The days slid by in small, ordinary pieces.
Ronan began to notice how many of them there were.
He noticed how Maria hummed while folding laundry, always the same tune, always a little off-key. He noticed how Luden checked the door twice before bed, even on nights when he claimed he wasn't tired. He noticed how Grandmother sat near windows, never with her back to them.
And he noticed how Elena waited for him.
Not impatiently. Not loudly.
She just… waited.
One afternoon, he found her sitting on the floor outside the study, legs crossed, back against the wall.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She shrugged. "You said you were busy. I can wait."
Ronan stared at her for a moment, then closed the book.
"Come in."
Her smile was immediate and bright enough to hurt.
They didn't play. Not really. She colored. He read. It was quiet and comfortable, and somehow that felt better than pretending to be explorers or heroes.
Training shifted again.
Grandmother introduced mental exercises—focus without movement, awareness without reach. Ronan found them harder than any spell.
"Why is this so difficult?" he muttered after failing for the third time.
"Because you're used to thinking ahead," she replied. "This requires you to stay where you are."
Ronan didn't argue.
She wasn't wrong.
One evening, as rain tapped softly against the roof, Maria sat beside him with a blanket draped over both of them.
"You're different," she said gently.
Ronan tensed.
"But different isn't bad," she continued. "Just… rare."
He looked up at her. "Does it bother you?"
She shook her head. "Only when I think you might be lonely."
Ronan considered that.
"I'm not," he said. And for once, it wasn't a lie.
She kissed his hair. "Good."
Later, Grandmother joined him in the study, her expression thoughtful.
"You're anchoring," she said.
Ronan blinked. "Anchoring?"
"You're tying yourself to this place," she explained. "To people."
Ronan waited.
"That can be strength," she added. "Or weakness."
He met her gaze. "I choose strength."
She smiled, slow and knowing. "So did I."
That night, Ronan practiced concealment until his mana was little more than a whisper. He held it there, steady, until even the effort felt natural.
When he released it, just slightly, warmth spread through him.
Not power.
Belonging.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the rain.
'If this world plans to take something from me,' he thought, 'it'll have to try harder this time.'
And wrapped in quiet and family and small, stubborn joys, Ronan slept—ready, but not rushing.
Not yet.
The rain didn't last long.
By morning the streets were clean, the air sharp, and the city felt lighter. Ronan noticed it immediately. Mana flowed easier after rain, smoother, less tangled. Grandmother noticed him noticing.
"You're learning to listen," she said.
"I always listened," Ronan replied.
She gave him a look. "No. You observed. There's a difference."
He didn't argue. He was starting to understand.
Later that day, something unexpected happened.
Luden came home early.
He looked uncomfortable, the way he did when business went poorly but he didn't want to admit it. He sat at the table and stared at nothing for a long moment before noticing Ronan watching him.
"What?" he asked.
"You're quiet," Ronan said.
Luden snorted. "That's rare, isn't it?"
He leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. "Ronan, do you think people can change?"
The question caught him off guard.
"Yes," Ronan said slowly. "But not all of them."
Luden laughed softly. "You sound like your grandmother."
That wasn't a compliment. It wasn't an insult either.
"I was offered something today," Luden continued. "Good money. Bad people."
Ronan stayed silent.
"I said no," Luden said. "Didn't even think long about it."
He looked at Ronan then. Really looked.
"Your mother would've killed me if I didn't," he added lightly.
Ronan smiled, small and real.
That evening, Elena insisted on showing him something she'd been working on.
It was a drawing. Crude lines. Bright colors.
It showed their house. The garden. A stick-figure family.
One figure was smaller than the others, glowing yellow.
"That's you," she said proudly. "Because you're warm."
Ronan swallowed.
"It's nice," he said.
She beamed.
Grandmother found the drawing later, propped carefully on Ronan's desk.
"Careful," she murmured. "You're leaving traces."
Ronan glanced at it. "Not the kind that matter."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fair."
That night, Ronan sat by the window again.
The city felt the same as always, and completely different.
He wasn't rushing anymore. He wasn't hiding out of fear.
He was waiting.
Growing.
And when he finally lay down to sleep, one quiet truth settled into place:
Whatever this world intended to throw at him—
He would meet it not just with power, but with purpose.
And this time, he wouldn't stand alone.
The first argument Ronan ever witnessed wasn't loud.
That surprised him.
It happened late in the evening, after Elena had been put to bed. Voices carried softly from the other side of the house—muted, careful, the way people spoke when they didn't want to be overheard.
Ronan heard them anyway.
Maria's voice was tight. "You can't keep pretending nothing is happening."
"I'm not pretending," Luden replied. "I'm choosing."
"That's the same thing," she shot back.
Ronan lay still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
Grandmother spoke last. Calm. Heavy. Final."The boy is growing faster than we expected. That alone will draw eyes."
Silence followed.
Ronan felt his chest tighten. Not fear—something closer to guilt.
"I don't want him dragged into things too early," Maria said quietly. "He's still a child."
"He won't be for long," Grandmother replied.
Ronan closed his eyes.
'I know,' he thought. 'But I'm trying.'
The next day, Grandmother took him aside after lessons.
"You heard," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Ronan nodded. "I didn't mean to."
She waved it off. "Ears that work aren't a crime."
She studied him carefully. "Does it bother you?"
Ronan considered the question. "I don't like causing problems."
"You didn't," she said. "But your existence will."
That was… honest.
Ronan appreciated that.
"I'll slow down more," he said.
Grandmother shook her head. "No. You'll grow smarter about how you grow."
She placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's a difference."
That afternoon, Elena was unusually quiet.
She followed Ronan around the house without saying much, eventually sitting beside him on the floor.
"Are you going to leave someday?" she asked suddenly.
Ronan froze.
"What?"
She shrugged, eyes fixed on the window. "Heroes always leave."
"I'm not a hero," he said.
She glanced at him. "You glow. That's hero stuff."
He hesitated, then answered honestly. "If I leave, I'll come back."
That seemed to satisfy her. She leaned against him, humming softly.
Ronan let himself stay still.
The city changed as the seasons shifted.
More guards on the streets. More whispers in the markets. Grandmother paid closer attention to who visited the house. Luden stopped telling certain stories.
Ronan noticed all of it.
But life didn't stop.
Maria still cooked too much food. Elena still laughed too loudly. Grandmother still corrected his posture when he read.
One evening, Ronan made a mistake.
He lost control—just for a moment.
The mana spike was small. Barely noticeable.
Grandmother felt it instantly.
She didn't scold him. Didn't shout.
She just looked tired.
"That," she said quietly, "is what we can't afford."
Ronan bowed his head. "I'm sorry."
She sighed. "You're learning. That's enough—for now."
That night, Ronan didn't practice.
He sat on the floor with Elena, helping her stack wooden blocks. When they fell, she laughed. When they stood, she clapped.
Simple. Pointless. Necessary.
As he tucked himself into bed later, Ronan stared at his hands.
Once, they'd been tools. Then weapons. Then nothing at all.
Now, they were small. Clumsy.
But they were his.
And as sleep took him, one quiet realization settled deep inside him:
This life wasn't something to escape from.
It was something to protect.
And that—more than magic—was what would shape him into whatever came next.