While the twins developed their foundational connection to the elements, Leo pursued his own rigorous training regimen. Each morning before dawn, he slipped from the house to a small clearing behind their property, far enough that his practice wouldn't disturb the children's sleep.
There, as the first hints of light touched the eastern horizon, Leo sat cross-legged on the bare earth. His breathing technique had become second nature—four counts in, hold for seven, eight counts out. The rhythm synchronized with his heartbeat, drawing the earth's energy up through his body.
His magical reserves had grown steadily over the years. The measuring tool—a polished stone disk inherited from his elven family—glowed with increasing brightness when he channelled his power through it. Five years ago, it had registered 1098. Now, the number 1412 pulsed within the stone's crystalline matrix.
"Progress," Leo murmured, setting the disk aside. "But not enough."
His latest focus was a devastating offensive spell called Earth Smash. Unlike his defensive techniques, this spell required aggressive manipulation of opposing earth forces. Two walls of compressed soil and stone, summoned to crash together with enough force to reduce anything caught between them to pulp.
Leo practiced the motions carefully, visualizing the spell's execution without actually channelling power. The first few attempts with actual magic had been disastrous—tearing up his practice area and draining his reserves for a few weeks in a row.
"Control," he reminded himself, echoing the same lesson he taught his children.
Gradually, he refined the technique. The timing was crucial—both walls needed to manifest simultaneously, with equal force. Too much power on either side would cause the spell to collapse ineffectively.
By the twins' fifth birthday, Leo could execute Earth Smash with enough precision to crush a small boulder. The spell demanded significant magical reserves, but his daily breathing practice ensured he could cast it freely.
"Earth gives and takes," he often told Alfred. What he didn't say was how it could also kill when necessary. The world beyond Riverstone wasn't always kind, and Leo prepared himself to protect what mattered most.
The breathing technique Leo taught his children was deceptively simple. What began as a playful game—"who can hold their breath the longest"—evolved into structured training. Every morning, the three sat together in the garden, cross-legged on flat stones warmed by the rising sun.
"Feel the earth beneath you," Leo instructed, his voice soft but clear. "Draw its strength up through your roots, like a tree drinks water."
Six-year-old Alfred closed his eyes, his small face scrunched in concentration. Beside him, Annete's expression remained serene, her chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm.
"Four counts in," Leo demonstrated. "Hold for seven. Eight counts out."
The children mimicked his pattern, day after day, week after week. Leo monitored their progress carefully, noting how their natural affinities influenced their development. Alfred's connection to earth—like his father's—manifested in a grounded stability. Annete's fire affinity made her breathing quicker, more volatile, requiring extra discipline to maintain the pattern.
By their seventh birthday, the results were undeniable. Alfred could raise a small wall of packed soil with a gesture. Annete could ignite a campfire with concentrated thought. Their magical reserves had expanded dramatically, surpassing what Leo had expected.
"They're growing too fast," Marissa whispered one night, concern etching her features. "People notice, Leo."
She wasn't wrong. During the twins' birthday celebration in town, Alfred had casually lifted a fallen cart to retrieve a ball, a weight that should have required three grown men. Whispers followed them through the marketplace afterward.
"Strong as knights, those two," Leo overheard a merchant tell his apprentice. "And not even half grown."
The comparison was accurate—and troubling. Knight-level strength typically came after years of dedicated training and physical conditioning. For children to possess such power naturally invited unwanted attention.
"They're children, Leo. Seven-year-olds shouldn't have to hide who they are." Marissa said.
Leo nodded, understanding her concern. The twins' accelerated development was both a blessing and a burden—a fact that weighed heavily on him as their father and teacher.
Leo gathered his children beneath the old oak tree at the edge of their property. The serious set of his jaw told them this wasn't their usual training session.
"Today we talk about responsibility." He crouched to meet their eyes. "Your gifts aren't toys."
Alfred nodded solemnly, while Annete twisted a strand of hair around her finger.
"Especially you, Annete." Leo gently took her hands in his. "Fire responds to emotion. When you're angry or scared, it wants to protect you."
"Like when Tommy pulled my hair at the market?" Her eyes flashed with remembered indignation.
"Exactly." Leo's voice dropped lower. "I saw your fingers smoking. If you'd lost control, even for a moment..."
"I wouldn't hurt anyone," she protested.
"Not on purpose." Leo picked up a fallen leaf, holding it between them. "Show me the smallest flame you can make."
Annete concentrated, and a tiny flicker appeared above her fingertip, no larger than a candle's flame.
"Now touch the leaf—just barely."
She did, and the entire leaf instantly combusted, turning to ash in seconds.
Alfred's eyes widened. "That was just a little flame!"
"Fire spreads," Leo explained. "It doesn't stop unless something stops it. People aren't like earth, Annete. They burn easily. One moment of anger could..." He let the sentence hang unfinished.
"Could kill them," she whispered, suddenly pale.
Leo nodded. "A knight trains for years to control their strength. You were born with power they work decades to achieve."
"Is that why we practice breathing so much?" Alfred asked.
"Yes. Control starts here." Leo tapped his chest. "Before it reaches here." He touched his fingertips. "One slip, one moment of carelessness—"
"I understand, Papa." Annete's voice was small but resolute. "I'll be extra careful."
"Both of you must be. But fire doesn't wait, doesn't forgive mistakes." Leo squeezed her shoulders. "Promise me you'll never use your gift when you're angry. Not even a little."
"I promise." Her blue eyes, so like her mother's, held no childish rebellion—only the weight of understanding what she could become if she wasn't vigilant.