Tension sat over Greyridge like a low, steady thunder. People moved through their morning tasks with an edge in their shoulders; the market hummed, but the tune was tight and small. Leon's patrol had found fresh tracks near the foest . The town had shifted into caution.
Leon rose from the table, spitting a word into the chill air. " the .the tracks are increasing day by day, tell the patrol to stay swift and agile as we don't know when the goblins might attack"
The guard rushed off.
Inside the house, Seraphina touched Cain's cheek lightly. "Take this satchel to the apothecary. And Cain—stay on the main road. Straight there, straight back. Promise?"
"I will."
She relaxed slightly and let him go.
GreyRidge was louder than usual. Merchants talked in worried tones, dogs paced restlessly, and children were pulled close to their parents.
Aera spotted Cain instantly.
"Cain! Here!"
She ran up holding a handful of herbs, her small boots thumping on the dirt road. Though anxious, she wasn't afraid of him—never had been.
"You heard about the tracks?" she asked.
Cain nodded. "They're real."
Aera shivered. "Mom won't let me outside the shop alone but… since you're here… can we go together?"
"Yes."
They walked side by side. Aera talked to calm herself, pointing at the baker's stall, the blacksmith hammering metal, the stray cat sleeping on a crate.
Cain listened.
And then—
A scream cut through the square.
A butcher shouted as something small burst from the stall behind him—
A goblin.
Grey-skinned, thin, frantic, eyes flashing red with panic.
People stumbled back in fear.
The goblin scanned for escape In the chaos the goblin saw an opening: a narrow lane where fewer people clustered. It ran for it.
That lane led straight toward Cain and Aera.
The creature barreled into the thinner part of the crowd. The goblin tried to atack cain .It was aiming for the easiest escape and cain was standing in front of it blocking it's way and it charged straight at them.
Aera froze.
Cain didn't.
He stepped in front of her immediately and dragged a crate sideways to block the goblin's direct path. The goblin leaped, claws swiping wildly. Cain raised his arm to shield Aera—
A sharp line of pain tore across his forearm as the goblin scratched him.
Before it could attack again, three guards rushed in and killed it cleanly with one precise spear thrust.
The square went silent.
The market exhaled.
Aera grabbed Cain's wrist with trembling fingers. "Your arm… Cain—your arm!"
Blood slid down his forearm in a thin red line.
Leon shoved through the crowd as it still hummed with shocked voices. He had not seen what happened—he had not been at the square when the goblin ran—but his face hardened at the sight of Cain's arm.
"Cain!"
His voice wasn't anger. It was fear controlled so tightly it felt cold.
He knelt beside Cain and inspected the scratch. His shoulders loosened just barely.
"It's shallow. Come home. Now."
Aera hesitated. "Cain… thank you."
Cain nodded once. "Go home. Stay inside."
Aera nodded quickly and ran.
At home Seraphina set to work with quick hands. She cleaned the shallow gashes with boiled water and a touch of antiseptic herb, her motions efficient and controlled. The blood slowed and the skin puckered, but there was no deep gash.
"Cain," she said when the bandage was half-wrapped, voice low and measured, "acting without thought can be dangerous."
"I acted because someone would have been hurt," Cain replied.
Her eyes held his for a long breath. "I know. Just promise me to be careful. Don't let every day turn into an excuse for risk."
"I understand."
She finished the bandage and folded the cloth away. "Rest for tonight," she said softly. "You need to keep your strength."
He lay awake later with the pad of cloth pressed to his arm. The pain was a dull throb now, more an annoyance than a wound. His thoughts rolled not in drama but in tidy facts: the way the goblin charged the least-populated lane, the moment he slipped the crate, the quick scrape across his skin. He catalogued it, because that was how he processed the world.
Outside, Greyridge buzzed in a different key. The elders met behind the inn and the guards increased their patrols on every path near the fence. People checked latches and moved with a watchful slowness. The threat had not become a raid, but the balance had shifted. The town wore caution like a cloak.
When Leon returned after the council meeting, he watched Cain for a heartbeat and then said, "You moved when it counted. That matters more than show." He did not praise him as a warrior—there was no need. Leon's approval was a clipped acknowledgment, not a hymn.
"Keep your head," Leon added. "Use what you can to protect. Don't look for danger to entertain you."
Cain nodded; his face gave nothing away.
2 years had passed since that incident.
The scratch healed to a pale line, then faded into a thin white scar. The ridge's prints came and went in waves; sometimes weeks would pass with nothing, and sometimes a fresh track would put the town on edge. Greyridge learned to live by watchfulness, not by fear.
Cain's practice continued in small, steady measures. His mornings with wooden blades grew cleaner—footwork tighter, parries crisper. In the evenings Seraphina sat with him by lamplight and had him hold a spark at his fingertip until it steadied; the flicker no longer danced wildly but steadied into a small, obedient bead of light he could move like a pebble on a pond. It was not power, only control — and control was what Seraphina prized.
Aera came by more often. She brought herbs with the soft smile of someone who had discovered a quiet companion. She never treated him like something to be feared; instead, she treated him like someone whose silence could be a shelter. They spoke of small things—a stew recipe, the taste of a winter apple, where the best mint grew—and the simplicity of those conversations settled into Cain like a small, unfamiliar weight.
Then, on a late afternoon when the sun had the thin, pale angle of coming autumn, Varr returned.
He stood at the Arkwright gate like someone who had carried dust from a long road. His hair was a little greyer and his cloak had the worn look of travel, but his eyes found Cain with an immediacy that had the shape of old promises kept.
"Leon. Seraphina," he said when Leon opened the gate. "I had to see how the boy had grown."
He looked at Cain and inclined his head. "You've done well."
Leon led him to the yard. Varr's hand extended a sealed slip tied with the provincial ribbon. "The Royal Magic Academy has announced the entrance examinations for the next season," he said. "With your agreement, and with my recommendation, Cain may present himself for the trials."
Seraphina touched the paper with a trembling finger. "The academy?"
"It is time," Leon said, as if the words had weight they could set into motion.
Cain folded the moment into him without fanfare. He did not yet understand the details of what the academy demanded—what marks it looked for, which doors it opened—but he felt the line between what he had been and where he could go tug at the edge of his world. He had practiced for routine, for survival, for quiet control; now there was a public gate with tests and people and judgments.
He looked at his bandaged forearm and then at the ridge in the distance. The choice was not dramatic: it was simply a road laid in front of him.
Childhood ended not with a promise or a ceremony, but with a small scratch, a tightened watch, a man at the gate with a sealed slip, and the slow understanding that a different kind of day was arriving.