Chapter 5 – First Circles
Morning came early.
Ronan was awake before the sun, staring at the ceiling while the house slept. His body felt light, restless. Today mattered. Today he would finally stop guessing.
The door creaked open.
"Up already?" Grandmother asked softly.
Ronan turned his head and smiled. "Yes."
She nodded once, approving, and lifted him from his bed. No fuss, no baby talk. She carried him to the study, where the windows were already cracked open and the air smelled faintly of old paper and herbs.
A single cushion lay in the center of the room.
"Sit."
Ronan obeyed.
Grandmother placed a hand over his chest, not touching, just hovering. "Close your eyes. Breathe slowly. Don't reach. Don't force. Just listen."
Ronan did as told.
At first there was nothing. Then—pressure. Not physical. Subtle. Like standing too close to a fire without feeling heat yet.
"There," Grandmother said. "You feel it."
"Yes."
"Good. That's mana. Everyone has it. Most never notice."
Ronan focused, careful not to rush. The sensation sharpened, threading through him in thin lines. Not wild. Not violent. Calm. Ordered.
"Now guide it," she said. "Just a little."
He imagined moving his fingers.
Something shifted.
The pressure slid, slow and smooth, pooling near his palm.
Grandmother's breath caught.
"Enough," she said immediately.
Ronan stopped.
She stared at him for a long moment, then stood. "That's enough for today."
"But—"
"No." Her voice was firm. "You did too much already."
She turned away so he wouldn't see her expression.
Lessons became routine.
Mornings were for sensing. Afternoons for reading. Evenings for family.
And one very specific hour was reserved for Elena.
Ronan tried to escape it exactly once.
It didn't work.
Elena dragged him into the garden, declared him her "assistant," and handed him a wooden sword nearly as tall as he was.
"Guard duty," she said seriously.
"I can't even lift this."
"That's why you're guarding the flowers," she replied.
She ran off to fight imaginary monsters while Ronan sat among the roses, sword across his lap, pretending not to enjoy the breeze.
When she came back, sweaty and triumphant, she plopped down beside him.
"You didn't move," she said proudly. "Good job."
"…Thanks."
She beamed like he'd given her a medal.
Ronan looked away, annoyed at the warmth creeping into his chest.
Weeks passed.
Mana exercises grew harder but never dangerous. Grandmother watched everything. Corrected little. Trusted much.
One evening, Ronan asked, "Why didn't you teach Father?"
She paused mid-page. "He didn't want it."
That surprised him.
"He could use magic," Ronan said.
"He could," she agreed. "But power isn't always about ability."
She closed the book. "Some people are content protecting what's in front of them."
Ronan thought of his previous life. Labs. White walls. Hands that never shook.
"I'm not," he said.
Grandmother studied him carefully. "I know."
The first spell came quietly.
No announcement. No buildup.
Ronan sat alone in the study, book open but forgotten. He moved mana the way he'd been taught—slow, contained—forming a circle the size of a coin.
Light bloomed.
Soft. Pale.
It hovered above his palm, steady.
Ronan stared.
It didn't explode. Didn't drain him. Didn't hurt.
It just… existed.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
The light winked out.
"Again," he whispered.
This time it flickered.
Still progress.
He leaned back, heart pounding.
'I did it.'
The door creaked.
Grandmother stood there, arms folded.
"You weren't supposed to try that alone."
Ronan froze.
Then she smiled.
Just a little.
"Well done," she said. "But don't do it again without me."
"Yes, Grandma."
She stepped closer, looking at his hand. "Clean formation. No waste. Where did you learn the structure?"
"…Books."
She nodded, as if that explained everything.
That night, Ronan lay awake listening to the house breathe.
Elena murmured in her sleep down the hall. His parents whispered quietly, thinking he couldn't hear. Grandmother's footsteps passed once, slow and steady.
Ronan raised his hand under the blanket.
A faint glow appeared, hidden from the world.
He clenched his fist, extinguishing it.
'This time,' he thought, 'I'll do it right.'
No cages. No chains.
Strength on his own terms.
And this time—
He wasn't alone.
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Ronan's progress did not go unnoticed.
Grandmother said nothing at first, but her lessons changed. Less theory. More restraint.
"Power isn't the problem," she said one morning while drawing a circle on parchment. "Speed is."
Ronan frowned. "Speed?"
"The faster you grow, the more attention you attract."
He understood immediately.
People noticed anomalies. He was already one.
From then on, training became quieter. Smaller movements. Thinner flows. Grandmother drilled discipline into him until his head hurt more than his body ever could.
"Mana is honest," she said. "It responds to intent. If your intent is reckless, it will kill you faster than any enemy."
Ronan took that to heart.
The test came sooner than expected.
It happened during dinner.
Luden was mid-story again—something about a caravan and suspiciously familiar bandits—when a sharp knock hit the front door.
Not polite. Not patient.
Grandmother stood immediately.
"I'll handle it," she said.
Ronan felt it before anyone else did.
Mana. Heavy. Wrong.
Three men entered the house. Dark cloaks. City insignia stitched poorly, as if added last minute.
"Routine inspection," the one in front said. His eyes swept the room too carefully. "Reports of unusual activity."
Maria stiffened. "This is a family home."
"And we'll be quick," the man replied.
Ronan lowered his gaze.
'So this is it.'
Grandmother's mana shifted—subtle, warning. Not enough to start a fight. Enough to promise one.
"What activity?" she asked calmly.
"Child prodigy," the man said, smiling. "Speaking early. Reading early. Glowing, some say."
Elena looked confused. Maria looked afraid. Luden's hand drifted toward the knife at his belt.
Ronan acted.
He let mana rise—but only barely. Just enough to stumble. Just enough to whimper.
He tipped sideways in his chair and began to cry.
Real tears. Real panic.
Maria rushed to him instantly. "He's just a baby!"
The man flinched, surprised.
Grandmother exhaled.
"A gifted child," she said sharply, "is still a child. Unless you plan to accuse every bright infant in Lasfal, you're done here."
The silence stretched.
Finally, the man scoffed. "We'll be watching."
They left.
The door closed.
No one spoke.
Then Grandmother turned to Ronan.
Her eyes were sharp. Assessing.
"Good instincts," she said quietly. "Terrible timing."
Ronan sniffled and nodded.
That night, Grandmother did not lecture him.
She simply sat beside his bed.
"There are lines," she said. "Once crossed, you don't get to step back."
"I know."
"Do you?" she asked.
Ronan met her gaze. "That's why I didn't fight."
She studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Sleep," she said. "Tomorrow, we begin concealment."
Life returned to normal on the surface.
Elena still dragged him outside. Luden still exaggerated. Maria still worried.
But beneath it all, Ronan learned a new lesson.
Not how to grow stronger.
How to stay hidden.
And as he lay awake that night, carefully sealing his mana until even he could barely feel it, one thought echoed clearly in his mind:
'If they're already watching…'
'Then someday, I'll have to be ready when they stop pretending.'