic,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Half the squad wanted to turn tail and run, and I can’t blame them. But our commander, a man named Tylos, wasn’t having any of it. He ordered us to form ranks and prepare to engage. ‘It’s just a creature,’ he said. ‘It bleeds like anything else.’”

  “Did it bleed?”

  Darrick shook his head. “Not a drop. Our arrows bounced off its hide like pebbles, and even our strongest strikes left barely a scratch. It was like fighting a mountain that decided to walk.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Well, after a lot of failed attempts to bring it down, Captain Tylos had an idea. He noticed that the Behemoth seemed drawn to metal—it would charge straight for any soldier carrying a blade or shield. So, he came up with a plan: use that to lure it into the Ironwood Forest, where the trees are so dense and strong they can trap even the largest beasts.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Eventually,” my father said with a wry smile. “But not before we lost half the squad and nearly got crushed ourselves. We lured it into the forest, weaving between the trees while it barreled after us. Finally, we managed to lead it into a natural ravine where it got stuck. The creature thrashed and roared for hours, but it couldn’t climb out. We left it there, buried under tons of rubble we collapsed from the cliffs above.”

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  He leaned forward, his expression solemn. “That day taught me two things. First, even the mightiest foe can be brought down with the right strategy. And second, bravery doesn’t mean the absence of fear—it means acting in spite of it.”

  I sat in awe, the weight of his words sinking in. My father wasn’t just telling me a story; he was teaching me a lesson.

  “Do you think I could face something like that someday?” I asked, my voice tinged with both hope and doubt.

  Darrick smiled and ruffled my hair. “With enough training and the right mindset, Ronan, you could face anything. But let’s focus on mastering that sword first, eh?”

  I nodded, feeling a renewed sense of determination. If my father could stand against an Iron Behemoth, then maybe, just maybe, I could overcome the challenges that lay ahead—both on the training field and beyond.

  As usual, I headed to Maren's house that afternoon. The events of the previous evening still weighed on my mind, so I decided to confess what had happened. When I recounted how I’d accidentally caused the smoke explosion, she laughed heartily, her voice echoing through the small, cluttered room.

  “Oh, Ronan,” she said, shaking her head as she wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “I should’ve warned you—never mix fire and that extract unless you want chaos. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way.”

  Despite her laughter, her tone turned serious after a moment. “But tell me, why were you so curious about using the extract on fire in the first place? Is there something on your mind?”

  I hesitated. Her sharp gaze pinned me in place, and I felt the weight of her earlier words about curiosity and danger. She was too perceptive for her own good—or mine.

  “I was just... experimenting,” I said quickly, avoiding her eyes. “You know, to see how Mana reacts in different elements.”

  Maren studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed and waved a hand dismissively. “Be careful with your experiments, Ronan. Curiosity is a fine thing, but it can lead to trouble if you’re not cautious.”

  I nodded quickly, grateful she hadn’t pressed the matter further. As if sensing my discomfort, she changed the subject.

  “I need some herbs for my next potion,” she said, rummaging through her shelves. “But I’m out of time to gather them myself. Would you mind fetching them for me? The herbalist at the market should have what I need.”

  “Of course!” I replied, eager for a task to take my mind off things.

  Maren handed me a scrap of parchment with the names of the herbs scrawled on it in her neat handwriting. “Be sure to ask for fresh ones,” she instructed. “No use bringing back wilted leaves.”

  I made my way to the market, the parchment tucked securely in my pocket. The marketplace was bustling as usual, with vendors shouting over each other to advertise their goods. The smells of baked bread, fresh produce, and spices filled the air, mingling with the clamor of voices and the clatter of carts.

  When I reached the herbalist’s stall, I held up the parchment. “How much for these?” I asked.

  The merchant, a grizzled man with a bushy beard, squinted at the list before barking, “Seven Helms.”

  I froze. “Seven... what?”

  “Helms!” he repeated impatiently, waving a hand as if the term should be obvious. “Seven bronze coins. Or do you not know how to pay, boy?”

  I realized with a sinking feeling that I had no idea how currency worked in this world. Back in my old life, money was simple—bills, credit cards. Here, the system seemed entirely different, and I hadn’t bothered to learn.

  The merchant’s face darkened as I stood there dumbfounded. “Are you wasting my time?” he growled. “If you’re not buying, get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry!” I stammered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to—”

  I turned to leave, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. But before I could take more than a few steps, someone grabbed my wrist.

  Startled, I spun around to find a young girl about my age standing behind me. Her hair was a cascade of golden curls, and her bright green eyes sparkled with mischief. She was dressed simply, but her confident stance made her stand out among the crowd.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice soft but firm. She held a small bundle of herbs in her other hand—the exact ones Maren had sent me to fetch.

  “What... what is it?” I stammered, struggling to find my words.

  The girl smiled and thrust the herbs into my hands. “Here. You need these, right?”

  I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Why are you giving me these?”

  “You looked like you needed help,” she said simply, her smile widening. “And they seemed important to you.”

  I blinked, still trying to process her unexpected kindness. “I... thank you,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. “But why would you—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she interrupted, waving off my question. “Sometimes, it’s nice to help someone just because you can.”

  Her easy generosity left me speechless. After a moment, I cleared my throat and mustered the courage to speak again. “If you’re not busy, would you like to come back with me? I’m taking these to Maren’s house.”

  The girl tilted her head, considering my offer. “Maren, the old medic?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her around,” the girl replied with a shrug. “Sure, why not? I’ll walk with you.”

  We set off together, weaving through the crowded streets. As we walked, I couldn’t help but steal glances at her, trying to figure out what had prompted her to help me. There was something about her—a quiet confidence, a sense of purpose—that intrigued me.

  “I’m Ronan, by the way,” I said, breaking the silence.

  She glanced at me with a grin. “Nice to meet you, Ronan. I’m Miquella.”

  “Miquella,” I repeated, the name rolling off my tongue. It suited her—bright, simple, and full of life.