Three years passed like leaves on the wind. The twins' tenth birthday arrived with a quiet celebration at home, marked by gifts both practical and magical. Leo presented each child with a leather-bound journal for recording their progress and observations—a mage's most valuable tool beyond their own mind.
"Third level already," Leo mused, watching Alfred practice raising an earth wall in their training yard. The structure stood firm, three feet high and twice as wide. "Your foundations are solid."
Alfred grinned at the unintentional pun. "Stone walls, stone skin, earth bullets. The basics, just like you wanted."
Nearby, Annete demonstrated her mastery of fire wall, a shimmering curtain of heat that distorted the air. Her control had improved dramatically—the flames held steady at precisely the height she intended, neither growing nor diminishing without her command.
"Fire responds to intention," she recited, her father's lessons etched into memory. "Feed it too much emotion, it consumes everything. Too little, it dies."
Leo nodded with approval. "And your fireball technique?"
In answer, Annete extended her palm toward a clay target. A perfect sphere of flame materialized above her hand, hovering for three heartbeats before she launched it. The target shattered, pieces glowing red-hot as they scattered.
"Precision over power," she said, echoing another of his teachings.
Leo felt pride swell in his chest. The old fogies from the mage inheritance grounds had been reluctant to share their fire apprentice techniques with him, despite his secondary affinity. His primary connection to earth made the fire spells harder to master. Now it did come in handy.
"I wish I had more to offer you," Leo told her one evening as they reviewed fire manipulation principles. "The higher techniques—"
"You'll learn them," Annete interrupted with characteristic confidence. "And then you'll teach me."
Leo smiled at her faith in him. For now, the children had mastered what he considered essential: defensive capabilities, basic offensive responses, and most importantly, control. Their power had grown steadily, predictably, without the concerning spikes of their early childhood.
Leo watched his children progress with a mixture of pride and introspection. Their advancement outpaced his own childhood development by years—a fact that stirred both joy and contemplation.
During their evening meal, Leo reflected on the stark differences between their training environment and his own chaotic upbringing.
"You're quiet tonight," Annete observed, passing him a basket of bread.
"Just thinking about progress." Leo traced the grain of the wooden table. "You're both advancing faster than I did at your age."
Alfred looked up. "But you're stronger than any earth mage in the region."
"Now, yes. But my path wasn't... optimal." Leo chose his words carefully. "I learned magic while fighting to survive. You're learning it properly, with guidance and safety."
The truth was stark. His childhood had been about immediate survival—learning just enough of a spell to escape danger, never having the luxury to perfect techniques before necessity forced him to learn new ones. His foundation had been built on urgency rather than mastery.
"If I'd had your opportunities," Leo continued, "I might have reached sixth or seventh level as an apprentice before advancing to mage status."
What remained unsaid was that despite these challenges, his own power continued to grow. His magic reserves had reached 1785—solidly first level mage status, with second level within reach. His connection to earth had deepened through consistent practice and the occasional life-or-death situation that seemed to find him despite his best efforts.
"Your progress inspires me," Leo admitted. "Watching you master techniques methodically reminds me there's no substitute for proper foundation work."
Alfred beamed at the praise. "So we're helping you get stronger too?"
"More than you know," Leo replied, ruffling his son's hair.
Later that evening, after the children had gone to bed, Leo found Marissa folding laundry in their bedroom. Moonlight spilled through the window, catching the silver strands now woven through her blonde hair. He paused in the doorway, studying her profile.
At thirty, Marissa had matured into a different kind of beauty. The girlish softness of her face had given way to more defined features. Fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes when she smiled—which was often. Her body, after bearing twins, carried the subtle changes of motherhood with grace.
She caught him watching and raised an eyebrow. "Something on your mind?"
Leo crossed the room and took her hands in his. "Just thinking about time."
"Heavy thoughts for this hour." She squeezed his fingers.
"Look at us." He guided her to stand before the mirror. "You've changed. I haven't."
In the reflection, the contrast was unmistakable. While Marissa looked every bit the thirty-year-old woman—still beautiful but visibly changing—Leo appeared exactly as he had the day they met. His elven heritage, hidden from the world by his magical artifact, granted him a lifespan that would see him outlive her by centuries.
"Does it bother you?" Marissa asked softly.
Leo struggled to articulate the ache in his chest. "It's not that you're any less beautiful. You're more so, in many ways. But I see time touching you while I remain unchanged, and I'm reminded of what that means for us."
Marissa turned to face him. "We always knew this would happen."
"Knowing and experiencing are different things." He traced the laugh line beside her mouth with his thumb. "I look at you and see the mother of my children, the woman who's shared my life for over a decade. And I wonder how many more decades we'll have."
"However many it is," she said firmly, "I wouldn't trade them."
Leo studied the map spread across his workbench, tracing the trade route from their modest homestead to Oakvale. The city stood just three days' journey by wagon—close enough to visit relatives yet far enough to offer the educational opportunities his growing children needed.
"We should be ready to leave in another two years," he told Marissa as she entered the room with a cup of tea. "I've secured a townhouse near the academy district."
She nodded, though her eyes lingered on the small portrait hanging beside the window—her parents, painted just two summers before illness had claimed them both within weeks of each other. The burial had been simple but dignified, on a hillside overlooking the farm where they'd spent their lives.
"It's strange," Marissa said, "thinking of leaving this place. After Mother and Father passed, I thought I might feel their absence less if we stayed where their memory lived."
Leo embraced her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Their memory lives in you, in the children. Alfred has your father's patience, and Annete—"
"Has my mother's stubbornness," Marissa finished with a sad smile. "I know you're right about moving. The twins need proper schooling, opportunities we can't provide here."
Leo nodded. "Annete's fire affinity especially—she needs specialized instruction. And Alfred's earth magic is developing along different lines than mine. They deserve teachers who understand their particular talents."
The decision hadn't come easily. For years, Leo had provided all the magical instruction the children needed, but their growing abilities now surpassed what he could teach alone. Particularly for Annete, whose fire affinity required guidance from specialists.
Leo squeezed her hand. "We'll visit. This land will stay in the family—perhaps someday the children will want to return."
They stood together at the window, watching Alfred and Annete practice their magic in the yard, their forms silhouetted against the setting sun. The children had taken the news of moving with mixed emotions—excitement for new adventures tempered by sadness at leaving the only home they'd known.