Cain woke to a faint line of sunlight drawn across his face. The wooden ceiling above him felt familiar now, but his body still held the weight of yesterday. The ritual. The Ord. The empty glow. The silence in everyone's eyes.
He pushed himself up slowly. The room was cold on his bare feet. He blinked, letting the last of his sleep fade—then he heard them.
His parents' voices.
Low. Sharp. Controlled.
Arguing.
Cain moved toward the kitchen quietly and stopped just before the doorway.
Seraphina's back was to him. Her shoulders were shaking.
"He's five, Leon… he's still a child. He doesn't deserve this kind of pressure."
Leon's hands were braced on the table, jaw tight. "And what happens if we don't prepare him? What then? You know what Varr risked by hiding the result."
Seraphina turned, eyes red. "I'm scared. If someone finds out—"
"They won't," Leon said, voice firm. "Cain will be ready. If danger comes, he must be able to stand. I refuse to watch our son fall helpless again."
Helpless.
Cain understood the word.
He didn't move into the room. He didn't make a sound. He stood still, listening as the silence stretched between them like something fragile.
Seraphina finally whispered, "He shouldn't have to bear all this."
Leon's voice softened. "He shouldn't. But he does."
Cain didn't fully grasp the meaning—but he understood enough.
He returned to the couch and sat down, expression unchanging.
The next morning, training began.
---
Leon placed a wooden sword in Cain's hands. It felt heavier than it looked.
"Hold it from here." Leon adjusted Cain's grip. "Relax your shoulders. If you're tense, you lose balance."
Cain watched carefully and copied him. Leon swung slowly, showing the path. Cain moved the same way, the blade cutting the air in a clean arc. Leon raised an eyebrow at how quickly the boy mimicked him but said nothing.
"Again," Leon ordered.
Cain repeated the swing. Again. And again. His arms trembled at first, then steadied. His feet learned where they belonged. His breath adapted. His stance tightened each day until it felt natural.
Seraphina's training came after lunch.
She sat on the floor with Cain, both palms open.
"Focus here," she said gently, tapping his forehead. "Feel the mana like warm water moving inside you."
Cain closed his eyes. A small glow formed between his hands. A breeze flickered through the room. He could make a small orb of light float above his palm. He could ripple the air. He could lift a leaf, roll it gently, set it down.
"You're gifted," Seraphina whispered, surprised every time. Cain didn't react. He simply tried more.
But whenever he attempted something deeper—something Seraphina only described with caution—his mana hit a wall. A closed door. No matter how much he reached, the door never opened.
He didn't complain.
He didn't ask why.
He trained again the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
Months folded into two full years.
By the time Cain turned seven, his movements with a blade were steady and controlled. His footwork was clean. His posture didn't break. And his spells—at least the ones he *could* perform—were precise and smooth, stronger than any child in the village.
Only the advanced spells remained locked away, unreachable.
Cain felt the wall every time he pushed forward. He never showed frustration. He simply returned the next day to test the wall again.
---
One afternoon, after a long practice, Leon handed him a small bag.
"We're low on barley. Bring some from town."
Cain nodded. Barley was the reason Leon gave him.
But Cain had another purpose.
He wanted answers.
He wanted to understand the gap inside his magic.
The walk to town was quiet. Dust rose behind each step. People moved through the street with baskets, cloth, and hay. Cain scanned the village not as a child exploring, but as someone searching.
He passed the church—and the sound of conversation drifted out through the slightly open door. Calm, measured voices.
He slowed.
Inside, he saw a senior priest standing beside a young apprentice. They were preparing for an explanation lesson, a part of the apprentice's training.
Cain stopped near the doorway, unseen.
"The Ord responds to the child's essence," the priest said patiently. "If the gods choose them, the Ord glows. That glow unlocks their deeper mana."
The apprentice tilted his head. "And if the Ord doesn't glow?"
The priest hesitated. A shadow crossed his face.
"It must glow," he said quietly. "If it remains dark… the child's mana never awakens fully. They remain closed. Limited. And the old stories say that such things brought ruin to entire lands."
The apprentice swallowed, nodding slowly.
Cain stepped away.
His face didn't change. His breath didn't break. His steps didn't shake.
But something inside him settled with a quiet, cold clarity.
So *that* was the wall.
That was why deeper spells stayed locked.
He continued to the market, bought barley, and returned home.
---
The door was slightly open. Voices murmured inside.
Cain walked around the house quietly and slipped through his window, landing softly on the wooden floor. He moved closer to the hallway until the voices became clear.
Varr sat at the table with Cain's parents, a stack of old papers beside him. His face looked older than Cain remembered—tired, and worried.
"I found something," Varr said. "After two years of searching through ruined records and forgotten books… fragments, really. But they all point to one name."
Seraphina leaned forward. "Who?"
"Elios," Varr said.
The name fell heavy into the room.
"A thousand years ago," he continued, "there was another unmarked. The only one ever recorded. He destroyed kingdoms—reshaped the continent. The gods hunted him, but he didn't die. He simply… vanished."
Leon's jaw tightened. Seraphina clutched her robe.
"If the Council learns what Cain is," Varr said, lowering his voice, "they will react with fear. They'll try to erase him before he becomes a threat. They won't give him a chance."
The house seemed to shrink with those words.
Varr flipped through his notes, then hesitated. "There was one more thing. A word. Written on a cracked stone near the same ruins where Elios's name was found."
"What word?" Leon asked.
"The Black Veil," Varr whispered. "I don't know what it means. But it appeared only beside Elios."
No one spoke.
Cain didn't move from the hallway. He listened to every word.
After Varr left, the house grew heavy and quiet.
New rules were added.
Training grew stricter.
Eyes lingered on Cain a little longer, more careful now.
That night, Cain lay on his bed, staring at the wooden beams above him.
He wasn't afraid.
He wasn't overwhelmed.
He wasn't shaken.
He felt something else entirely—
a calm resolve settling inside him like a blade sliding into its sheath.
He whispered the name lightly:
"Elios."
Not in fear.
Not in awe.
But in understanding.
Tomorrow, he would train again.
And the day after that.
And every day after, until the wall in his magic cracked.
---