When I was about five years old, my parents started taking me to a special academy.It wasn't the typical school that all the children my age attended; there were only ten of us in our class.
We were all connected in some way: we were members of the ÓBroin family, or children of trusted people who worked for our family. In total, there were no more than seventy children.
Among them were my cousin Daniel and my cousins Orla and Eleonor. Daniel and Orla were twins, children of my uncle Dmitri and my aunt Maeve. Eleonor was the daughter of my uncle Vladimir and my aunt Kate. A curious detail I didn't understand at the time was that my aunts' husbands were Russian, just like my mother—another thread that tied us together without us realizing it.
From the very first days at the academy, it was clear that I was different. Not because of my abilities, but because of my body and my character.
While Daniel and Orla moved with ease—running, jumping, learning quickly—I could barely keep up. Eleonor, on the other hand, was quiet and observant, with an innate talent for magic and physical abilities that were far beyond what was normal for someone our age. She carried herself with a look of confidence and unwavering discipline.
My first days were a challenge. During physical training, I always lagged behind. My cousins and the other children seemed to possess supernatural strength and reflexes; I, however, tripped over my own feet.
The physical, combat, and magic training that our instructors put us through felt like torture. While the others mastered everything with ease, I struggled. While they could already create small flames or shards of ice, I could barely summon a wisp of warm air or a trace of frost.
Despite my struggles, they didn't leave me behind. Daniel, with his protective nature, pushed me to try again and again. Orla laughed at my clumsiness, but never with cruelty. Eleonor watched me with a mixture of despair and concern. Every time I attempted to imitate her exercises, she performed them better and faster.
By the time we turned eight, it was clear that Eleonor possessed a strong temperament and a natural mastery of magic—something I could only dream of.
Over time, our childhood games evolved into exercises; they became competitions of skill, intelligence, and creativity. We spent hours at the academy practicing spells, running, and training in all kinds of combat arts.
Every achievement I made felt small compared to the ease with which my cousins excelled. Among the four of us, Eleonor always emerged as the leader. She didn't need to shout for others to follow her. She carried an air of natural authority, and although I tried to keep up, I almost always found myself trailing behind. She stood out from everyone else.
Even then, a rift was forming that would soon separate us.
Yet, during those years, I learned something crucial: being the weakest didn't mean being useless. I learned to be cautious, to analyze the movements of others before acting, and to persevere even when others surpassed me in strength or magic.
I, Noah, the weakest of the four, always sought a way to grow, even if I could barely keep up.
By the time we were ten, we were sometimes rivals, but inseparable. Daniel and Orla constantly competed with one another to see who was better. Eleonor maintained her leadership position. And I… I continued learning, searching for my place.
I was the weakest, yes, and also the slowest, but I trusted that I could catch up in time; all I needed was patience and determination.
And, although I didn't know it then, that childhood would shape my relationship with Eleonor in the years to come: a mixture of respect, fear, and—above all—a profound feeling I couldn't quite understand yet.
At least, that's what I thought… until that fateful September night in the year 3042.