Ronan turned five in the quietest way possible.
There was no party. No gathering of relatives. No loud announcement.
Maria baked bread that morning instead of buying it, the smell filling the house before the sun had fully risen. Elena insisted on tying a ribbon around his wrist, declaring it a "birthday mark" so everyone would know. Luden gave him a small wooden carving—a horse, a little crooked, clearly handmade. Grandmother simply nodded and said, "Good. You survived another year."
That was it.
Ronan thought it might bother him.
It didn't.
If anything, it felt right.
Life shifted after that, subtly but unmistakably.
Grandmother stopped correcting his posture when he read. She stopped guiding his hands during mana exercises. Instead, she watched from a distance, intervening only when something truly went wrong.
"You're old enough to make mistakes," she told him.
Ronan frowned. "That doesn't sound like praise."
"It isn't," she replied. "It's responsibility."
He accepted that.
Training became less structured. Some days they focused on mana circulation. Other days, none at all. Instead, she'd send him to the market with Maria or have him sit in on Luden's conversations when merchants visited.
"Power isn't only magic," she said once, after Ronan asked why he was wasting time listening to trade negotiations. "Understanding people matters just as much."
Ronan listened.
He always did.
The city of Lasfal felt different now that he was taller, steadier on his feet.
He noticed patterns he hadn't before—how guards rotated posts, which streets merchants avoided after dark, which names made people lower their voices. He noticed how some smiles were genuine and others carefully practiced.
And he noticed that some people noticed him.
Not openly. Not enough to act on.
But enough.
One afternoon, while helping Maria carry supplies home, Ronan felt it again—that faint prickle along his skin. Mana brushing against his own, probing.
He slowed his steps without thinking.
Maria glanced at him. "Tired?"
"A little," he said.
The sensation faded.
That night, he told Grandmother.
She didn't look surprised.
"They're curious," she said. "Curiosity is manageable."
"And if it turns into something else?"
"Then we'll deal with it."
Her confidence was calm, not blind. That mattered.
Elena started school that year.
She complained endlessly about it.
"The teacher smells like chalk," she declared one evening, slumping dramatically across the table. "And she makes us write letters over and over."
"That's called learning," Ronan said.
"I don't like learning," Elena replied. "I like doing."
Ronan smiled. "You're good at that."
She brightened immediately.
Despite her complaints, she came home each day with new stories. New words. New questions. Ronan listened to all of them, correcting her gently when she asked him to.
"You should be a teacher," she said once.
"No," Ronan replied quickly.
She laughed. "Too boring?"
"Too dangerous."
She didn't understand.
That was fine.
The first real scare came in early autumn.
Ronan was in the study when the house's wards shuddered.
Not broke. Not attacked.
Tested.
Grandmother was on her feet instantly.
"Stay here," she said.
Ronan didn't argue.
He felt the pressure outside like a storm cloud pressing against the walls. Someone strong. Stronger than the inspectors from before.
Minutes passed.
Then footsteps.
Grandmother returned alone.
"It was a mage," she said simply. "Official."
"What did they want?"
She met his eyes. "To confirm rumors."
"And?"
"I redirected them."
"How?"
She smiled thinly. "By reminding them that Lasfal answers to higher authorities than curious bureaucrats."
Ronan exhaled slowly.
"So it's getting worse."
"Yes."
He nodded. "Then I need to—"
"No," she interrupted. "You need to wait."
The word sat heavily between them.
"For how long?" Ronan asked.
Grandmother looked tired. Older than he'd ever seen her.
"As long as you can afford to."
Waiting was harder than training.
Ronan learned that quickly.
He kept his mana sealed most days, practicing only at night, deep within himself. He refined control instead of output, precision instead of power. He learned how to let mana flow without leaving ripples, how to stop it mid-motion, how to hold a spell unformed.
Grandmother noticed the changes.
"You're thinking too much again," she said one evening.
"I can't afford not to," Ronan replied.
She studied him. "You're five."
He didn't answer.
She sighed. "You're allowed to be tired."
Ronan considered that.
He was.
One night, Elena crept into his room.
She didn't knock. She never did.
"I had a bad dream," she whispered.
Ronan sat up immediately. "What about?"
She climbed into his bed without waiting for permission. "You left."
His chest tightened.
"I won't," he said.
"You always say that."
"And I mean it."
She watched him closely. "Promise?"
Ronan hesitated.
Promises mattered.
"I promise," he said.
She relaxed instantly, falling asleep within minutes.
Ronan lay awake long after, staring at the ceiling.
'Be careful what you promise,' he reminded himself.
But some things were worth the risk.
Winter came early.
Snow dusted the rooftops, and the city slowed. Trade routes thinned. Visitors became rarer. The pressure eased, just a little.
Ronan used the time to learn.
Not spells—he avoided anything flashy.
Instead, he learned theory. Old systems. Different interpretations of mana. Contradictions between schools. He learned that magic wasn't one thing but many overlapping understandings, shaped by culture and fear and ambition.
It reminded him of his old world.
That unsettled him.
One evening, he asked Grandmother, "Do you regret teaching me?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"No," she said finally. "But I worry."
"About what?"
"About what kind of man you'll become."
Ronan absorbed that.
"I won't hurt them," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied. "I'm more worried about what the world will ask you to do."
The turning point came without warning.
It was an ordinary afternoon. Maria was cooking. Luden was out. Elena was at school.
Ronan felt it before it happened.
A snap.
The wards screamed.
Grandmother reacted instantly, mana flaring openly for the first time in months.
"Inside," she ordered.
Ronan obeyed, heart pounding.
A figure stood in the courtyard when he looked through the window. Cloaked. Calm. Not hostile.
Yet.
Grandmother confronted them alone.
Their voices didn't carry.
Minutes stretched.
Ronan's fingers curled into fists.
Then Grandmother returned.
Her expression was grim.
"They know," she said.
Ronan swallowed. "Everything?"
"Enough."
"What now?"
She looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, there was no softness in her eyes.
"Now," she said, "you begin preparing for the day you leave."
The words hit harder than any spell.
"When?"
"Not soon," she added quickly. "But sooner than I'd hoped."
Ronan nodded slowly.
"And my family?"
"They'll be protected," she said. "I swear it."
That mattered.
That night, Ronan stood in the garden beneath the apple tree.
Snow clung to the branches. The air was still.
He let his mana breathe for the first time in weeks, feeling it move freely within him. Stronger than before. Calmer.
Controlled.
'I won't rush,' he thought.
But he also wouldn't hesitate.
He thought of Elena's laughter. Maria's quiet kindness. Luden's crooked smile. Grandmother's steady hands.
This wasn't a life to abandon.
It was a life to build from.
Ronan clenched his fist, sealing his mana once more.
The future was coming.
And for the first time—
He felt ready to meet it.