The days passed with repetition.
Wake before sunrise. Train with wooden swords. Run laps until legs gave out. Haul water from the well. Chop firewood. Sleep. Repeat.
Eudora embraced the routine with quiet resolve. Where others saw monotony, he saw survival. Every splinter from the wooden blade, every blister on his palms, every sore muscle—he welcomed them all.
Pain meant progress.
Still, his body lagged behind.
Ragna soared ahead, his reflexes sharpening daily. Even without formal training, his instincts bloomed. Sometimes when he moved, the grass around him stirred unnaturally—as if his presence alone bent nature ever so slightly.
Eudora felt it too. That subtle whisper in the air. The signs of a budding aura.
Not in him. In Ragna.
One morning, as dew clung to the grass and mist hung low over the hills, Kavel tested them with a sparring drill.
"Ragna, you're first," he said.
The boy stepped forward, gripping his wooden blade.
Kavel didn't hold back. His strikes were controlled, but swift and hard—meant to test rather than harm.
Ragna blocked, stumbled, countered. Then, as Kavel feinted to the left, Ragna shifted his weight and parried the blow with a clean snap.
For a heartbeat, the wind around him surged outward like a pulse.
Kavel paused.
Eudora felt it too. A ripple.
His father lowered his blade slowly. "You felt that, didn't you?"
Ragna's eyes widened. "Was that…?"
"Your aura," Kavel nodded. "It's awakening."
The boy dropped his sword in shock. "I—I didn't even mean to—"
Kavel stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "That's how it begins. Subtle. Instinctive. You're growing fast, son."
Eudora stood to the side, wooden blade in hand, watching.
Something in his chest cracked.
He was proud—he truly was. But the envy crept in like rot. Because he had once stood on a battlefield while monsters rained fire from the sky, and even then, no aura had ever stirred in him.
"Eudora," Kavel called. "You're up."
He stepped into the circle.
Held his sword high.
And lasted twelve seconds.
The wooden blade snapped from Kavel's counter. Eudora hit the ground, wind knocked from his lungs. A sharp sting bloomed in his ribs.
Kavel sighed, not harshly, but with disappointment. "You're still forcing your movements. Flow. Don't fight your body—learn it."
Eudora looked at his broken sword, then at the perfect grip Ragna held.
How do you flow when the current always pulls you under?
---
That evening, Eudora sat alone by the stream behind their home. The moon reflected off the water's surface, silver and still. His fingers traced the cool stones by the shore.
He remembered a future where this stream had dried up. Where the valley had turned to ash.
And he remembered her.
A woman with silver eyes and blood on her hands. A mage who had burned Caelworth to the ground. Her voice still haunted him.
"Even the gods shun the talentless."
He clenched his fists.
"Lost in thought again?"
Ragna's voice broke the silence. He flopped beside him, tossing a small pebble into the stream.
Eudora didn't respond.
"You know," Ragna said after a pause, "Father told me about aura awakening. Said mine might fully awaken in a few years, if I keep training hard."
Eudora forced a smile. "You will. I have no doubt."
"But I think…" Ragna hesitated. "Even if I get strong, I don't want to do it alone. I want us to fight together someday. Not me protecting you—us, side by side."
That pierced deeper than any blade.
Because in the future, they had never fought side by side.
Only one had lived long enough to fight.
"I'll get there," Eudora whispered. "Even if I have to crawl through hell again."
Ragna blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Just… promise me you won't leave me behind."
Ragna grinned. "Never."
The moonlight caught their reflections in the stream—two boys bound by blood, one destined for greatness, the other for struggle.
And far in the woods, beyond the fields of Caelworth, a shadow stirred.
Something ancient had awakened.
And it was hungry.