Cablan's eyes snapped open, the sharp morning light slicing through the gaps in his tattered curtains like golden blades. His body clung stubbornly to sleep, muscles heavy with exhaustion, but the voice that cut through the haze left no room for resistance.
"Wake up. Get downstairs and eat."
It wasn't a request—it was a command.
Growling, he buried his face into the pillow, his words muffled. "It's my last day off. Just leave me alone."
Then came the cold. A sudden yank tore the blanket from him, exposing him to the frigid air that seeped into his bones. "Up. We're waiting." Her voice was steel, unyielding.
Grudgingly, he dragged himself from the warmth of his bed, the remnants of his dream already slipping through his fingers like smoke. His footsteps echoed on the groaning wooden stairs, each creak a reminder of the house's age—and their poverty.
His parents sat at the small, scarred wooden table, their eyes fixed on him. Their voices reached him, but they sounded distant, warped—like a song played on a broken instrument. Their words blurred together, fading in and out of clarity.
Something was wrong.
His head throbbed, and then—
A whisper, soft but insistent, curled into his ear.
"Wake up."
This time, it was clearer. Closer.
"Why are you crying, Cablan?"
He blinked. His fingers brushed his cheek, coming away wet.
Tears.
He hadn't even noticed.
"Riba?" His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. "Was I… crying?"
She stood beside his bed, arms folded, but her usual sharpness had softened just slightly. "You've been having these dreams more often. What was it about?"
He hesitated. The memory was already dissolving, leaving behind only the hollow ache of loss. "I don't know. But it felt like… something important." His fists clenched, as if trying to grasp nothing but air.
"Something you lost?"
He shook his head slowly. "I don't remember." Then, quieter: "Please… don't tell Mom and Dad."
Riba sighed, but she nodded. "Fine. But come downstairs. They're waiting."
Breakfast was a quiet affair. The scent of warm bread and spiced broth filled the air, but it did nothing to ease the weight pressing against Cablan's chest.
Then his mother spoke.
"Next month," she began, her voice firm but laced with forced cheer, "we'll be attending the Magic Academy for your acceptance."
Cablan choked on his food, coughing violently before staring at her. "But—the tuition is impossible! We can barely afford—"
"We've made arrangements." Her voice brooked no argument. "You have potential. We won't let it go to waste. Just focus on passing the entrance exam."
The words settled heavily in the air. Cablan swallowed, his appetite gone. "I will."
His parents exchanged a glance—something unspoken, something tense—before his father stood. "We have to go. Study hard."
The door closed behind them with a finality that made Cablan's stomach twist.
How?
How could they afford it?
His gaze drifted to the cracked walls, the frayed curtains, the floorboards that groaned under every step. This house was built on sacrifice.
And now, so was his future.
He clenched his fists.
Fifty thousand applicants. Ten scholarships.
He had to be one of them.
Outside, the sun cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets. At the corner, Zoysia waited.
Her ears twitched at his approach, her sharp green eyes locking onto him with their usual stubborn fire.
"You look like death," she said bluntly.
Cablan managed a weak smirk. "Nightmares."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Come on. You promised to practice magic with me today."
For a second, he hesitated—visions of his parents' exhaustion, of the impossible pressure, flashing through his mind.
But then he looked at her.
At the elf girl he'd pulled from the wreckage of a storm.
At the only person who understood the fire burning inside him.
"Alright," he said, pushing everything else aside. "Let's go."
They strolled to the edge of the village, where the trees grew dense and the ground was carpeted in emerald moss. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in dappled gold, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns. Zoysia darted ahead, her laughter ringing like wind chimes, energy boundless as she spun to face him. "Still look like you haven't slept in days," she teased, mischief glinting in her eyes. "Maybe you should try some beauty magic."
Cablan snorted, tossing his head back. "If I could light a candle without singeing my eyebrows off, perhaps I'd consider it."
Zoysia's laugh was crisp as autumn air. "A smoke magician—that's you." She mimed an explosion with her fingers. "Kaboom!"
He rolled his eyes but grinned. "At least I don't blast people into the next field by accident." He flicked a glance at her hair, still slightly frazzled from her last wind-magic mishap. She huffed, crossing her arms. "That was once!"
Their laughter wove through the trees, dissolving the morning's tension. Cablan focused on his palms, summoning the heat simmering beneath his skin. A spark flared—then died. "Damn it," he muttered.
Zoysia thumped his back. "Keep at it, Smoke Magician."
Gritting his teeth, he tried again. This time, fire bloomed in his grasp, a tiny, dancing orb. His triumphant grin mirrored Zoysia's as she clapped. "Told you!" she crowed.
As twilight painted the sky, they settled beneath an ancient oak. Zoysia leaned back, gaze tracing the leaves. "Do you ever dream of leaving?" she asked softly. "Of seeing more than just these trees?"
Cablan chuckled. "I'd probably burn down the first town I stumbled into."
She nudged him, her voice unexpectedly tender. "Maybe I'd be there to put you out."
Silence settled, thick with something unspoken. Zoysia turned away, her cheeks pink, and scrambled to her feet. "We should go—before it's too dark."
Cablan rose, offering his hand. "Yeah," he agreed, fingers brushing hers. "Let's go."