Rayan woke before the sun.
Not because of a nightmare this time.
Not because of noise.
But because something inside him would not let him sleep.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the dark wooden ceiling of the small room. The air was cold. Quiet. Too quiet for a village that would soon be alive again.
His sister was beside him.
She had wrapped herself around his arm sometime during the night, her face pressed against his shoulder, hair tangled, breathing slow and warm. Even though she was older than him, she always slept like this—clingy, trusting, like a child who was afraid the world might take him away if she let go.
Rayan gently moved his arm.
She made a small sound in her sleep, frowned, then tightened her hold.
"…don't go…" she mumbled, half-asleep.
"I'll be back," Rayan whispered.
After a moment, she loosened her grip. He slid out of bed quietly and pulled on his clothes. Outside the window, the sky was still dark blue, the first hint of morning barely touching the horizon.
He stepped into the main room.
His father was already there.
Standing.
Waiting.
Sword in hand.
"You're early," his father said.
Rayan nodded. "I couldn't sleep."
His father studied him for a second. Not suspicious. Not proud. Just… measuring.
"Then we don't waste the morning," he said.
They stepped outside.
The village was still quiet. A thin layer of mist clung to the dirt road, and the cold air carried the faint smell of wood smoke from distant houses. The world felt small here. Contained.
Safe.
His father walked to the open patch of ground beside the house and drew his blade.
"Again," he said.
Rayan drew his own practice sword. It was old, chipped, far too large for his eleven-year-old hands—but it was all he had.
They faced each other.
No dramatic words.
No ceremony.
His father moved first.
Fast.
Rayan barely raised his sword in time. The impact rattled through his arms. His feet slid backward in the dirt.
Again.
His father's strikes were controlled but relentless. Not cruel. Not careless. Every movement was deliberate—designed to teach him exactly how far behind he was.
Rayan blocked.
Missed.
Stumbled.
His father tapped the side of his ribs with the flat of the blade.
"Dead," he said.
Rayan gritted his teeth.
They reset.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Rayan's arms burned. His breath came too fast. Every strike from his father felt like a wall he couldn't climb.
He was completely outmatched.
And yet—
There was no mockery in his father's eyes.
Only expectation.
After the tenth exchange, Rayan slipped on the dirt and fell to one knee. His sword hit the ground with a dull thud.
His father stopped.
Rayan panted, sweat stinging his eyes.
"You are not weak," his father said. "You are inexperienced."
Rayan clenched his jaw and reached for the sword.
His father placed his foot over it, stopping him.
"Rest," he said. "We are not done."
Rayan swallowed and pushed himself to his feet.
From the house, his sisters watched.
His older sister leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression sharp as always. The younger-acting one stood slightly behind her, hugging her own arms, eyes fixed on him like she was afraid he might disappear if she blinked.
Rayan forced himself to straighten.
They trained until the sun rose fully.
By the time his father finally lowered his blade, Rayan's arms trembled, his hands numb, his lungs burning.
"You are still losing every exchange," his father said. "But you are standing longer."
Rayan nodded, too exhausted to speak.
"Good," his father said. "Now comes the part you cannot learn with steel."
They returned to the house.
A man was waiting.
The Magiar.
He stood near the edge of the yard, calm, robes unmoving despite the breeze. He did not look impressive. No glow. No presence that screamed power.
But something about him felt… different.
Not heavier.
Sharper.
"You're ready?" the Magiar asked.
Rayan nodded, even though his body screamed otherwise.
The Magiar gestured to the ground. "Sit."
Rayan sat.
The dirt was cold against his legs. His heartbeat still hadn't slowed.
The Magiar crouched in front of him.
"Before we begin," he said, "you understand this is not training like the sword."
Rayan frowned. "What do you mean?"
The Magiar's voice was steady.
"With a blade, you can push your body. With magic, your body is the tool. If you force it, you break it."
Rayan swallowed.
The Magiar continued.
"Whether you can use magic at all is decided by birth. Genetics. The structure of your body. I cannot change that."
Rayan nodded.
"But," the Magiar said, "how you use it depends on one thing."
He tapped his temple.
"Imagination."
Rayan blinked.
"Magic does not obey words," the Magiar said. "It obeys shape. Intention. The image in your mind."
He held up a hand.
"If you want fire, you must know what fire is. Not the word. The heat. The movement. The way it devours air."
Rayan listened, breath held.
"And there is something else," the Magiar added.
His voice lowered.
"Emotion can amplify magic."
Rayan's heart skipped.
"Fear. Grief. Anger. Desire. They can push mana far beyond what control alone can do."
He met Rayan's eyes.
"And that makes it dangerous."
Rayan swallowed. "So… I shouldn't feel anything?"
The Magiar shook his head. "You should feel. But you must never let emotion command the spell."
Rayan nodded slowly.
"Close your eyes," the Magiar said.
Rayan did.
The world went dark.
At first, there was nothing but his own breathing.
"Do not force," the Magiar said. "Listen."
Rayan listened.
To the wind brushing past the house.
To the faint sounds of the village waking.
To the distant creak of wood.
Then…
Something else.
Not sound.
Not touch.
A pressure.
Like invisible threads brushing against his skin.
Rayan's brow furrowed.
"I… feel something," he whispered.
"Good," the Magiar said. "That is mana. It is everywhere."
Rayan's pulse quickened.
"Now," the Magiar continued, "imagine movement. Not an element yet. Just motion."
Rayan pictured air shifting. Wind over sand.
The way storms rolled across Zah'Rakh's endless deserts.
The pressure deepened.
His breath caught.
"Give it shape," the Magiar said. "A simple form."
Rayan imagined a line.
A current.
Something flowing forward.
A faint crackle whispered near his fingertips.
Rayan's eyes snapped open.
A tiny spark of red-blue light flickered between his fingers.
His younger sister gasped from the doorway.
Rayan stared.
It vanished instantly.
"I—"
"Do not chase it," the Magiar said sharply.
"You felt it. That is enough."
Rayan nodded, heart hammering.
"Now," the Magiar said, eyes narrowing slightly, "tell me what element comes to you without thinking."
Rayan didn't hesitate.
"Lightning."
The Magiar studied him.
"That is not a gentle choice," he said.
Rayan clenched his jaw. "I didn't choose it."
The Magiar nodded once. "Then it chose you."
He leaned closer.
"Imagine the path," he said. "Not the flash. The movement."
Rayan closed his eyes again.
He pictured lightning tearing through the sky. The sound. The pressure. The violence of it.
His chest tightened.
And then—
His mother's face surfaced in his mind.
The sickness.
The stillness.
The helplessness.
Something twisted inside him.
Not rage.
Not sadness alone.
A storm of fear and refusal.
I don't want to be powerless again.
The pressure exploded.
The air screamed.
Rayan's eyes flew open.
Lightning erupted above the ground—not as a line, but as a massive, coiling shape.
A dragon of pure electricity.
Red-blue arcs twisted into scales, jaws, eyes of burning light. The ground shook as dust blasted outward in a circle. The sound was not thunder—it was the world tearing.
His sisters screamed.
His older sister dragged the younger one backward into the doorway.
The Magiar staggered back, eyes wide.
Rayan couldn't breathe.
The dragon moved.
Not because he commanded it—
but because his emotions were still pushing.
"Stop!" Rayan gasped.
The dragon writhed.
"Picture it ending!" the Magiar shouted. "Not fighting—ending!"
Rayan's vision blurred.
Fear slammed into him.
He saw his sisters in his mind.
His father.
His village.
He imagined the storm folding inward.
He imagined the lightning returning to nothing.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The dragon shattered into strands of light, collapsing into the air with a final violent crack.
Silence crashed down.
Rayan dropped to his hands, gasping.
The smell of ozone burned in his lungs.
His heart felt like it might tear out of his chest.
The Magiar stared at him.
Not in awe.
Not in pride.
In something closer to fear.
"That…" he said slowly, "…is not something an untrained child should be able to form."
Rayan's hands shook.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "I just… felt it."
The Magiar looked at his father.
"Emotion," he said quietly, "amplified it."
His father said nothing.
But his expression had changed.
Not anger.
Not pride.
Concern.
Rayan's younger sister broke free from her older sister's grip and ran to him, grabbing his sleeve.
"You're still you, right?" she said, voice small.
Rayan swallowed hard and nodded.
"Yeah."
She hugged his arm like she always did, clinging as if she could keep him human by force.
The Magiar exhaled slowly.
"You have the door," he said. "And you have imagination."
He looked directly into Rayan's eyes.
"And your emotions make you dangerous."
Rayan's chest tightened.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," he said.
"I know," the Magiar replied. "That does not change what you are."
That night, Rayan lay in bed, his sister already curled beside him, warm and breathing softly.
He stared at the ceiling.
The world felt different now.
Not bigger.
Closer.
Like something vast had been standing behind him his whole life—and today, for one moment, he had turned around and seen it.
He closed his eyes.
The storm did not return.
But the memory of it did.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath fear and confusion and exhaustion, something else remained:
Not power.
Not ambition.
A quiet certainty.
The world was no longer something he merely lived in.
It was something he could touch.